Thursday's Child

When I was young, my father taught me a rhyme that went like this:

Monday's child is fair of face;
Tuesday's child is full of grace;
Wednesday's child is full of woe;
Thursday's child has far to go;
Friday's child is loving and giving;
Saturday's child works hard for his living;
And the child that is born on the Sabbath day
Is bonny and blithe, and good and gay.

I was born on a Friday, and I suppose it would be nice to live up to that. But my life really has turned most frequently on the fulcrum of Thursday, which (as perhaps some of my old acquaintances from Oldham Hall will remember) has always been my longest day.

It is so even now. For some reason, I retain the urge to pack my Thursdays solidly. Thursdays are for early-morning lectures and workshops and teaching sessions; Thursdays are for working lunches and afternoon meetings; Thursdays are Serene days, on which the shipments come in; Thursdays are the days which only allow me to unwind after 11 pm. They need not be so, but they still are.

For some odd reason, the rhyme I quoted earlier on only has two known names: some people call it the Monday's Child rhyme, which is eminently logical; some other people call it the Thursday's Child rhyme, which isn't. I have always wondered why.

But I was born just before midnight on Friday, and unfortunately, I still have to work hard for my living — and, with Frost, I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep. It's sad when a Friday's child ends up an hybrid of both Thursday and Saturday — sad, but all too expected.

Sacred

Beneath the arc of sky
Are me, myself and I;
The world that fails my eye,
Beyond me as I lie.

Above the high frontier,
Where music fails the ear
Are things which should be dear –
If only they were here!

Beneath the things I hold –
Material things and cold,
And things both new and old –
I feel the hidden gold.

And comes the bright flame now
From where, and when, and how
Did you this thing allow
I do not ask; I bow.

Rhymer

Sitting thinking
Sun is shrinking
Cloud is growing
Wind is blowing

Work is stressful
Table messful
Brain is tired
Rest desired

Take a bus out
Give a mad shout
Mind is chuckling
Ugly duckling

Sky is greying
Disobeying
Raindrop spatters
Nothing matters

Wet and squishy
Like a fishy
Puddle splashing
Muddle flashing

Fern and water
Dance and daughter
In the gardens
Heart unhardens

Rain is falling
Chaos calling
No more tragic
Life is magic

Rhymer rides the raging wrack
Storm descendant at his back
Light ascendant in his eyes
Rhymer writes the water's rise