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The Poetry of Happiness

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The Poetry of Happiness (1980)


The poetry of happiness

is bland,

of happiness threatened,


of unstudied joy

is sublime,

of joy in shadow,

a finer clime.

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I suppose. Though 'bland' seems to irk. Sorry.

I should explain, maybe. Otherwise it comes over as tart and snarky. Happiness is bright, it's cheery and warm. It's summer days lolling by a beach with the one you love. It's the small of lilac, it's cuddling under the duvet anticipating sex. Bland isn't. It's beige, it's air freshener, it's dull, it's boring. it's the onset of a cold. It's meh, but without any spirit.

The poem I like, Bland, though, doesn't seem to fit. But that's only my opinion. :alien[1]:

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There are days I yearn for bland, a word that has taken an unfair pejorative cast. Years ago, bland meant soothing or smooth in nature, and I suppose in one way, uniform. Of course, it's entirely possible that I'm just not skillful enough to pull off the poetry of happiness. On the poetry of the duvet, I'd have to agree with Camy. And, C, you have it exactly.

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