When Scientists Write Poetry . . .

To a Mountain Daisy

 - Robert Burns

                                               On Turning One Down with the Plow, in April, 1786

Wee, modest, crimson-tippèd flow'r,

Thou's met me in an evil hour;

For I maun crush amang the stoure

            Thy slender stem:

To spare thee now is past my pow'r,

            Thou bonie gem.

Alas! it's no thy neibor sweet,

The bonie lark, companion meet,

Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet

            Wi' spreck'd breast,

When upward-springing, blythe, to greet

            The purpling east.

Cauld blew the bitter-biting north

Upon thy early, humble birth;

Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth

            Amid the storm,

Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth

            Thy tender form.

The flaunting flowers our gardens yield

High shelt'ring woods an' wa's maun shield:

But thou, beneath the random bield

            O' clod or stane,

Adorns the histie stibble-field

            Unseen, alane.

There, in thy scanty mantle clad,

Thy snawie-bosom sun-ward spread,

Thou lifts thy unassuming head

            In humble guise;

But now the share uptears thy bed,

            And low thou lies!

Such is the fate of artless maid,

Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade!

By love's simplicity betray'd

            And guileless trust;

Till she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid

            Low i' the dust.

Such is the fate of simple bard,

On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd!

Unskilful he to note the card

            Of prudent lore,

Till billows rage and gales blow hard,

            And whelm him o'er!

Such fate to suffering Worth is giv'n,

Who long with wants and woes has striv'n,

By human pride or cunning driv'n

            To mis'ry's brink;

Till, wrench'd of ev'ry stay but Heav'n,

            He ruin'd sink!

Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate,

That fate is thine—no distant date;

Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives elate,

            Full on thy bloom,

Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight

            Shall be thy doom.

Quote of the Day

{Source}

Covers

- Rae Armantrout

The man
slapped her bottom
like a man did
in a video,

then he waited
as if for shadow
to completely cover the sun.

Moments later
archeologists found him.

*

The idea that they were reenacting something which had been staged in the first place bothered her. If she wanted to go on, she’d need to ignore this limp chronology. She assumed he was conscious of the same constraint. But she almost always did want to proceed. Procedure! If only either one of them believed in the spontaneity of the original actors and could identify with one. Be one. For this to work, she reasoned, one of us would have to be gone.

*
“Well, look who missed
the fleeting moment,”

Green Giant gloats
over dazed children.

If to transpose
is to know,

we can cover our losses.

But only
If talking,

Formerly food,

Now meant
Not now

So recovery
Ran rings.

If to traverse
is to envelop,

I am held
and sung to sleep.

from: Veil: New and Selected Poems. Copyright 2001.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Hi. How's Your Day Goin?

The Jabberwock

- Lewis Carroll

'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
did gyre and gimble in the wabe.
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
the frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the maxome foe he sought-
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood a while in thought.
As in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came.
One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack.
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"Has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Calloh! Callay!
He chortled in his joy.
'Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.


from: Through the Looking Glass, and What Alice Found There. Copyright 1871

The Past Is Always With Us . . .

. . . whether we like it or even acknowledge it,

and these photographs by Sergey Laurenkov make that connection tangible.

Dear friends, if you’re interested in travel into the past, I will try to help you. But be warned, the history often hides very scary pages, and returning to the present is much more pleasant than traveling into the past.

 - Sergey Laurenkov

{Via NewsLinQ}

Quote of the Day

{Source}

poem in praise of menstruation

- Lucille Clifton

if there is a river

more beautiful than this

bright as the blood

red edge of the moon          if

there is a river

more faithful than this

returning each month

to the same delta          if there

is a river

braver than this

coming and coming in a surge

of passion, of pain          if there is

a river

more ancient than this

daughter of eve

mother of cain and of abel          if there is in

the universe such a river          if

there is some where water

more powerful than this wild

water

pray that it flows also

through animals

beautiful and faithful and ancient

and female and brave



from: The Collected Poems of Lucille Clifton. Copyright 1991.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

Here's to the Ideals in the Constitution This Flag Represents

We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.

