It's that time of year again

when the birds fill the air with their call,
when the snow begins to thaw.
the chill in the air abates and
the Sun breaks through overcast greys.

It is March;
there will be rain.

A Series of One Haiku

I farted today.
It smelled like sesame oil.
I can't explain it.

Limerence

I thought I had a notion
of all the words regarding emotion;
but then -- anon --
I happened upon
one that looked a lot like Limerick.

someone has invaded my happy place

someone has invaded my happy place,
where clouds are shaped like medieval weaponry,
and i'm not sure what to make of it.
there in the still, amongst the greens
and blues and browns, the breeze and birdsong
and burbling brook to no where, she is
now here in my happy place.

advance to next checkpoint

i smiled because i didn't have to teach today; all my lessons were done.
i smiled because my evaluation was submitted; i had done well.
i smiled because i was happy to have made new connections and gained new friends.
i smiled because my students stopped on the way out to say goodbye and goodluck.
i smiled because it hid the pain of leaving.

"What Physics Teachers Do During Breaks"

last week, a student asked me
and my associate teacher very seriously,
"sirs, do you talk about physics all the time?"
and i replied, very seriously, "yes. yes we do."
i had meant to be glib, but it was true.
her eyes widened in genuine surprise
and she walked off to tell her friends.

---

today i received a free lecture on quantum physics, de Broglie's wavelength, Heisenberg's Uncertainty Principle, wave-particle duality, Schrodinger's Equation, and the health benefits of eating salmon. i had forgotten how much i had forgotten from second year astronomy and quantum mechanics and electricity and magnetism.

it's not all physics and fish, however. sometimes we chat about computers, how crappy Microsoft is, why we will have to eat squid when we can no longer sustain cows, how one could go about teaching the Coriolis Effect to grade 10's, whether or not Tigerdirect is selling a Seagate Barracuda 500 GB 7200 rpm 16 MB cache hard drive for $110 when a Seagate Barracuda 500 GB 7200 rpm 8 MB cache is being advertised for $110 as well, etc.

the one in which i pretend thatsomeone loved me for a little while

when i close my eyes and look real hard, i can see just how far away you are from all the moments we once shared (like the grass-green grass that stood yea tall, the sky-blue sky and the cotton-ball cloud that you thought was a bunny tail); you are so far away it seems i can only see the memories intermingled with scraps of melodies that remind me of how we once had dreams.

Taylor Mali - What Teachers Make

also titled: "Objection Overruled", or "If things don't work out, you can always go to law school"

By Taylor Mali

a fellow student shared this with my english class.



read-along! since it is transcribed, the structure is probably not as he wrote it, but my best approximation given what i might have done if i were the author.

He says the problem with teachers is,
"What's a kid going to learn from someone who decided
his best option in life was to become a teacher?"

[laughs]

He reminds the other dinner guests
that it's true what they say about teachers:
That those who can, do; those who can't, teach.

[laughs]

I decide to bite my tongue instead of his
and resist the urge to remind the other dinner guests
that it's also true what they say about lawyers,
Because we're eating, after all,
and this is polite conversation.

"I mean, you're a teacher, Taylor,
Be honest. What do you make?"

And I wish he hadn't done that
(asked me to be honest), because you see,
I have a policy about honesty and ass-kicking:
which is, if you ask for it,
then I have to let you have it.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids work harder
than they ever thought they could.
I can make a C+ feel like
a Congressional medal of honor
and I can make an A- feel like
a slap in the face.
"How dare you waste my time
with anything less than your very best."

You want to know what I make?

I make kids sit through 40 minutes of study hall
in absolute silence.
"No, you cannot work in groups."
"No, you can't ask a question, so put your hand down."
"Why won't I let you go to the bathroom?
Because you're bored and you don't really have to go, do you?"

You want to know what I make?

I make parents tremble in fear
when I call home at around dinner time:
"Hi, This is Mr. Mali, I hope I haven't called at a bad time,
I just wanted to talk to you about
something your son did today. He said,
'Leave the kid alone. I still cry sometimes, don't you?'
And it was the noblest act of courage that I have ever seen."
I make parents see their children
for who they are and who they can be.

You want to know what I make?

I make kids question. I make'm criticize.
I make'm apologize and mean it.
I make'm write, write, write, and then I make'm read.
I make'm spell definitely beautiful, definitely beautiful,
definitely beautiful, over and over again,
until they will never misspell either one of those words again.
I make them show all their work in math.
And then hide it on their final drafts in English.

