Anyway, it has been a very busy week. Summer term I at ASUMH ended on Wednesday, so I had a deluge of grading Monday, Tuesday, and the first half of Wednesday. Kellie's sister Diane and family came up on Thursday, and we spent a day on the lake at Horseshoe Bend Friday and Saturday exploring the countryside around Eminence, MO. The picture above is of the Alley Spring Mill from the opposite side of the spring. I have posted pictures in this blog that Kellie and I took of Alley Spring earlier this year. When we were there, the mill was closed, and some trails were closed. Yesterday, the trails were open, and a ranger was stationed inside the mill so that anybody could go in and explore. It is a neat place for a short visit. There is not much to do at that spot for a day, but it is nice to look around.
That is my excuse for not writing anything this week.
I won't write next week either. I'll tell you why later.
This picture is of the sky and the trees reflected in the swirl of water at the spring pour off. It is like a warped reality.
Talking about warped reality--I got my fifth copy of The American Poetry Review today. I think that, as an educator, I got a year's subscription to the publication at a very low price. I sure hope that I did because every issue is the same. The poetry, if that is what they are going to insist on calling what is published on their pages, is the SOS (same old sh*t) extremely personal, psycho babble, diary-entry crap that makes absolutely NOBODY want to read poetry. I read some lines and went, "That is an interesting way to say that." I also thought a time or two, "I like the idea. I may explore that myself sometime." I groaned, "Ugh!" more than a few times.
What I never did wonder was this, "What would that sound like if I read it aloud?" I never thought, "That is something that will stick with me because it is memorable." And--Truly, truly, there was never a smidgen of an instance when I had an experience that goes something like, "Wow! I can't get that sound, that chorus, that rhythm, and music out of my head." I try to see this stuff written out in prose form to figure out if it was written purely in prose and not some randomly broken, almost verse-like, lines whether I would read it at all.
Nope! I'd just as soon read some random person's diary. It might be even more interesting if I knew the person. If this person knew something about me and wrote about me in her diary, that would be really interesting. BUT, it still would not be poetry!
Blah! The American Poetry Review is simply another collection of publishers trying to put their friends, colleagues, cohorts, and fellow workshop grads on the map. It is intellectually ignorant and incestuous drivel. I hope that this sensationalized criticism does not encourage you to read it.
Like most of you, I immediately thought this was a Monarch until I started looking closely at the picture. Then, I recognized the familiar swallowtail on the hindwings. I wasn't sure that a Swallowtail (Battus philenor) would have such a plain pattern, but this is probably one right out of the cocoon. Some of its spot pattern may not be developed yet. Yeah, I know, researching my own pictures again, what a nerd!
Well, I would feel bad without giving you some kind of poem here on the day before we celebrate out independence from Britain.
By the way, are we really independent from those Brits who mispronounce nearly every word on purpose? Seems like I spent two or three days a few weeks ago celebrating the reign of a queen who has absolutely nothing to do with me because it was everywhere on the TV and Internet. The British are coming! The British are coming! On Channel 10 at 5.
A poem! Let me go find one.
In this collection of short and unrevised songs, it appears that the third one has a bit about butterflies. Enjoy!
Some Nature Songs
I.
The sunbeams skitter through the mid-May shadows,
Flicker across the fusty forest floor,
Glimmer among the damp dewy meadows
And glare full force on the stream’s pebbly shore.
They skip like tip-toeing dancers
‘Cross the ripples ruffling the brook,
Scale the bluffs, lithe gilded prancers,
Luring wary-eyed creatures to look.
They are light at war with darkness,
Who abide no murky places,
Nature’s clarity and starkness,
Dappling all her empty spaces.
II.
The spring water murmurs;
Its cool echo shimmers,
Rustling the pale, tender leaves
Of woodoats growing in sheaves.
Above shadows of mossy stones,
Birch trees, like vertical bones,
Stiffen against absent wind
That will never tempt them to bend.
III.
Butterflies as brilliant as lucid dreams
Tickle the hairs of Bluestar blooms.
The Firestar’s crimson silently streams
Through a wash of wild plum perfumes.
IV.
Lonely fern nestled
In a mossy nook
Under a grey stone overhang
Where the sun’s sustaining beams
Are never seen,
How do you thrive?
How do you survive?
How do you stay so green?
V.
In the harmony of this moment,
Nature beats at a pulsing breast,
Recreating a serene savagery
In a mind like a lion at rest.
In the pleached darkness of closed eyes,
Brilliance dazzles the memory
And hears reverberating robin songs
‘Mid echoes of eternity.
Copperhead scales rasp on pebbles
As she scrapes ‘cross the forest floor.
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