From The Song of Lunch
By Christopher Reid
It's an ordinary day
in a publishing house
of ill repute.
Another moronic manuscript
comes crashing down the chute
to be turned into art.
This morning it was Wayne Wanker's
latest dog's dinner
of sex, teenage philosophy
and writing-course prose.
Abracadabra, kick it up the arse -
and out it goes
to be Book of the Week
or some other bollocks.
What a fraud. What a farce.
And tomorrow: who knows
which of our geniuses
will escape from the zoo
and head straight for us
with a new masterpiece
lifeless in his jaws.
That's about the size of it.
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Seemed like a rather amusing poem for NaNoWriMo (this is the only time this year you'll see that word in this blog, I promise), though it's here because
In general I had a very nice day with
This gingko, in training since 1896, was gloriously golden...
...yet this trident maple had lost almost all its leaves.
The entrance offered seasonal Japanese art to go with the artistic trees.
Pretty leaves were falling from this 35-year-trained sweet gum.
This is the oldest bonsai on display, a Japanese white pine in training since 1625, given to the arboretum by a Japanese prince.
Adam suggested the perspective of this bougainvillea in the tropical bonsai collection.
And there were colorful reminders that winter isn't far behind.