I’m stunned by the number of bees in our yard. Bees of every shape and size, sampling every flower. The pear tree is the main attraction, but only because it is the most flamboyant, positively exploding with blooms. The bees are not so pear-dazzled that they ignore the dandelions and irises, nor any of the other flowers that vie for their attention.
Bees everywhere. Sparring in the irises. Lurking on the back door handle (ouch!). Patrolling the newly cut grass. Mostly, however, they are in the pear tree.
There’s a varied crop of weeds, should the bees grow weary of pear nectar.
And, should my camera grow tired of bees, there are plenty of other visitors in the yard. I hope these two decide to stay. I would love a nest to watch!
This crocus is a bit late because it had to penetrate the husks of last year’s ginger lilies. Most of my poems happen like this, sprouting in the dark. Pale, nebulous tendrils of urgency. A few die in this phase, too weak to persevere. Others toughen in time, burrowing through sheaves of revision. They emerge with varying degrees of definition and emphasis. The best ones bloom.
One of my recent poems followed a much different course.
A few days ago, I watched part of a program about ancient gods. The segment dealt with Medusa. Later in the day, unable to get Medusa off my mind, I googled her. I chose the first link, which was Wikipedia. Then I clicked another link, and another, and another, straying through topics that eventually had nothing to do with Medusa. I tired of links before I tired of reading, and my mouse wandered into a cache of poetry bookmarks. I soon landed on the vox poetica prompts page.*
The current prompt reverberated for me. Until that moment, my rambling Medusa research had yielded only a vague field of oscillating ideas. The photo collapsed it into a poem particle, which coalesced, with very little input on my part, into “Ceto, in Decline, Calls Out to Medusa”. It’s the rarest type of poem, in my world. One that writes itself and requires only fidgety revisions to clarify meaning and capitalize on sound. (It will remain posted on the prompts page until the prompt changes.)
I’m always delighted by creations, like the Medusa poem, that occur as random accidents. Like this robin photo, which was a mistake, a miscalculation of light that produced an image I could never have planned. I’m happy to live in such a world, where serendipity matters.
* If you aren’t familiar with vox poetica, I recommend setting aside some time to explore. Publisher Annmarie Lockhart is a tireless advocate for poetry and poets. Her website is a treasure. There’s a new poem every day, an archived poemblog, links to her blog talk radio show, and a number of different ways to contribute. If you write poetry, why not submit something?
Dandelions? I’m eternally fascinated with them.
Purple Dead-nettle? I think it’s beautiful
However, even I have limits. Thistles are tough on my bare feet and the dog’s tender toes.
And ants? I don’t mind them in the yard, but they’re never content to stay in the yard. They always want to move into the garage, or the kitchen, or the mailbox…
But it’s good to have limits, isn’t it? Otherwise life would dissolve into a mad, messy carnival of happiness.
Hm.
On the other hand, thistles are quite pretty…
There’s so much going on that it’s hard to know where to look. If I focus my camera on the vultures wheeling overhead, I miss the carpenter bees zooming underfoot. There are crane flies mating and irises blooming and new visitations of wonder in every corner of the yard.
Rae Spencer 