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Thursday, May 08, 2014


Octopus courtesy of Gisela Royo
of Barcelona, Spain and
I have been having fun yesterday and today with my cephalopod stories, mentioned in the last post--there are seven tiny fictions plus an eighth piece, a clerihew for Erik Pontoppidan. And all that goes to show that blog visitors and bloggers can influence my mind because I'm not sure if I would have gone for eight (although so very appropriate when one is contemplating cephalopods), were it not for RT (aka Tim) mentioning numerology yesterday.

Then toward the end of these somewhat bizarre fictions, I suddenly wanted to write a clerihew. That is rather like eating, say, a rather piggish amount of cilantro-pineapple ice and suddenly wanting hoecake on the griddle. I suppose that is why Scott G. F. Bailey's posts on Henrik Pontoppidan popped into my head--at which point it was only natural to leap from Danish Henrik to Danish Erik because Bishop Erik Pontoppidan wrote about the Kraken, and the Kraken is surely a cephalopod.

And I must go and do a little drudgery, now that I have finished my cephalopodish frolic!


  1. I can't imagine what you found to rhyme with "Erik Pontoppidan."

    Henrik was from a long line of vicars, and he was probably related to Erik. His protagonist in Lucky Per was also from a long line of vicars.

    I find the Chernyshevsky clerihew challenge to be mighty distracting today, when I'm already short on sleep after a 3 1/2-hour "King Lear" last night!

    1. Scott,

      Don't do another! That one was fine--liked the way it was so chock full of writers.

      I figured they must be related... Although who knows, perhaps "Pontoppidan" is like "Smith" here. ( I doubt.)

      My "Pontoppidan" rhyme involved 3.5 words. And just to spice it up, I added an internal rhyme (3 whole rhymes and one identical) in each line, so I rhymed "cleric" with "Erik." Whee!

      And now, back to the laundry. Alas.


Alas, I must once again remind large numbers of Chinese salesmen and other worldwide peddlers that if they fall into the Gulf of Spam, they will be eaten by roaming Balrogs. The rest of you, lovers of grace, poetry, and horses (nod to Yeats--you do not have to be fond of horses), feel free to leave fascinating missives and curious arguments.