I make'm realize that if you got this [points to head]
then you follow this, [points to heart]
and if someone ever tries to judge you, based on what you make,
you give them this! [brandishes finger]

Let me break it down for you,
Let me break it down for you,
so you know what I say is true:
I make a [gorram] difference!
Now, what about you?

In Season and Out of Season - Margaret Avison

Today the blueness burns
inbetween new greens and space's
soundless blackness.
Yet we even now
discern more, cry;
No, lovely as May is
we would hear more.

Moses, you are the voice
the Voice spoke with.
Centuries have not, will not,
still that, therefore. The marvel
of the pitched cradle of reeds, the appeal
to a ruler-murderer's daughter's
mothering heart, the barter
of true for foster care that became both;
your growing,
that unexceptional miracle
of years: it all made way for
what? One small pure drop --
anticipation? hope? -- hung on life's
strange leaf-edge; trembling in the light
for years, for all your years indeed,
for "By faith Moses...".* It is said.

Exult in warmth and depth
of branches here? Yes, and yet Antarctica
in this same season,
snarls, pounces, gnaws -- even while
today the earth
rejoices in deliverance in this zone.

Moses, your early privilege turned
when you saw abuse into
an alienating cause? What burned
was not the authorities' heartless
indignation, not
mute slaves', not
even your own
violent indignation, in the end.
Bare-soled on desert sand
you bowed,
you bartered with your seclusion for
your people's whole concern,
the Other's deep concern,
finally given to both.

For many days
here, a sagging cloud and stiff
dark mat of branch and twig,
clacking, entombed us all. Now that winter's over
the trees and shrubs are thimbleberried with
chestnut flowers, with deep-breathed lilacs.

Moses, how does your solitary death --
and you went up the lonely crags
as bidden --
follow? Did the Voice
seek silence then? from faith
were you led ... further?
It may be heaven is the
light that ... conceals?

Your longing then was
not so much to
realize the Land for you were
sure about the Land
long since by faith,
but to be brought
where the celestial Other would
be known in fullness
however dark?

He saw the Lord. He, Moses, was seen
transfigured too, in mountain light, when
much was made plain by once
caring enough to pray to be
blotted out.
(For he had stood among his
fractious protesting people; he
recognized too his own
moment of failure to
stand with the Voice, heeding instead
an unholy flare of
exasperated nature. Once. Enough.)

Not in season, in the revolving
solar system, in which we turn
changeably, always.
Not without the appalling
lightless depth. Not but as a way station
perhaps is the
unimaginable light where
all maybe is plain.

The Art of Narcissism: Seamus Heaney’s “Personal Helicon” and Oscar Wilde’s “The Disciple”

  Narcissus, the archetypical male figure of self-absorption, figures prominently in both “Personal Helicon”, by Seamus Heaney, and “The Disciple”, by Oscar Wilde. Heaney’s poem is a deeply personal reminiscence of his childhood habit of peering into wells, comparing his stare to that of Narcissus’. His habit is replaced in adulthood by a more mature form of self-reflection: poetry. Wilde appends the Narcissus myth by recounting a mournful conversation, after Narcissus’ death, between a group of Oreads and the pool into which Narcissus longingly gazed. In an ironic twist, the mourning pool reveals that it mourned not for Narcissus, but the loss of its own reflection in Narcissus’ eyes. In both poems, art is portrayed as a form of meditative narcissism – the egotism being conducive to the production of meaningful works. The speaker of Heaney’s poem writes that his poetry is a form of that artistic egotism, like his well gazing as a child. His inspiration comes from introspection. For Heaney, art comes from within. However, Wilde uses the conceit (poetic and otherwise) of the pool to argue that the artist’s work is only a realization of the beauty of the subject – the pool itself. For Wilde, art comes from without.

  Narcissism is the excessive preoccupation with oneself, coined for Narcissus, the mythical man who was excessively preoccupied with himself to the point of death. Directed properly, narcissism can become a great tool for artists, particularly in terms of honing their craft. Heaney’s “Personal Helicon” subtly reveals how the speaker’s conversations with himself, with the aid of various wells, evolved into the more refined art of poetry. The speaker of Heaney’s poem is inexorably drawn to wells; “they could not keep [him] from wells” (Heaney, 1). Not only does he look into them to see the “white face [hovering] over the bottom” (Heaney, 12), but he also converses with that other boy to see if the well would “[give] back [his] own call” (Heaney, 13). In what appears to be a lonesome existence, Heaney’s speaker found company in his own reflection and echo, facilitated by the well. This practice culminates into poetry in adulthood. As the speaker states in lines 19 and 20, “I rhyme/ To see myself, to set the darkness echoing.” His narcissistic energies were converted and redirected into a meaningful medium: poetry.

