In the world of poets, I always feel like the terrier in a party of lovely cats.
Boston terriers, now they are real genetic anomalies. Genetic anomaly, or genetic sport, the words my mother used to apply to me, meaning I don't know where you came from, but it wasn't me.
The term, genetic anomaly, always reminds me of those stupid questions teachers used to give us in what they called New Math, back in first grade. There would be a set of 4 things: a cow, a pig, a dog, and a fork. And you were supposed to circle what doesn't belong in the set. I always wondered who thought up those questions? What is wrong with the adults in this world?
Of course, I always wanted to make up my own sets: a pea, an acorn, a thimble, a snow flake . . . A rain drop, a sofa, a tea cup, a tower . . . A fairy, a fink, a bite, a teaspoon . .
2 comments:
Within a family composed entirely of anomalous animals (an animaly let us call it), would the assorted anomalies be able to tell one another apart?
Maybe they'd "all get together and love one another right now"(?).
But that would be another case of wonders never ceasing, as all poets are reckoned to be to be unique as snowflakes. (Perhaps "aberrational" would be another way of saying this.)
I can't imagine snowflakes as going in much for mutual compatibility.
The small frisky snowflakes, the helpful herding snowflakes, the great baying snowflake hounds...
I agree about those tests as creative thinkers could always see how each item belonged.
I've always felt like the butter on a table of spices.
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