It's A Garden Party - What's the Buzz?

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

This is my corner bed by the community mailbox. I originally planted it with Lavender, but the neighbor's irrigation was too much for it. Currently it is filled with plants that are tolerant of a variety of conditions. I hardly have to water this bed and it still explodes with life, all because the neighbors like grass and don't understand how irrigation works. By now, even if they figure it out the plants are well enough established to thrive. 

The plants you see are (front to back): Sedum, Coreopsis, Agave, Cape Honeysuckle, & Fortnight Lily. (There is still some Oxalis mixed in with the Sedum.) The California Poppies in the photo are growing outside the bed, in the yard.

I have been having a problem keeping water in my little Bird Bath here. The clay is so porous that once the summer heat sets in (like now) it's gone in a matter of hours. We are looking for either a coating that won't hurt the patrons or a replacement vessel.

Sweet!

Aside from the wonderful scent, my Lavender is usually so full of these little guys, in all sizes and colors, that it seems to be moving on its own. Somewhere nearby there must be hives with wonderful honey. I wonder how far Bees travel for pollen.

The walk to our front door divides the front yard in half, and about 1/2 of the right hand side (as you face the house) is planted with Lavender. I now have four different kinds: Spanish, Grosso, Munstead, & English. Each is a bit different in growing habit, color, and scent. (Yeah. California Poppies are everywhere.)

There's a few things I've learned in life: always throw salt over your left shoulder, keep rosemary by your garden gate, plant lavender for good luck, and fall in love whenever you can.

(- Practical Magic)

It May Not Be Official Yet, But Summer Is Definitely Here . . .

Grab Your Favorite Cuppa, Kick Back, and Enjoy Some Peace and Quiet.

Quote of the Day

When I was 5 years old, my mother always told me that happiness was the key to life.  When I went to school, they asked me what I wanted to be when I grew up.  I wrote down 'happy'. They told me I didn't understand the assignment, and I told them they didn't understand life.

 - John Lennon

Mottled Tuesday

- John Ashbery

Something was about to go laughably wrong,
whether directly at home or here,
on this random shoal pleading with its eyes
till it too breaks loose, caught in a hail of references.
I’ll add one more scoop
to the pile of retail.

Hey, you’re doing it, like I didn’t tell you
to, my sinking laundry boat, point of departure,
my white pomegranate, my swizzle stick.
We’re leaving again of our own volition
for bogus patterned plains streaked by canals,
maybe. Amorous ghosts will pursue us
for a time, but sometimes they get, you know, confused and
forget to stop when we do, as they continue to populate this
fertile land with their own bizarre self-imaginings.
Here’s hoping the referral goes tidily, O brother.
Chime authoritatively with the pop-ups and extras.
Keep your units pliable and folded,
the recourse a mere specter, like you have it coming to you,
awash with the new day and its abominable antithesis,
OK? Don’t be able to make that distinction.


from: A Worldly Country. Copyright 2007.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.

A Lesson for This Sunday

- Derek Walcott

The growing idleness of summer grass
With its frail kites of furious butterflies
Requests the lemonade of simple praise
In scansion gentler than my hammock swings
And rituals no more upsetting than a
Black maid shaking linen as she sings
The plain notes of some Protestant hosanna—
Since I lie idling from the thought in things—

Or so they should, until I hear the cries
Of two small children hunting yellow wings,
Who break my Sabbath with the thought of sin.
Brother and sister, with a common pin,
Frowning like serious lepidopterists.
The little surgeon pierces the thin eyes.
Crouched on plump haunches, as a mantis prays
She shrieks to eviscerate its abdomen.
The lesson is the same. The maid removes
Both prodigies from their interest in science.
The girl, in lemon frock, begins to scream
As the maimed, teetering thing attempts its flight.
She is herself a thing of summery light,
Frail as a flower in this blue August air,
Not marked for some late grief that cannot speak.

