Here's a bowl of fruit—this is how I kick-start my morning. Doesn't it look delish?

I've typed up two poems that I drafted late last week, and have just finished writing a shortish one. If I'm lucky and focused enough, I should be able to draft a new one later this afternoon.

Went to Peterborough yesterday to assuage my hot chocolate craving. I was talking to Lorianne of Hoarded Ordinaries about it, and decided that, when I'm rich [hah!], I'll set up a Hot Chocolate Winter Endowment Fund at MacDowell to make sure colonists don't miss out. What a way to be immortalised—hee!

I've just finished reading Mike Snider's 44 sonnets. There are a few notable poems about the wax and wane of libido and sexual appetite, and I'd have to say that provocative is one word that comes to mind. The scope of 44 sonnets is wide-ranging, and bound to challenge one's ideas of the traditional sonnet [Shakespeare et al]—nudging gently, as they do, at the sonnet's boundaries with such techniques as the use of slangy speech, or an examination of the intimate domestic scene. The ones that bent the form to its will, the ones that made me forget what I was reading was a sonnet, are the ones I liked the most. If poetry can be used as a Roscharch blot, I wonder what would be made of my choices: 'Dancing Jesus', 'Why Not Shave?', 'Unrequited', 'Fools in Love', 'Grateful Sonnet', and 'Stars' [I might leave it up to Mike to posit what these poems say about me].