Another reason to grow parsley

Posted on August 20, 2013 | 4 comments

…or dill or fennel: swallowtail butterflies!

swallowtailcroppedA couple weeks ago, I noticed some swallowtails  winging around the front porch area where I have herbs growing in pots.

“I hope you guys are laying eggs on that parsley,” I told them. It seems that they listened. Last week, I noticed some tiny, black, fuzzy-looking caterpillars, each with a yellow band around its middle, on the parsley. I crossed my fingers and hoped they were what I thought they were. Yesterday, I saw the one above, finally grown into the familiar black-and-green-striped critter with yellow spots.

swallowtailcropped2The second photo shows two younger larvae. The larger of those is less than half the size of the larva featured in the first photo.

Most of the damage to the parsley visible in these pictures was actually the work of grasshoppers, a large number of whom have taken up residence in the front yard. I chased about five off the parsley yesterday before I thought to get my camera. (The droppings on the edge of the pot are theirs.)

Although I would happily forgo fresh parsley for the butterflies, the swallowtail larvae don’t seem to eat that much. I’ve never had a problem sharing with them. The grasshoppers, on the other hand, are not such courteous guests, though I’ve not seen them on the parsley before. I may have to explore ways to discourage them, but I will make certain it is not at the expense of the swallowtails.

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Prompted poetry: overboard

Posted on August 19, 2013 | Leave a comment

Here’s a little something from my journal. I toyed with a different title (Lost at Sea); let me know what you think. I’m also not sure how well the imagery holds up, especially at the end. I would love to know your thoughts on that as well.

Man Overboard

he pressed his lips to the back of her
hand, held her fingers lightly in his
own as he did, lest he telegraph his desire
to clasp them like a lifeline and haul himself
kiss over kiss up the length of her arm
to salvation

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Found poetry: Judy

Posted on August 7, 2013 | 2 comments

While trolling the gift shop at the Mark Twain House in Hartford, Connecticut, earlier this summer, I found a table of books marked down to half price. Exercising nearly superhuman restraint, I only bought two titles, one of which was The Last Days of Dogtown by Anita Diamant.  Near the end of the book, the following passage jumped out at me as something that might make a fair poem. Let me know what you think…

When Judy returned to the empty
house, she clapped her hands
at the pleasure of having it all

to herself again. She moved
her clothes back upstairs to the high
ceilings and windows she’d missed

all summer, and then strolled through the quiet
rooms, stopping in the library, where she emptied
the dregs of the Judge’s sherry into a crystal glass, put up

her feet, and watched the sunset
turn the harbor into a pink punch
bowl. The great clock ticked while

the gulls became black apostrophes
against the line of one endless lavender
cloud that stretched to the horizon.

– Anita Diamant, The Last Days of Dogtown, pp. 248-9 (2006 trade paper edition, Scribner 2005)

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Prompted poetry: photo caption

Posted on July 25, 2013 | 2 comments

I subscribe via e-mail to The Write Prompts. On Image Tuesdays, the e-mail I receive only contains the photo’s caption; I have to click the link to see the actual image. A couple weeks ago, the caption by itself suggested a poem. I finally looked at the photo when I went back to revise the poem, and found exactly what I needed to make it work. Here’s to creative captions!

blue water fountain stone
garden palms heavy
fruited lemons

water falling soft
sound of sighing
stirs leaves and oleander

scented twilight glowing
salmon deepens blue water
fountain stone garden

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Dream poetry: The best medicine

Posted on July 20, 2013 | 2 comments

This was inspired by a dream I had last week. I woke to my alarm in the middle of the dream, and its disturbed feeling stayed with me until I had time to sit down and write about it. As I recorded the dream, I saw patterns that very nearly reversed my initial perceptions, so that I ended up feeling very positive about it. I guess maybe I’m one of those irritating glass-half-full people.

The Best Medicine

A technician arrives to put in
the IV. Cancer, the doctors say.
Five tubes of thick, red poison
wait in a tray. The rubber strap snaps
around my upper arm; cool fingertips press
the crook of my elbow, my wrist,
the back of my hand. I look away, cold
with fear and anger. The bee sting of entry
barely registers, but slashing pain seconds later draws
unwilling sound from my throat. The tech pulls
the needle, bandages purpling flesh, murmurs
apology, avoids my eyes. She puts
her arms around me and I see
she is crying.

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Another garden poem

Posted on July 15, 2013 | 6 comments

I’m not sure what it is about gardening that brings out the rhyme and meter in me, but it seems to have happened again. (Previous effort: Garden delights.)

