Dear Mr Julian Fellowes

Spoiler alert!!

Dear Mr Julian Fellowes,


Sunday night, the Oscars were on television, so we didn’t miss Downton Abbey as much as we might (even though Seth MacFarlane made it painful to regret.)

After somber meditation on the subject, I’m thinking perhaps it’s time to say goodnight to Carson, Mrs Hughes, Lord and Lady Grantham and the entourage. If I want to watch soap operas, I’ve got access to the best… in Spanish, no less.

For me, your ending was too contrived, Mr Fellowes. I can’t forget the sunlit backdrop in the hospital room after an early, yet otherwise uneventful delivery of the Crawley heir, Mummy and Daddy bursting with love and pride, followed shortly by the view of the one lane country road (always a good setting in English drama). Did you insist on the ghoulish scene of Matthew tossed into the leaves, blood pouring from his ear? Or was that someone from the writing team’s idea? Because that we could have easily done without. If you had to kill in him in a crash, a more subtle approach could have called for the scene to be left with the smiling image of the new father and savior of Downton Abbey, hair blowing in the breeze, happy as can be, rushing back to share news of the precious arrival. The unsuspecting milk truck barreling from the opposite direction would have left little to the imagination.

I truthfully thought Matthew would meet his demise in the Highlands, mistaken for an elk, this time the bullet doing the job it hadn’t been able to accomplish in Season 2. That would have been ironic; I'm afraid what you gave us was pulp. I’ll admit, the first time I saw that shiny new convertible, I didn’t like it. I knew it was more than a prop. It was a leading story line that was going to spell the demise of someone but I’d hoped you’d spare Matthew and find another exit, since we all knew Dan Stevens had demanded to be let out of his contract.

Now we can look forward to Mary Crawley growing bitterer day by day and eating poor sister Edith alive at the breakfast table. Edith, who will be living a life in sin with her editor, with no regrets, seeing what happens to people in the household who marry in proper fashion.

It’s all too predictable. I’d like to perhaps let those loveable characters live on in my literal mind as I last saw them: the family having their aristocratic summering in The Highlands with their servants deservedly frolicking at the fair. It may have been their last chance...as Carson ages, he’ll get crustier and downstairs will end up on lockdown.

Bates and Anna seem content; let’s allow them some happiness. O’Brien’s mischief is getting old (I roll my eyes and brace myself each time I see her lighting up in the yard); if you were going to kill anyone, it should have been her. Branson must remain in England, and overlording sheep will get quickly boring. The chance of an affair with one of the maids has been ruled out. There isn’t even any tension left in the homosexual advances of Thomas towards darling Jimmy.

Could it be that Violet is simply having a dream; will she wake up in the 21st Century with a remote slipping from her hand, admitting that, indeed, Downton Abbey is a watchable show?

Or will the writers who’ve replaced you while you’re seek lasting fame in Hollywood bring back the badly burned Patrick? He can fall in love with Mary… or maybe Tom? Now there’s a twist. We know he’s lurking in the wings somewhere. His departure was not final; he seemed to go away much too quietly. As I said, Bates and Anna seem content...who knows what other things are hidden in the evil past?

As much as I moan, you know I’ll be back for Season 4. I’d be a liar to pretend I wouldn't.

I wish you luck in Hollywood and don't let them lead you down any one-lane paths...


Discordantly yours,

Lady Dills

I have obviously fallen off the map for awhile. I’ve been busy with my two jobs and working on NOT, ACTUALLY, my novel about Robin, the pregnant teenage runaway in LA who marries the gay Brit so she can keep her baby (that she gives up for adoption and gets back again). There is a thread in there about her exposure to Scientology (in the early years) that is also quite eye-opening.


Since I am seeking employment again (the commute is killing me) I thought it would be a bright idea to post something current so I will be considered clever and valuable/ Right.

Perhaps I’ll get in the obligatory holiday post, so stay tuned. I refused to subject my readers to one more Black Friday entry of that tired old poem. I’m saving it for my anthology!

