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This day in 1882, the brilliant and talented Virginia Woolf was born, and to celebrate it, a few lucky tweeters will win a copy of one of her books. When you see,
“It’s Virginia Woolf’s birthday!”
just retweet it, along with the answer to this trivia question:
What was Virginia’s mother’s maiden name?
International readers, keep your eyes on @OWC_Oxford and RT before 3pm GMT! Live in the US? Follow @OUPblogUSA. You’ll have until 3pm ET.
Winners will be announced on Wednesday and have their choice of
I'm not dead to the irony of posting a poem like this in the Summer of my own years. What the hey, as they say. It's a sonnet, I think.
The Year Hits Perimenopause
Autumn has decided what the hell.
She knows the symptoms and already frost
has tarnished her. She's not a fool. She knows
however much she feels like May the snows
are coming, so before this chance is lost
she's going to wear red, show off her tits,
plump apples, bulge pumpkins. She is going to swell
each bunch of grapes to cleavage and shadowed musk.
Fuck decorum, honey, take a bite.
Take two. Each day is shorter than the last
and colder, so her unimpeachable night
is thick with glitter, rhinestones, sequins, glitz.
She thinks that maybe she'll even try her luck
and use her license for a few young bucks.
Good lord, that's funny!
I'm just a wippersnapper myself, but everywhere I've worked, I've found myself surrounded by women duking it out with menopause. They'll love this.
Wow. Just, wow.
Utterly gorgeous, utterly true.
I am actually quite past menopause, in fact, when we go to Las Vegas this week we will be celebrating my 60th birthday. No, I cannot believe it either.
I have been loving your mom's poems, Fuse, but this one is my second favorite so far. The first favorite was the one about families and weddings.
She's very, very good.
My favorite line: Fuck decorum.
I so love your Mom's poetry. I feel like she talks my language.
Yeah, I know it might be a generational thing.
What the fuck.
yeah, I 'm well into the autumn and still feel/recall spring and summer like they were yesterday.
Just talked abut this last night with someone.
You'll see. Seasons will fly. Seasons fly especially when you have kids.
I don't/won't do sequins, though.
For the record, she doesn't do sequins either. Never has. Never will. Raw silk yes, sequins no.
I read this poem and couldn't help but think of the aging Hollywood stars who keep trying to look young and sexy by being tucked, liposuctioned, lifted, implanted, botoxed...and have had so many shots of collagen in their lips they look like they kissed a whole hive of bees.
I have no doubt that your mother must be one interesting woman...just like her daughter!
I am so there, although not ready to show off my tits.
Love the lines : Fuck decorum, honey, take a bite./Take two.
Please let your mom know I think she's made of awesome.
I'm so right there that this poem tempts me to flash a bit of leg and cleavage for the first time in my life ... maybe at ALA? Hey, if summery Fuse will be in that red dress, autumnal bloggers everywhere must respond to the challenge.