Response to the gardener’s proposal

Do not speak to me of roses
rooted in a garden fair:
I would rather hear of meadows
and the thistles growing there.

Do not talk of ordered orchards
laid in rows all long and neat:
I would rather dream of wildwood
overgrown with bittersweet.

If marriage be a stately garden,
it were all too mild and tame:
measured beds with well-marked borders
hedged and trimmed to look the same.

I prefer a reckless corner
riotous with self-sown seeds,
tended with unbound affection
and a fondness for glorious weeds.

*     *     *

A question, dear reader: Do you prefer it laid out as above or below?

Response to the gardener’s proposal

Do not speak to me of roses rooted in a garden fair:
I would rather hear of meadows and the thistles growing there.

Do not talk of ordered orchards laid in rows all long and neat:
I would rather dream of wildwood overgrown with bittersweet.

If marriage be a stately garden, it were all too mild and tame:
measured beds with well-marked borders hedged and trimmed to look the same.

I prefer a reckless corner riotous with self-sown seeds,
tended with unbound affection and a fondness for glorious weeds.

*     *     *

I like the visual weight of the four-line stanzas, but worry that it may interfere with reading, which should be phrased as two lines. What do you think?

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Found poetry: Maya

Posted on July 12, 2013 | 2 comments

I’ve been reading (and thoroughly enjoying) Starhawk’s novel Walking to Mercury. Several passages jumped out for me the other day, and as I copied them into my journal I found myself breaking the lines to make them into poems. (Maya is the name of the main character in the novel.)

***

Maybe this world is a thigh bone
trumpet, a temple horn through
which compassion calls. When we
respond, miracles happen.

– Maya, p. 412

***

Dead, he could have been anything
we wanted him to be. But alive, he was always
a small danger, a continual secret that we had
to bury, lest he turn up and turn into something
we didn’t expect and couldn’t cope with.

– Maya, p. 415

***

That’s why human beings were harder to love
than mountains, she thought. People were always
constructing themselves, using each other

as blue prints and foils and mirrors. Mountains were just
mountains, high or low, craggy or rounded,
forested or bare. They formed themselves

not in relationship to some ideal but in response
to real things: the shifting of the earth’s
plates, the pressure of molten lava, the action

of wind and rain and running water.

– Maya, p. 416

(all quotes from Walking to Mercury by Starhawk, 1997 Bantam edition)

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Sweet surprise

Posted on July 9, 2013 | 4 comments

For me, one of the great joys of blogging has been the other people I meet through the blogosphere. The nature of these relationships is inherently paradoxical: casual and intermittent, depending on the frequency of posting and reading, while at the same time affording moments of personal revelation over an extended period of time.

For a little while now I’ve been following Jnana’s Red Barn, the blog of an interesting man who is in turn deeply interested in life. This comes across in his poetry, his photographs, the books and blogs he talks about, the comments and observations he makes about the world. I’ve come to respect him as much as I enjoy his blog, which is to say considerably. So I am greatly honored that he nominated me for the Super Sweet Blogging Award. Thank you again, Jnana!

sweet-bloggerAccording to the rules of accepting this honor, I must now answer Five Super Sweet Questions:

  • Cookies or cake? Or both? I’ve become increasingly particular about sweets in my middle age, and given the disappointing nature of an awful lot of baked goods out there, I choose door number three: pie (especially black-bottom banana pie from Missy’s!)
  • Chocolate or vanilla? I’ve also become a chocolate snob, preferring to go without if it’s not very, very dark. So unless it’s 80% cocao or better, give me vanilla.
  • Favorite sweet treat? I’m less into sweet than I am into flavor, so anything more flavorful than it is sweet gets my vote. (See note about chocolate above.)
  • When do you crave sweet things the most? When I have a good strong cup of coffee to wash it down with.
  • Sweet nickname? Mamacita, because it was bestowed on me at Epcot by Crush, the turtle from Finding Nemo.

