So recently Micah and I were looking at some of the blooper reel out takes from my National Poetry Month videos, and I thought it would be fun to post for you the blooper from my reading of Stevie Smith’s poem, “Our Bog is Dood.” The poem is so surreal, and yet so real, and for me it seems, the lines are so easy to mess up. So I decided the other night to look at the original video to decide how best to present the bloopers here, but I soon discovered that apparently I was more busy in April than I thought, or else I am becoming senile. You see, I already spliced the bloopers in at the end of the video when I originally posted it four months ago, so I shall present it as a rerun here for you to see (just scroll down when you’re ready). Ah well, it amuses me so.
What was really funny though was that when I logged onto YouTube I discovered that my favorite blogger and mad monkey, Micah had just two hours before posted a new video about spaghetti, and I was delighted to find that he too spliced a blooper in at the end! As Hagar the Horrible once said, “Great minds think alike,” and as Lucky Eddy replied, “And so do ours!” Check out Micah’s spaghetti poem and out take over on his blog by clicking right here.
From the video description on YouTube: “I will not explicate this surreal fairy tale, or is it a discussion with children in a nursery? Possibly no, and maybe yes. I leave this up to you to interpret. The most important thing, as always, is that you have fun and enjoy the experience.”
Our Bog is Dood
by Stevie Smith
Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,
They lisped in accents mild,
But when I asked them to explain
They grew a little wild.
How do you know your Bog is dood
My darling little child?
We know because we wish it so
That is enough, they cried,
And straight within each infant eye
Stood up the flame of pride,
And if you do not think it so
You shall be crucified.
Then tell me, darling little ones,
What’s dood, suppose Bog is?
Just what we think, the answer came,
Just what we think it is.
They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours
And we are wholly his.
But when they raised them up again
They had forgotten me
Each one upon each other glared
In pride and misery
For what was dood, and what their Bog
They never could agree.
Oh sweet it was to leave them then,
And sweeter not to see,
And sweetest of all to walk alone
Beside the encroaching sea,
The sea that soon should drown them all,
That never yet drowned me.