Thanks for reading.

The Crow

The prompt today is to write a poem in the style of Marianne Moore, with the suggestion of writing about an animal.





In a pink and yellow dawn,
          comes through the opening
                 in my silver lit window the koww koww,
metered and numbered echoes of the crow,
          who my wise father referred to as
                 Old Indians and taught his children to dutifully respect.

                             Crows hear frequencies lower than humans, which complicates study of their vocalizations and given man’s propensity to know and communicate with other species, at least to                    
understand them, frustration is the baffling consequence.

Crows keep secrets only crows can know.

Cherished by some for demolishing grasshopper eggs; worshiped for sparing crops, the flip side of this adulation is being called tricksters , thieves…they are humiliated, lied about, destroyed.

               Why then is it said crows are kind birds that feed their old and weakened parents?        Amusing that this           
old bird might be so blessed and fortunate.

Jackdaw,
raven,
corvid,
call him what you will.

To me he is liege.

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Openings and Closings

Tonight there will be no poem. I spent the evening with old friends in The White Horse Pub in Post Alley and laughed so hard I thought I might crack a rib. That's living. I was to write a poem about opening day. I missed opening day but we were quite good at closing night. And so I will meet you all tomorrow, and rise to a new challenge. Thanks, Tammy and Michelle, for an evening to remind me what I'm really doing here. Kiss. Hug. Happy poeting.

Azula's Blues

Today’s prompt is to write the blues. The traditional blues song is the 12-bar blues. Perhaps this will lead to an illustrious songwriting career. Ya think?
My blues is written from Zuzu’s POV. (She, once a jungle cat, now lives indoors. In an apartment. With a seven year old girlchild.)

Once I was a jungle cat, I lived life on the edge;
Say, once I was a jungle cat, living on the edge.
Now I chase dust balls from under the bed.

You know, I owned a neighborhood under the palms;
My neighborhood, yes, it was under the palms.
I was taken from my habitat like a melody from the song.

Siestas I was famous for, my dreaming it was deep;
I dreamed while I siesta’ed; my dreams, yes they were deep.
Now in this lackluster life, all I do is sleep.

I roamed around with lizards, scorpions and snakes;
Still the queen of the jungle, I’m not afraid of snakes.
You know, people, I’m a jungle kitty; I’ve got what it takes.

~~~growl~~~

So if you come to see me in apartment two-fifteen;
I invite you to visit me in number two-fifteen.
Hide your children and your money, beware of the jungle queen.

Other cats they know me, they could tell you of my legend;
Corridas sung about me, this cat is legendary.
I spit a mean hairball and I am quite contrary.

I’m Azula, singing my blues for you.
Yes, I am the mighty Zuzu, I sing the jungle blues;
My story is sad but true…ooh ooh ooh.

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Epithalamium

This is the prompt for today: an epithalamium /ˌɛpɨθəˈleɪmiəm/ (Latin form of Greek ἐπιθαλάμιον epithalamion from ἐπί epi "upon," and θάλαμος thalamos nuptial chamber) is a poem written for the bride on the way to her marital chamber, a poem celebrating a wedding.

Having nothing more to say,
he scratches the shiny surface of parchment
with a pen that scarcely allows ink to flow,
his name stuck inside the barrel,
waiting
to leave a trail
that joins him
with her.

The member of the wedding
in an event he alone effected;
he, in his moment of fervor,
words rolling down his throat
to land on her surprised bosom,
she whispered I do, I do, I do.

Sweeping his hair past his blanketed eyes,
he turns and sees one bride,
as he has never seen her before.


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Heart of Damone on the Day I was Born

Prompt:
Number One song on the day you were born
"You’re Breaking My Heart"
Vic Damone







The slow dying ember
Continues to smolder
The skin will remember
The hand on the shoulder
The night tore ahead
Of a moon on the rise
I denied what you said
Didn’t open my eyes
My fear filled the dawn
The lark gave no warning
And you… you were gone
In the vacant white morning

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