  In Wilde’s “The Disciple”, narcissism is not a means of inspiration for art, but a catalyst for something that was already there. Narcissism awakens the hidden potential of a subject. It was through the eyes of Narcissus and his doting gaze that the pool realized its own beauty. By painting a poolside scene in prose, Wilde allegorically personifies the relationship between the artist and his work as the relationship that Narcissus and the pool had. An artist, deep in the artistic process, could very well be calculating his self worth by the piece of art he is producing. As he stares at his work, the artist most resembles Narcissus by the pool. Wilde subverts the artists’ Ivory Tower mystique of being a creator. Instead he relegates the artist to being merely the person who reflects the beauty of the subject into realization: “in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored” (Wilde, p. 5). The personified pool came to appreciate its own beauty in the time Narcissus spent gazing upon his image. In the artist’s self-reflection, the beauty of the subject blossomed. Thus, in Wilde’s eyes, the artist is not the creator. He is merely the person that nurtures that beauty in his mind into fruition. By playing on the double meaning of reflection, Heaney and Wilde allude to Narcissus not merely as a selfish dandy, but also as an artistic mind.

  Art is but a reflection, from mundane objects to highly ornate chapel ceilings, of something an inspired artist ‘sees’. The light that enters his eyes is transformed within the mind through self-reflection; his expert hands echo the new image into tangible form. To emphasize this idea, the poets use a pun on the word reflection to mean both the reflected image and the practice of introspection. Both poems place heavy importance upon both definitions of reflection using various allusions, tropes and schemes. Heaney’s speaker, in “Personal Helicon”, believes that his intimate knowledge of himself, fueled by the self-reflective nature of narcissism, is what inspires him to write. In using wells to illustrate this idea, Heaney captures all the nuances of the word reflection. There is an epistrophe of the word reflection at the end of the second and fourth quatrains. While they literally refer to his reflections at the bottom of the wells, Heaney’s speaker turns each well remembered into a metaphor for self-reflection. Each well has a certain depth, corresponding to the emotional or spiritual depth to which his contemplations delved. Within those wells the speaker also discovered “long roots” (Heaney, 11) – an additional metaphor for his past. Heaney also emphasizes the idea of echoes (Heaney, 13; 20), alluding to the other myth associated to Narcissus: the myth of Echo. Echo was a talkative Oread cursed to repeat only the phrase she last heard. She fell in love with “big-eyed Narcissus” (Heaney, 18) and like all other suitors to do so, Echo was turned away rather brusquely. In her despair, Echo pined away into nothingness, leaving behind only her voice: a voice that can still be heard today in caverns and wells. Well, what are echoes but reflections of sound? The echoes that Heaney’s speaker referred to came back “[with] a clean new music in it” (Heaney, 14). Reflection has remade the initial call new and musical; it has transformed his voice, bringing order out of chaos. All reflections, visual or aural, must have a source. Through reflection, musing and mulling, something better is born. For Heaney’s speaker that source is himself – he is his own personal Helicon: mountain of the Muses.

