Home - Top Row


Home - Bottom Row

Let's Panic: The Book!

Order your copy today!

How to Endure and Possibly Triumph Over the Adorable Tyrant
who Will Ruin Your Body, Destroy Your Life, Liquefy Your Brain,
and Finally Turn You
into a Worthwhile
Human Being.

Written by Alice Bradley and Eden Kennedy

Some Books
I'm In...

Sleep Is
For The Weak

Chicago Review Press

Home - Middle Row

Let's Panic

The site that inspired the book!

At LET'S PANIC ABOUT BABIES, Eden Kennedy and I share our hard-won wisdom and tell you exactly what to think and feel and do, whether you're about to have a baby or already did and don't know what to do with it. → 

« I am so out of my league, here. | Main | What happens. »

Why I am not a poet.

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin built there, of clay and wattles made;

Although I'm not entirely clear on what wattles are,

It just seems like a fun idea, me in a bee-loud glade

Nine bean rows will I have there –wait, what's with all the bees?

And nine rows seems like a lot, when three will probably do just fine

I mean, it's only me, am I right, and here a rhyming word would be "peas"

Although I'm not planting peas. Maybe some cilantro.

On second thought I'll go in a minute, in a little while I'll go to Innisfree

As soon as I do that other stuff I have to do.

I have to make some calls.


Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it got sort of dark and weird with this undergrowth

Then checked out the other, which seemed just as fair

And now that I thought about it, had perhaps the better claim

Because it was grassy and wanted wear

But as for that, why was no one walking down there?

Is there something I should know about?

And both that morning equally lay

In leaves no step had trodden black

Oh I kept them both for another day

You would think these roads would be marked somehow!

Or there would be a map or whatever


Because I could not stop for Death,

He kindly stopped for me—

I screamed and ran away, because have you ever seen Death?

With the skull-head and giant scythe?

No thanks, Death, I'll walk

p.s. Wonderland here.

Reader Comments (43)

The last one - the last one has me rolling.
March 12, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterOMSH
"Although I'm not planting peas. Maybe some cilantro." Effing brilliant! Thank you, Alice.
March 12, 2007 | Unregistered Commenterheidi
Good grief. Great laugh. Love it.
March 12, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterSassy
Why isn't there more poetry like this?
March 12, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterMer
You are brilliant! And hilarious! And clever and pretty, too ;)
March 12, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterElizabeth
Wattle is a native Australian tree. Has various varieties, beautiful flowers, hell for hayfever. :)
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterMeredith
I actually saw two little wattle trees in pots at a swanky restaurant on a mountain in Italy. I love the wattle! Luckily it never gave me hayfever.

Alice your poems are the best.
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterAnne
That last one trumps Dickinson 100%. I've never been a fan of hers, but I'm a fan of the remix (hey, you're sort of hip-hop now, with the remixing! Ghetto Alice!!)
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterMelanie
Ahhh, poetry. You've got somethin' special, there.

I composed an ode to my stomach (and also my stomach's reply) should you care to read, over at my

Shameless plug, but to have the likes of you reading it would truly make me immortal. And happy too.
All I can do is chuckle. Mega wanted to read, so I read this to him. He looked at me like I had lost my mind and then put his hands on my face, "Where's-uh pickers, Mumma?" He was only disappointed by the lack of pictures. :-)
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterHeather
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterSarah
Thanks for reminding us that, underneath all the serious adult crap, you are still zany and funny and completely nuts.

This is really why we keep coming back!

- M

or a map or whatever... *SNORT*!!!!
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterMarcheline
These are genius. They remind me of this brilliant parody by Kenneth Koch of that famous William Carlos Williams poem that begins "I have eaten the plums that were in the icebox/and which you were probably saving for breakfast ...":


I chopped down the house that you had been saving to live in next summer.

I am sorry, but it was morning, and and I had nothing to do and its wooden beams were so inviting.


We laughed at the hollyhocks togetherand then I sprayed them with lye.Forgive me. I simply do not know what I am doing.


I gave away the money that you had been saving to live on for the next ten years.The man who asked for it was shabbyand the firm March wind on the porch was so juicy and cold.


Last evening we went dancing and I broke your leg.Forgive me. I was clumsy, andI wanted you here in the wards, where I am a doctor.
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered Commenterlizpenn
I think the poem is about the wattle that Julie's husband built, which is woven-together twigs or similar, covered with daub(which I think is roughly mud)to make shelters in ancient times. Considering when and where the poem was written more likely than the aussie tree, no?(I scrounged this up from my English childhood learning, confirmed by Googling and now my first-ever Finslippy comment makes me sound like an english-and-history-major geek ... which I am.)Let me redeem it by saying I luuuurv Finslippy, Henry, and all the fab intelligent funny commenters ... you make my day.

March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterHelen
Those were wonderful! Thanks!

As a former English major geek, I agree with Helen about the meaning of wattle.

For those who are interested in wattles, of course, wattle is also what they call the hang-y skin under your chin when you get on in years (or on a turkey), and, it is a term used in ship design (rather arcane).
March 13, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterMauigirl52
You have just single-handedly made all my English teachers & professors, ever, run away screaming, because somehow They Know. (Well, all of them except Dr. Litt, maybe. He was cool.)

March 14, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterTrina
I love it! Throughout time artists and poets and brilliant wits have taken inspiration from the creations already around - not all turn out so well as yours though :)

My oldest is almost 12. He just finished a big 6th grade poetry project and we read a lot of Robert Frost poems together the week he was working on it. Sigh. Seems like just yesterday he was Four And A Half...
March 17, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterStephanie
My parents' house is called Innisfree! This is why!
March 20, 2007 | Unregistered CommenterFi

PostPost a New Comment

Enter your information below to add a new comment.

My response is on my own website »
Author Email (optional):
Author URL (optional):
Some HTML allowed: <a href="" title=""> <abbr title=""> <acronym title=""> <b> <blockquote cite=""> <code> <em> <i> <strike> <strong>