Yes, I know… no-one took the challenge. I was laughing when I wrote yesterday’s post because the minute I posted it I was absolutely sure it would make it onto my list of least popular posts of all time. Thus far the reality is matching the prediction, LOL!
Anyway, the most interesting thing I discovered is that 3 of my all-time personal favorite poems are amongst the least popular posts of all time.
I’m going to share them again now because I’m aiming for the bottom – 0 likes, 1 view – would be nice, or even better, 1 like, 0 views. This is probably just as difficult to achieve were my goal to be Freshly Pressed (heaven forbid but it seems to be the goal of a lot of bloggers). Another reason for resharing posts that have absolutely failed, is that I’m exploring a suspicion I have about whether the majority of readers even read this far into the post before they have moved on. No judgement on readers in that statement, if I’m boring, I’m boring. Voting with one’s feet is fantastically useful feedback!
Enough with the waffle… here’s the stuff you hated – followed by links to the stuff you loved. Some people eat waffles for breakfast but I’m kind of indifferent to them.
(no particular order, a bottom-dwelling cluster—-)
God bless those who are willing to hear your cry
Oh! Whipping wind lift those hats and dresses high
Before this dawn you tapped rain on my window
Beckoning you said “It’s time to start this show”
I couldn’t read the news the sun was too bright
You threw on a nebula gown of delight
That strobed through the moments and whispered a song
“You can stay way out there, but don’t stay too long”
Writing in the wind or singing in the rain
Kicking up your heels or busking on the train
No matter the plan we will tear it to shreds
Like kids who should sleep but are bouncing on beds
Mesmerise this morning of weather-at-play
Strategise how time could be best spent this day
Then watch as we spin the whole world on its head
Fling time out the door, give us weather instead.
The colour was orange and rich tones of earth
Open plains and a lonely tree
A small village hut made of natural stuff.
The fireplace smoked
We made semolina in a big iron pot
Melodious songs of womanhood we sang
and danced and ran free.
We walked with grace and rhythm
Strong-bodied, curve-backed people of my kind
Where are you now?
The sky is clear, the weather warm
I am a solitary seven-year-old against this landscape
With smiling eyes in a mischievous face.
Tiny circles of African hair press close to my scalp.
My pink-soled, chocolate-coated body is wrapped in metres of burnt orange
And I move more freely than in suburban clothes.
Pride and playfulness affect my stance
And though I am a child alone, I am not fearful
For this is where I am myself
Leave your prejudices at the door
For they’ll only weigh you down my friend
Repartee, riposte, reproach, rapport
Examine the value of what you defend
Behold! a task the ego can master
Duck, weave, dance all about the place
Holding the centre I dance so much faster
I play out the drama that lends this life grace
Momentum can trip or tip or flip
I stand on the same side, we both fall
So I sent it back in a neat little pack
A skew with a prayer and padding for the wall
(comparatively speaking – most popular first)
So there you have it. A lesson that I am likely to forget far more often than I am likely to remember. What I like has nothing to do with what readers enjoy.
All hail survivorship bias!