  “The Disciple” is a prose poem that stresses both reflections using a liberal amount of complex and calculated repetition schemes. From “the pool of his pleasure” (Wilde, p. 1) to the first words of the Oreads as they “came weeping through the woodland” (Wilde, p.1): “We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner” (Wilde, p. 2) – alliteration runs wild in Wilde’s poem. Perhaps most clever is the ploce “a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears” that is the refrain in the first two paragraphs. The “cup” is the anaphora that balances the two metaphorically flavoured liquids. As an additional layer of complexity, Wilde also adds mirrored sibilance and consonance to this phrase. “Sweet waters” is bookended by [s]s while [w] and [t] are also repeated. “Salt tears” is given similar treatment as the [s], [t] combination in “salt” is reversed to [t], [s] in “tears”. Repetition appears not only schematically in the narrative, but also in the dialogue itself. The pool, highly reflective, repeats the words of the Oreads by asking, “was Narcissus beautiful?” (Wilde, p. 3). This was an allusion to the myth of Echo. For every question posited to the pool it was repeated back, but reworked by the immense ego of the pool. In response to the pool’s question, the Oreads replied, “Who should know that better than you? […] [In] the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty” (Wilde, p. 4). Dripping with irony, “the pool answered, ‘But I loved Narcissus because […] in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.’” (Wilde, p. 5). The pool was even more narcissistic than Narcissus himself! Not to be forgotten is that the Oreads were also mildly narcissistic themselves: “[us] did he ever pass by” (Wilde, p. 4). In saying that, the Oreads assumed they were beautiful on a level worthy of Narcissus’ attention (this phrase may have also been reflective of Wilde’s own narcissism for as a homosexual dandy, he probably relished the fact that women were attracted to him to no avail). Even the narcissism trait was reflected into the surrounding characters. Every facet of this prose poem has been masterfully inundated with the reflection theme. They are not merely straightforward reflections either. They are complex manipulations of sounds, letters and meanings. Heaney and Wilde both impress upon their readers the importance of reflection in art, be it internal, or external, reflection. Without the ‘digestion’ process that occurs within the mind of the artist, the ‘art’ created would be meaningless, like using tracing paper.

  Art is one of the few things in life that strive to find meaning. Meaning cannot be found by merely staring at an object for an extended period of time. Seamus Heaney’s speaker found meaning to his childhood by allegorizing it as a personal relationship with someone much like himself – his reflection at the bottom of the well – but, at the same time, completely different. Through his mental reflections and musings he inspired poetry to search his soul. The wells, in his mind, became a “Personal Helicon,” a window into himself. Oscar Wilde entertained similar notions, in that meaningful art required reflection. With its dandiacal irony, the pool of Narcissus’ pleasure, “The Disciple,” exemplified Wilde’s subversive idea that the artist merely reveals the true beauty of his subject. Like Heaney, Wilde’s idea requires a reflection that goes deeper than merely parroting back what it began with. Only then can art be considered meaningful. Artists can identify easily with Narcissus and not only because of the misunderstood tragedy of his death. He was, after all, only searching for the most beautiful thing he could find, and tried to capture it. Is that not what art is all about?

piddling puddle

my Writing About Poetry prof. thought the puns littered about my comparative essay were so bad that she wants me to email her a copy of it so that future poetry students may gape, marvel and critique - perhaps cry profusely as well. ask if you want to be subject to the same awkward phrasing and hazily communicated brilliance.

The Disciple - Oscar Wilde

When Narcissus died the pool of his pleasure changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, and the Oreads came weeping through the woodland that they might sing to the pool and give it comfort.

And when they saw that the pool had changed from a cup of sweet waters into a cup of salt tears, they loosened the green tresses of their hair and cried to the pool and said, `We do not wonder that you should mourn in this manner for Narcissus, so beautiful was he.'

`But was Narcissus beautiful?' said the pool.

`Who should know that better than you?' answered the Oreads. `Us did he ever pass by, but you he sought for, and would lie on your banks and look down at you, and in the mirror of your waters he would mirror his own beauty.'

And the pool answered, `But I loved Narcissus because, as he lay on my banks and looked down at me, in the mirror of his eyes I saw ever my own beauty mirrored.'

"A Valediction: Forbidding Mourning" - John Donne

you know i only post up the good stuff. this one is so funny...

As virtuous men passe mildly away,
And whisper to their soules, to goe,
Whilst some of their sad friends doe say.
The breath goes now, and some say, no:

So let us melt, and make no noise,
No teare-floods, nor sigh-tempests move,
T'were prophanation of our joyes
To tell the layetie our love.

Moving of th'earth brings harmes and feares,
Men reckon what it did and meant,
But trepidation of the spheares,
Though greater farre, is innocent.

Dull sublunary lovers love
(Whose soule is sense) cannot admit
Absense, because it doth remove
Those things which elemented it.

But we by a love, so much refin'd.
That our selves know not what it is,
Inter-assured of the mind,
Care lesse, eyes, lips, and hands to misse.

Our two soules therefore, which are one,
Though I must goe, endure not yet
A breach, but an expansion,
Like gold to ayery thinnesse beate.

If they be two, they are two so
As stiffe twin compasses are two,
Thy soule the fixt foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if the'other doe.

And though it in the center sit,
Yet when the other far doth rome,
It leanes, and hearkens after it,
And growes erect, as that comes home.