Next I must nominate a baker’s dozen other bloggers for this award. This was much more difficult than it seems, because I know of so many wonderful blogs. After several days of feckless dithering, here they are, in no particular order:

  • cozywalls, where I have discovered some of the most amazing recipes ever (not to mention some lovely photography)
  • FlourWaterYeast&Salt, where my dear friend Murphala talks about bread-baking, cheese-making, soap-caking, guitar-breaking, and dogs. Oh, and Tom Petty.
  • Baker Bettie, where I have discovered more amazing recipes and marvelous photography. (She’s really into cookies.)
  • Velveteen Rabbi, where Reb Rachel lets us run with her through motherhood, poetry, Torah, and other blessed cycles in our lives.
  • My Pajama Days, where Emily shares the trials and triumphs of parenting, plus the discoveries and difficulties of moving gracefully on from one part of life to the next.
  • Notes from Rumbly Cottage is one of my favorite sources of movie reviews and suggestions. I’ve also picked up recipes, craft ideas, gardening tips, and other bits of everyday wisdom there, too.
  • Eggton for recipes, true stories that make me laugh out loud, clever videos, and Thunder. (I came for the recipes, but I stayed for the Thunder.)
  • Shawn L. Bird for delightful poetry, thoughts/tips/ideas about writing, and occasional harp music.
  • Adventures in Beeland, where I have learned about beekeeping, kept abreast of what’s blooming in west London, and gotten to vicariously enjoy tea and cakes now and then.
  • Tarot in a Teacup, where I have discovered both lovely decks and interesting spreads, and get to see glimpses of summer in the depths of winter. (Monica blogs from New Zealand.)
  • Bridget’s Fire for eclectic spiritual exploration and thoughts on intentional living, parenting, and leaving our comfort zones, with a bit of Celtic flavor.
  • Multimedia Meditations for movie reviews, cultural commentary, and life observations that are marvelously off the beaten path.

Now I’m off to notify my nominees. I hope you enjoy reading their blogs!

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A wee tiny collection

Posted on July 5, 2013 | 4 comments

I apologize for my absence; a family health issue in a neighboring state has required a great deal of my time the last couple weeks. I’ve been writing, though not as much as I would have liked, but haven’t caught up enough to post anything. Until now, that is. So in a feeble attempt to atone somewhat for this lack of activity, I hereby offer a few silly bits from my journal.

*     *     *

(inspired by the prompt “favor”)

Invitation

The favor of your presence
is required at a dinner to honor
Her Majesty Claire,
Queen of Denial.
Formal attire expected; gifts
are not optional.

*     *     *

(inspired by the prompt “evidence”)

Deniable Plausability

All evidence to the contrary,
I am not the one
who stole your bagel.
Those are not crumbs on my
lapel; I suffer from an unfortunate
scalp condition.

*     *     *

(inspired by a dream)

Blooming

Too old to be a blushing bride
(and, let’s face it, a bit
too experienced) she thought
something in cream would be tasteful
without pretension. Then she spied
the pink linen two-piece: skirt just
at the knees, jacket edged with elegant
black scrollwork. Beside it hung
a pink shell of silk the barest
tint more pale.

And the shoes! low leather
pumps in matching pink, embroidered
at the collar with that intricate
black motif. It was perfect, warm
with a touch of worldliness.
She wondered how it had ended
up in her closet.

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Forgiveness: the drafting process

Posted on June 12, 2013 | Leave a comment

I drafted a poem the other day in response to the prompt “forgiveness,” and the way it unfolded/evolved in my notebook was kind of interesting. It is my hope that you will find it mildly interesting, too.

the way your teeth sink
into the flesh of a mango ripe
the skin yielding
mango, the skin yielding
without protest
the

***

your teeth sink
into the fleshy ripeness
of a mango         the skin yields
unprotesting before the sweetness
dribbles down your throat
and over your chin
trickles down the back
of your throat         dribbles
over your chin to stain the neck
of your t-shirt

***

your teeth sink
through the fleshy ripeness
of a mango         the skin yields
unprotesting before the sweetness
trickles down the back
of your throat         dribbles
over your chin to stain
the neck of your t-shirt

***

your teeth sink
through the fleshy ripeness
the skin yields
unprotesting before the sweetness
trickles down the back
of your tongue, dribbles
over your chin to stain
the throat of your shirt

***

your teeth sink through fleshy
ripeness as skin yields
unprotesting before the sweetness
trickles along the back
of your tongue, dribbles
down your chin to pool
at the base of your throat

***

teeth sink through fleshy
ripeness as skin yields
unprotesting before the sweetness
trickles along the back
of the tongue and dribbles
down the chin to pool
at the base of the throat

***

teeth sink through fleshy
ripeness as skin yields
unprotesting before sweetness
trickles along back
of tongue and dribbles
down chin to pool
at base of throat

***

Forgiveness

teeth sink through fleshy
ripeness as skin yields
unprotesting before sweetness
trickles along back
of tongue and dribbles down
to pool at base of throat

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