Spider poem

Well, I threatened to post more poems from Vachael Lindsey, didn't I?

You've seen this pic a few weeks ago... but it fits...

The Spider and the Ghost of the Fly

Once I loved a spider

When I was born a fly,

A velvet-footed spider

With a gown of rainbow-dye.

She ate my wings and gloated.

She bound me with a hair.

She drove me to her parlor

Above her winding stair.

To educate young spiders

She took me all apart.

My ghost came back to haunt her.

I saw her eat my heart.

This may be Mr . Lindsey at his best.  On the surface it seems to be a rather dark children's verse.  

Which upsets some people.  For some reason, people are under the impression that childhood is a long period of butterflies and unicorns... but I've recited this to more than a few of my friends kids, and they tend to go, "ewwww" then erupt into delighted giggles.   Face it folks, children are a little bit blood thirsty.

And, by the way, my ability and willingness to recite such ditties has one beneficial side affect.  I'm rarely if ever asked to babysit.  SCORE!

But that's only on the surface.  

This poem isn't about a spider or a fly.  The spider is really a woman, and the fly is the poet.  Nothing eats your heart like a predatory lover.  Or that's my take... what's yours?

verse...

I was digging through an old box, trying to decide what needed to be sold at the flea market, what needed to go to goodwill and what just needed throwing out when I came upon a book I forgot I had... the Norton Book Of Light Verse...

I then forgot all about that stuff and have been sitting here reading old poems that I haven't read in years. Now light verse is that stuff that is fun and sometimes, if you think about it, has a message. It's often looked down upon, but it's usually written by very serious poets who just decided to have some fun. It's also the kind of poetry you liked when you were a kid, but then went to school and they ruined it for you. Most song lyrics would be considered light verse.

By the way, I don't think they've ever published a book called The Anthology of Ponderous Verse... although there's certainly enough of it around to cure insomnia...

here's a couple of my old faves, with a gardening theme...

An Adage

The gardener's rule applies to youth and age;
When young sow 'wild oats', but when old grow sage.
H. J. Byron


Attack Of The Squash People

And thus the people every year
in the valley of humid July
did sacrifice themselves
to the long green phallic god
and eat and eat and eat.

They're coming, they're on us,
the long striped gourds, the silky
babies, the hairy adolescents,
the lumpy vast adults
like the trunks of green elephants.
Recite fifty zucchini recipes!

Zucchini tempura; creamed soup;
saute with olive oil and cumin,
tomatoes, onion; frittata;
casserole of lamb; baked
topped with cheese; marinated;
stuffed; stewed; driven
through the heart like a stake.

Get rid of old friends: they too
have gardens and full trunks.
Look for newcomers: befriend
them in the post office, unload
on them and run. Stop tourists
in the street. Take truckloads
to Boston. Give to your Red Cross.
Beg on the highway: please
take my zucchini, I have a crippled
mother at home with heartburn.

Sneak out before dawn to drop
them in other people's gardens,
in baby buggies at churchdoors.
Shot, smuggling zucchini into
mailboxes, a federal offense.

With a suave reptilian glitter
you bask among your raspy
fronds sudden and huge as
alligators. You give and give
too much, like summer days
limp with heat, thunderstoms
bursting their bags on our heads,
as we salt and freeze and pickle
for the too little to come.
Marge Piercy

I could keep typing these things forever... but I don't want to make huge posts...

So, I kept remembering little pieces of this poem all day, and I could hardly wait to get home to look it up. Don't you hate it when you remember something, but you don't really remember it? This is one that I had to memorise when I was a kid, for extra credit in school or something.

What Grandpa Mouse Said

The moon's a holy owl queen,
She keeps them in a jar
Under her arm till evening,
Then sallies forth to war.

She pours them out upon us.
They hoot with horrid noise
And eat the naughty mousie-girls
And wicked mousie boys.

So climb the moon-vine every night
And too the owl queen pray;
Leave good green cheese by moon-lit trees
For her to take away.

And never squeek, my children,
Nor gnaw the smoke house door;
The owl-queen then will love us,
And send her birds no more.

by Vachel Lindsay

Anyway, this first week back at work has not been the best... I'm really fealing my age here... But the week is over half over, and I'm still standing, so I suppose that amounts to something.

I've been listening to National Public Radio a lot, as I drive around. I figure I might as well keep myself informed. It would appear that they're all predicting that oil will go up to over 200 a barrel. That means that gas will be over $7.00 a gallon. I'm seriously going to have to find another job. And start riding my bike, because I ain't starting that truck for nothing I don't have to.