Such wilt thou be to mee, who must
Like th'other foot, obliquely runne;
Thy firmnes drawes my circle just,
And makes me end, where I begunne.

There is a Garden in her face: deciphered

Thomas Campion's "There is a Garden in her face" is a Petrarchan conceit, extolling the beauty and chastity of a virtuous fruit seller. Using floral imagery, the woman, whom we will call "Cherry" for future reference, is described to be bountifully beautiful. The most prominent characteristic of her face are her lips, metaphorically protrayed as cherries, plump and red. Campion's ideal woman starkly contrasts the promiscuous women of his day and it is with this contrast that he critiques the state of society in his time.

The "Garden" (Campion, 1) is a direct reference to the Garden of Eden, and by using it to represent Cherry's face, Campion is suggesting two things: that she is a creature of God, and, as such, a pure and innocent being. Cherry's face is explicitly referred to as "a heav'nly paradice [...]/ Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow" (3, 4), a common description of Eden. "Her eyes like Angels" (13) stand on guard with "bended bowes" (14). Following the Fall of Man, God placed a cherub and a flaming sword to guard the only entrance into Eden. Cherubim, plural for cherub, are also seen guarding other important things, such as the lid of the Ark of the Covenant and the Temple of Solomon. As such, they are not cute little angels to be trifled with. Biblical imagery encompasses this poem and its moral values are, to a certain extent, represented by the character of Cherry.

The cherries in the poem are used to describe her plump, red lips, as the focal component of the conceit. They "fayrely do enclose/ Of Orient Pearle a double row" (7-8), beautiful pearly teeth. While overtly referring to the lips of her mouth, the embedded metaphor in "Cherries" (7) also refers to another pair of lips. The treasure trove of "Orient Pearle" (8) are obviously teeth, but in the context of the embedded metaphor, they suggest that Cherry's other set of lips also "enclose" (7) a treasure much more cherished. Both pairs of lips serve to guard Cherry's chastity, as figurative and literal doorways.

Cherry is a London street vendor, imaginary or otherwise. The refrain "Cherry ripe themselves doe cry" (6, 12, 18) is an allusion to the cry of a fruit salesperson, announcing the fresh ripeness of his or her wares. Fruit vending was a vocation most common to the female population, mostly due to the laws that did not allow women an education beyond what was necessary to bear children. As such, income was a definite problem for most unmarried women in the big city. They resorted not only to the selling of fruits on the streets by day, but to selling their bodies in the dark alleyways by night. This was not uncommon. Cherry is contrapuntal to the societal pattern of Campion's day. Though she was a fruit vendor, her body remained her own, "which none may buy" (5) until she gives her assent: "Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry" (6, 12, 18).

"There is a Garden in her face" is Thomas Campion's little snub at the state of his society, in the guise of a romantic poem. His love object, Cherry, is a beautiful and virtuous fruit vendor - a virtually unknown breed of fruit vendor in the 16th century streets of London. Cherry is protective of her chastity, dispelling any lustful stares or errant hands with a "piercing frowne" (15) and a sharp retort. Cleverly wrapped in a common romance poem package, he paints a picture of how women should cherish their bodies as they would gifts from God. While Campion has since died and fruit vendors no longer moonlight as prostitutes, the same problems still persist in our society today.

There is a Garden in her face

Thomas Campion

(1567-1620)

There is a Garden in her face

There is a Garden in her face,
Where Roses and white Lillies grow;
A heav'nly paradice is that place,
Wherein all pleasant fruits doe flow.
There Cherries grow, which none may buy
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Those Cherries fayrely doe enclose
Of Orient Pearle a double row,
Which when her lovely laughter showes,
They looke like Rose-buds fill'd with snow.
Yet them nor Peere nor Prince can buy,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

Her Eyes like Angels watch them still;
Her Browes like bended bowes doe stand.
Threatning with piercing frownes to kill
All that attempt with eye or hand
Those sacred Cherries to come nigh,
Till Cherry ripe themselves doe cry.

decipher!

the physics of poetry & the poetry of physics

where physics is the manifestation of the inherent beauty of mathematics, so too is poetry the realization of the beauty of language. be it in math or words, both wield their media with a mastery and a precision rarely seen in any field. both subjects are built upon the centuries-old foundations of their respective masters, each one remembered for their pioneering, their creativity, their diligence.

the difference lies in the gender ratio of the classes. that has definitely been the most difficult part of the transition, going from an all-boys club to a veritable sorority. i'm afraid that my hand-waving dismissal of lady mary wroth's depressed whining and pining may get me into trouble with the more vociferous of my female peers.

syllogism

in the night you can only see what's not there.
the stars can shine through lightyears of space
but they cannot shine through clever black beaks.
thus, ravens will peck out your sightless eyes
and feast on the brains behind - a bold assumption.

wait,
am i to whisper to the winds that we are wed in our want
but wet behind the ears and early on the years?