The mind swings inward on itself in fear
Swayed towards nausea from each normal sign.
Heredity of cruelty everywhere,
And everywhere the frocks of summer torn,
The long look back to see where choice is born,
As summer grass sways to the scythe’s design.


from: Collected Poems: 1948-1984. Copyright 1986.

It's A Garden Party - So Far, So Good . . .

This feature, originally known as Saturday Farmer's Market, was created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and then hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

Consider me
As one who loved poetry
And persimmons.

- Masaoaka Shiki

This week in the garden:

Red Chrysanthemums are hugging the Copertina Ninebark.

The birthday Rose goes from yellow to peach.

 Crazy Shasta Daisies grown from seed in the 'conservatory' have taken off.

 "The Little Viola That Could'"

Plums are ripening!

 Agave against a Lavender backdrop

Lantana

X

3

Another Rose

Did I say Lavender?

Volunteer!

 This showed up next to the California Poppies. 

It has flowers like Squash or Cucumbers but I have no idea what it is.

Nellie Clark

 - Edgar Lee Masters

 

I was only eight years old;

And before I grew up and knew what it meant

I had no words for it, except

That I was frightened and told my

Mother; And that my Father got a pistol

And would have killed Charlie, who was a big boy,

Fifteen years old, except for his Mother.

Nevertheless the story clung to me.

But the man who married me, a widower of thirty-five,

Was a newcomer and never heard it

Till two years after we were married.

Then he considered himself cheated,

And the village agreed that I was not really a virgin.

Well, he deserted me, and I died

The following winter.

from: Spoon River Anthology.  Coptright 1915.

The Mummy

 - Jessica Hagedorn

 

Montana,

you beat your fists

against museum doors

your bronze dress

shimmering

in the starless night.

The doors are locked,

Montana

dreaming

of snow-white mice

cluttering the shelves

in your kitchen,

snow-white mice

inside the oven,

snow-white mice

clogging

your shiny aluminum sink,

their corpses curled up

like piles

of fluffy cotton.

Mosques are desecrated

and altars overturned

outside the museum's

cool stone walls.

Border skirmishes

seen and heard

in the distance,

delicate bursts

of poppy-red flames.

The wars go on and on,

invading

your dreams.

The mirror reflects

a young man's body

dangling

from a rope

and you gasp:

"O, my brother—"

The doctor

finally lets you in,

unlocking the door.

Forbidden to touch you,

he stares straight ahead,

avoiding your curious glance.

"You're partly Egyptian, aren't you?"

The doctor inquires.

You stalk

the dark museum halls

calling out the name

of your dead lover,

the name of a man

unspoken

since the siege of Troy.

"How did you guess?" You growl,

"Do you have to open graves

to find girls

to fall in love with?"

The doctor smiles,

averting his gaze

from your ravaged face.

He longs to trace

your fish scale dress

with his slender fingers.

Montana

scarlet

shameless

Montana,

you stalk

the dark museum halls

in a rage.

Ripping

your satin gloves

to shreds

you pry open

coffins;

reading

between the lines

you decipher

hieroglyphics

on tombs.

"Any message would do,

you say,

tiny jeweled tears

permanently etched

in the corners

of your eyes.

The doctor sighs,

his impotence

ancient

as the curse

that immortalizes him,

the terrible secret

that pursues you.

Montana

on the night

of a full moon

you are a perfumed woman

in a bronze dress

who shatters glass

with a vengeance,

searching in vain

for signs and clues

among the rubies

and emeralds

that litter

museum floors.

THE MUSEUM WORKS FOR SCIENCE

NOT FOR LOOT,

the doctor tells you.

You laugh at his bandaged face,

the sad, smoldering eyes—

the only things visible

beneath the gauze.

"You can't tell the blood

from the paint

splashed on these walls,"

you say with contempt,

reaching out for his arm

in spite of yourself.

