Sunday

hi

This small and sturdy fellow is not a painting. I don’t have one for you today because I completely ran out of time. But wait! Have a poem instead. I loved this one so much when I saw it in The New Statesman a few years ago that I printed it and stuck it to the fridge. I found it again last week under a magnet, concealed by a clump of torn-out recipes. Like Gary Barlow’s massive son (almost caused me to lose my mind laughing, especially the straw one), it turned up at exactly the right time.

In which I practise happiness, by Joe Dunthorne

I love pigeons even
when their claws are stumps
and they walk as though in heels.
I love guinea pigs
for the idea they are in some way
a pig. Their heartbeats make their bodies
vibrate. I like to pretend
to answer them. Whom may I say is speaking?
I love football. More people love football
than love social justice
but that doesn’t mean football
isn’t brilliant. Whenever I head the ball 
I feel a poem evaporate.            
          I hate the bit of the poem            
          where you’re obliged            
          to hate something.
I love the piano.
I love true crime.
I love the sun
when it arrives
like a tray
of drinks.

I so love the image of picking up a guinea so-called pig like a phone - I love the whole thing. I hope you do too. The poem appears in Joe Dunthorne’s collection O Positive.

Thank you for stopping by! These fortnightly posts are free to read and usually involve a painting. They alternate with my food posts, which are also free. For everything else, you need a paid subscription, so do consider that if you’d like to. If you’d like a sampler first, there’s one here.

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