The Extravert Meets The Introvert comic poem 163 by Angela Lansbury

 by Angela Lansbury

Spot the extravert. Photo by Angela Lansbury.

The extravert and the introvert

What are they going to do?

The sooner we know, the better

To predict the links from me to you

Extravert or introvert?

How do you recognize?

Extravert or introvert

Doesn't depend on their size

The extravert laughs loudly

And runs to shake your hand

The extravert's the solo singer

The other hides at the back of the band

When it comes to taking a picture

The introvert plays second fiddle

Takes the photo, stands to the side

The extravert pushes into the front - and the middle!

An introvert wears gray or black

He or she hardly speaks at all

Go and inspect their hand writing

Hard to read, the letters are all - too small

What puzzles analytic me

What's contradictory and strange

Is experience or training

Over years, can make both exchange

I was born a shy, only child

I was an introvert, small girl

Then I grew old, fat and jolly

Strutting and shouting to the world

I stayed alone at home, tearful, alone

I wrote dark thoughts, folded the page

Now I'm smiling and wearing red

Standing and dancing, centre stage

An introvert or extravert

Two striking words which chime and rhyme

Kind extravert meets introvert

Both have their right place and good time.

-ends

Poem by Angela Lansbury. Preview for book edited by Carolyn Street.

Second Sight Re-write

At first I wrote
My poem pleased
Came back, years on
Revised with ease

The thoughts were fine
But I suspect
At least they're mine
'cos not correct

I could re-write
Read aloud, shout, speak
Stay up all night
Re-work all week 

Eight syllables in every line

Or twelve, or ten

I think that's fine

Just one more time, and then again

I start gone four

And end gone ten

I should end soon

I'm not sure when

It's six a.m. here
What should I do?
Re-writes cost time, dear
All's changed, now new.

I've written through the day

And I've written through the night

Two minutes stretched to twenty hours 

But at least it reads all right.

I know it's morning here

But it's still midnight somewhere else

I shouldn't burn the midnight oil

It's not good for my health

I wish that I had watched the clock

But even then I wouldn't stop

The mirror has a bad surprise

A pretty poem but baggy eyes

I wrote so long I nearly dropped

Even my old, tired clock had stopped

Each comma, syllable's in place -

Though I've a haggard poet's face.

-ends-