He moves away.

"I dislike being touched,"

he whispers,

"pardon me—it's an

Eastern prejudice."

You never see his anguish;

he won't allow it.

His pride

is what keeps him

going.

Exhausted,

you lie amid the rubble.

The mummy

guards your body

and you dream

of straddling

your sleeping lover's back

like a dolphin

you ride underwater

safe

within the confines

of deserted museum halls.

from: Danger and Beauty. Copyright 1993. 

Ordinary Time

 - Tim Dlugos

 

Which are the magic

moments in ordinary

time? All of them,

for those who can see.

That is what redemption

means, I decide

at the meeting. Then

walk with David wearing

his new Yale T-shirt

and new long hair to 103.

Leonard and Eileen come, too.

Leonard wears a shark’s tooth

on a chain around his neck

and long blond hair.

These days he’s the manager

of Boots and Saddles (“Bras

and Girdles,” my beloved

Bobby used to say) and

costumer for the Gay Cable

Network’s Dating Game.

One week the announcer is

a rhinestone cowboy, sequin

shirt and black fur chaps,

the next a leatherman, etc.

Eileen’s crewcut makes

her face light up.

Underneath our hairstyles,

23 years of sobriety, all told—

the age of a girl who’s “not

so young but not so very old,”

wrote Berryman, who flew

from his recovery with the force

of a poet hitting bottom.

It’s not the way I choose

to go out of this restaurant

or day today, and I

have a choice. Wanda

the comedian comes over

to our table. “Call me

wicked Wanda,” she smirks

when we’re introduced.

Why is New York City

awash in stand-up comics

at the least funny point

in its history? Still,

some things stay the same.

People wonder what the people

in their buildings would think

if the ones who were wondering

became incredibly famous,

as famous as Madonna.

Debby Harry lived in Eileen’s

building in the Village

in the early seventies, and she

was just the shy girl

in the band upstairs.

Poets read the writing

of their friends, and

are happy when they like it

thoroughly, when the work’s

that good and the crippling

sense of competition stays away.

Trips get planned: David

home to California, Eileen

to New Mexico, Chris and I

to France and Spain, on vectors

which will spread out

from a single point, like ribs

of an umbrella. Then

after the comfort of a wedge

of blueberry peach pie and cup

of Decaf, sober friends

thread separate ways home

through the maze of blankets

on the sidewalk covered with

the scraps of someone else’s life.

Mine consists of understanding

that the magic isn’t something

that I make, but something

that shines through the things

I make and do and say

the way a brooch or scrap of fabric

shines from the detritus

to catch Leonard’s eye

and be of use for costumes,

when I am fearless and thorough

enough to give it room,

all the room there is in ordinary

time, which embraces all

the people and events and hopes

that choke the street tonight

and still leaves room for everyone

and everything and every

other place, the undescribed

and indescribable, more various

and cacophonous than voice

can tell or mind conceive,

and for the sky’s vast depths

from which they’re all

a speck of light.

From: A Fast Life: The Collected Poems of Tim Dlugos. Copyright 2011.

Lucky

 - Dorothea Tanning

 

Ever imagining the dire, the sudden

the menace with no thought of the

gradual, the lingering itch of whatever.

That was my sister.

A stomach ache had to be diagnosed.

“Oh, come on, it’s no big deal.”

“How do you know? You aren’t me.”

 

At the doctor’s office she waited.

He reached for his stethoscope,

held it to her back and put it away

in his pocket. Then, leaning across

his desk, he asked importantly,

“How long have you been eating your hair?”

She couldn’t answer.

 

After surgery they came into the recovery

room where she had just wakened.

“You are a lucky lady. We found nothing.”

She had an incision and several visitors.

Besides, she was so lucky (incisions heal)

and not a little disgusted.

 

“Me, eating my hair.”

from: Coming to That. Copyright 2011.

Kilt Monday!

'Cause let's face it,

Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.