Some readers have noticed that I haven’t been quite as constant, nor, perhaps, as committed to the blog over the last few weeks; I’ll admit that there have been things going on that have distracted me, but hope these are now mostly settling down and I will be able to re-focus.
It might seem likely that not posting as often would mean that when I did eventually sit down to write I’d be brimming with ideas.
Sadly, that’s not the case, so after finding no inspiration from the saint of the day (despite mild amusement at the url ending ‘sod-calendar‘), I turned to Wikipedia to see what it could tell me about August 20th.
Perhaps it’s not surprising that the list of events is full of murders, battles and disasters – these are always more memorable and newsworthy than more positive happenings – but none of them inspired me, so I continued on to the list of births.
I paused when I saw Robert Plant‘s name, but really have nothing to say about him, although the first love of my life was an avid Zeppelin fan and, years ago, for my Capital Letters newspaper column, I did once write a piece entitled Music in the Metro that began:
“And as we wind on down the road, our shadows taller than our soul…” Los acordes de Stairway to Heaven subían por la escalera mecánica del metro and I felt like breaking into song. Of course I didn’t. No one ever does, however popular the song, however good the busker.
The list of deaths were even less inspirational, leaving only a handful of holidays and observances. I scanned them unhopefully, only to reach the final noteworthy on-this-day item on the page and discover that August 20th is world mosquito day.
Since bugs and plants seem to be two of the main focuses of this blog, surely now I must have something to write about?
For a start, I can re-post this poem:
She comes to him at dawn
sweet-nothings him awake
as she nuzzles past his ear
whispering her desire; she tells
how the scent of his sweat
draws her, how she would risk
her life for love of him,
how she yearns to penetrate
the tangled veil of hair and kiss
the occult curve of his neck.
I don’t have any good photos of mosquitoes, but I did get closer to the fly in the top picture:
At dawn, the sprinklers cast
their centrifugal sequins to the sky,
arched and stretched in pirouettes, unfurled
their dervish choreography.
Now starlings stalk the lawns;
they stab at glistening carabids and jab
decisively at quicksilver
caught between blades of grass.
Feeing more positive about writing now, and getting into my stride again, I took another quick skim through the list of births, which revealed another name I might have noted: H P Lovecraft was born on this day in 1890. I suppose I’d better re-post this piece:
At the Gothic fish market
Unlidded Innsmouth eyes
stare at blades that cut
but draw no blood. Pallid flesh
lies cold on marble slabs
seeps from scaling skin.
Next, yet another photograph of a bee and a flower; it’s a recurring theme, but I don’t think I’ve posted this one before:
And finally, a poem I haven’t yet posted here, which combines bugs and plants:
Bright beads of tiger’s eye and jasper gleam
in the incubating dark of the garden bin:
snails ooze upwards, bound to their nest
of rotting green by shimmering umbilicals.
Their cousins lounge under elephant’s ears
or slump like joke-shop turds in the dank
of contoured terracotta; they drape the patio
with chiffon as they feed on twilight pansies.