Happy Robbie Burns Day

Address to a Haggis - Robbie Burns

Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face,
Great chieftain o' the puddin-race!
Aboon them a' ye tak your place,
Painch, tripe, or thairm:
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace
As lang's my arm.

The groaning trencher there ye fill,
Your hurdies like a distant hill,
Your pin wad help to mend a mill
In time o' need,
While thro' your pores the dews distil
Like amber bead.

His knife see rustic Labour dight,
An' cut you up wi' ready sleight,
Trenching your gushing entrails bright,
Like ony ditch;
And then, O what a glorious sight,
Warm-reekin, rich!

Then, horn for horn,
they stretch an' strive:
Deil tak the hindmost! on they drive,
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve,
Are bent lyke drums;
Then auld Guidman, maist like to rive,
"Bethankit!" 'hums.

Is there that owre his French ragout
Or olio that wad staw a sow,
Or fricassee wad mak her spew
Wi' perfect sconner,
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view
On sic a dinner?

Poor devil! see him ower his trash,
As feckless as a wither'd rash,
His spindle shank, a guid whip-lash,
His nieve a nit;
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash,
O how unfit!

But mark the Rustic, haggis fed,
The trembling earth resounds his tread.
Clap in his walie nieve a blade,
He'll mak it whissle;
An' legs an' arms, an' heads will sned,
Like taps o' thrissle.

Ye Pow'rs wha mak mankind your care,
And dish them out their bill o' fare,
Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware
That jaups in luggies;
But, if ye wish her gratefu' prayer,
Gie her a haggis!

What is Haggis?
A dish consisting of the heart, lungs, and liver of a sheep, calf, etc. (or sometimes of the tripe and chitterlings), minced with suet and oatmeal, seasoned with salt, pepper, onions, etc., and boiled like a large sausage.

Making Haggis

* 1 sheep's stomach bag plus the pluck (lights, liver and heart)
* 1 lb Lean Lamb
* 6 oz Oatmeal
* 8 oz Shredded Suet
* 2 large Onions, chopped
* about 1/4 pint beef stock

* Soak the stomach bag in salted water overnight.
* Place the pluck (lights, liver and heart) in a saucepan with the windpipe hanging over the edge. Cover with water and boil for up to 2 hours hours. Impurities will pass out through the windpipe and so you need to put a basin under it to catch any drippings. Drain well and cool. Remove the windpipe and any gristle or skin..
* Mince the liver and heart with the lamb. (Add some of the lights before mincing if you wish.)
* Toast the oatmeal gently until crisp and pale golden brown.
* Combine the suet and onion with minced mixture. Season well and add enough stock to moisten well. Pack it all into the stomach bag, filling it just over half-full as the stuffing will swell during cooking.
* Tie the bag tightly with the string. Prick the haggis all over with a needle to stop it from bursting as it swells
* Put an upturned plate in the base of a saucepan of boiling water, stand the haggis on this and bring to the boil, and let it boil slowly for about 4 hours.
* Makes enough for 6 to 8 helpings of delicious haggis.

pseudo-sonnet of sand

drag a stick through the grains,
trace a pattern in the sand.
a deft twist, a looping whorl,
it all makes sense in the sand.

what if, what if, we could eat
all of this? all this sand?
it's perfect, don't you see?
loaves and cakes all made of sand.

crunchy and healthy it would be
if people could digest sand.
it'll pass on through your duodenum
and scrub you clean, it would, this sand.

squeeze it out in dollops or coils,
looks the same coming out, just like sand.
but covered in mucus and other good stuff
giving it the appearance of stickier sand.

mold it, shape it, roll yourself a ball.
with it you can make a castle of sand.
crenellations and merlons galore!
maybe even a portcullis of sand.

drag a stick 'round yon castle.
dig a deep moat in the sand.
that which was dug out be the food
for widows and kids yearning for sand.