Note on an Unlikely Birthday 2

Note on an Unlikely Birthday

Happy Birthday



The old man’s muscles, vines
grown tight around a wrinkled trunk,
warning of a smaller crop,
promising richer, darker fruit.

Having fun? he said.
        Well, I...
Fun is good, he said.
It’s medicine against romantics, he said.
The romantics are like the shingles
or the vine louse, he said,
they hurt like hell, they kill the root.
You caught a cold, 
you need the cure, he said.
Have fun.
        Do I know you?
You will, he said.
Happy Birthday

Speaking of Lepidoptera

I wrote a poem a while back called The Would-be Lepidopterist about a guy who might have made something out of himself (as if his self weren't something already) if he hadn't been....well, himself. It was published in this beautiful journal called Off the Coast, a literary review from Maine.

I just found out that Off the Coast used one of its five Pushcart Prize nominations on Lepidopterist. Getting a Pushcart nomination is sort of like getting an associate's degree or getting promoted to buck sergeant, maybe like turning your learner's permit in for a grown-up license. If you weren't sure before, you can now at least say that you're a poet and keep a straight face. (although why you'd want to either say that or keep from giggling is beyond me right now.)

Anyway.

Here's the poem-

The Would-Be Lepidopterist

You would have known more about butterflies
if you had killed them more and watched them less.
If you had used a killing jar and a scalpel and collected
the various, variegated genitalia
of Nymphs and  Satyrs, Blues and Coppers.
You could have been.

But no, you only planted flowers for them to suck
and sheltered the weeds where they laid their eggs
And applauded when you saw them jump into the air
and wink their way along their next performance.
Applauded! (Who the hell were you applauding?)

No eternity for those bugs or you,
Just a messy, scaly, insect stew.
No dry forever on a pin,
Just vanished scale on a dusty wing.


So you don't know much about butterflies,
You even forget their names from time to time.
You can't tell a Painted Lady from an American,
Vanessa cardui from Vanessa whaz-er-name.

All you have left is that stupid, sharp indrawn breath
as you see the Mourning Cloak
(arrogant first-bastard of spring)
spread her wings and pump the April into them
to mark the end of March.

You would have known more about so many things
if you hadn't whooped and danced and shook your fists
as the chrysalis broke and gold wet wings appeared.


•   •

The Super Bowl

Heliconia

You know those heart-warming stories about somebody who's looking at death and gets a wish and wants to live to see the next Super Bowl and then some rich guy stakes him to a ticket and sometime later, march or april, let's say, you hear that the poor bastard croaked and the guy with the slick hair on the local news says "Well, at least he got to see the Packers beat the Steelers." and you try not to throw your shoe at the flat screen because after all, these things cost money?

You do? Good.

Because here's a similar story: Guy's withering away from cancer and cancer meds and he looks sort of like a Peking duck without the shellac and while he's sad about missing the World Series, what he thinks about in those minutes before the pain-killers kick in is that he'll never get back to Butterfly World with its big floppy tropical butterflies pupating and copulating and flopping around in the dappled sunlight and frankly butterflies always made him happy so not seeing them ever again makes him sad as a stand-in for all the sadness of leaving the party while there's still some nectar around and then the son-of-a-bitch doesn't die and he puts on a few pounds and there he is under the netted tent and there's a half dozen owl butterflies manging on brown bananas and a malachite lands on his hat and the woman he's with turns away because at least he got to see butterflies again and you know how grown men can be affected by lepidoptera?

Oh. and there was a day in the Everglades too.