Damn The Torpedoes

Damn The Torpedoes

Yesterday there was nothing about work I could have complained about, I just didn’t want to be there and the experience felt jarringly discordant all day long. I maintained my smile throughout. Sometimes the corporate straight jacket fits a little too tight; the abrasions are still chaffing this morning.

Attila and I made a trip into the village yesterday evening, to do some much overdue banking and pick up supplies. The savings on groceries when we shop in the village is enough to pay for the fuel to make the trip there and back; and there are more allergen-free food choices in the village.

Store bought soda biscuits are usually made with palm oil, or other saturated oils that aren’t all that good for you. President’s Choice has a new product, Olive Oil & Rosemary soda crackers, made with…. olive oil. After some experimentation the following conclusion was reached; these crackers are not great with peanut butter, not great with strawberry jam, lovely with cheese and best plain. You heard it here first.

After a cloudy start to the morning, the sun is intermittently breaking through the clouds. Attila is working this morning, I am not. Our plans for the afternoon are modest. Attila will split wood and build fires. I will putter.

Our experiment with NetFlix continues, and when the next high-speed bill comes in the total cost can be tallied. Streaming videos is a great way to watch movies and television programs, pausing whenever and resuming whenever one feels the need. The selection outranks our satellite service by leaps and bounds. But the cost, the cost will be the determining factor.

I’m gearing up to write poetry again, it has been some time since I’ve written anything acceptable, acceptable to me I mean, I’ve only published one poem, so publication is not my criteria for acceptable. Time to get out the pen and paper. There is no intrinsic or material reward for writing poetry. Poets seldom become affluent as a result of their writing. And as one disdainful person wrote about poetry readings, “The poetry was still torture, though”. It hardly inspires one to write. Damn the torpedoes.

Worldly Distractions


-8 °C
Condition: Cloudy
Pressure: 100.8 kPa
Visibility: 16 km
Temperature: -8.0°C
Dewpoint: -12.7°C
Humidity: 69 %
Wind: SSE 8 km/h
Wind Chill: -12


“No bird soars too high, if he soars with his own wings.”
William Blake


  1. Joan, there is a link near the bottom of the right column of this page, in the Maggie’s Pages section called Maggie’s Poetry. Thanks for the good wishes, I’m already having fun noodling around with words and inspiration.

  2. I like your poetry a lot, Maggie.

    And I know that just because I don’t like somebody’s writing, doesn’t mean it isn’t good writing. Just means it isn’t speaking to me at the moment. It might speak to a thousand other people, right now. But me and, for instance, Gertrude Stein … we are never going to have a long conversation, one-sided or not.

  3. Love that line Kate, “But me and, for instance, Gertrude Stein … we are never going to have a long conversation”, LOL. And so true.

    There are poems though, that I will always love, and want to read over and over again like a favorite bedtime story. Since my early teens I’ve loved this poem:

    The Listeners
    by Walter De La Mare

    ‘Is there anybody there?’ said the Traveller,
    Knocking on the moonlit door;
    And his horse in the silence champed the grasses
    Of the forest’s ferny floor:
    And a bird flew up out of the turret,
    Above the Traveller’s head
    And he smote upon the door again a second time;
    ‘Is there anybody there?’ he said.
    But no one descended to the Traveller;
    No head from the leaf-fringed sill
    Leaned over and looked into his grey eyes,
    Where he stood perplexed and still.
    But only a host of phantom listeners
    That dwelt in the lone house then
    Stood listening in the quiet of the moonlight
    To that voice from the world of men:
    Stood thronging the faint moonbeams on the dark stair,
    That goes down to the empty hall,
    Hearkening in an air stirred and shaken
    By the lonely Traveller’s call.
    And he felt in his heart their strangeness,
    Their stillness answering his cry,
    While his horse moved, cropping the dark turf,
    ‘Neath the starred and leafy sky;
    For he suddenly smote on the door, even
    Louder, and lifted his head:-
    ‘Tell them I came, and no one answered,
    That I kept my word,’ he said.
    Never the least stir made the listeners,
    Though every word he spake
    Fell echoing through the shadowiness of the still house
    From the one man left awake:
    Ay, they heard his foot upon the stirrup,
    And the sound of iron on stone,
    And how the silence surged softly backward,
    When the plunging hoofs were gone.

  4. Oh, Maggie, that’s new to me, but I love it! The poem that clatters around my brain in odd moments is “Sea Fever” by John Masefield. Yearnings for the coast rise up and I get the ‘earworm.’ 🙂
    Hugs from Asia!

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