A Collector of Blues

I found it and I named it, being versed
in taxonomic Latin; thus became
godfather to an insect and its first
describer – and I want no other fame.
Vladimir Nabokov "On Discovering a Butterfly"

He wandered the Hamburg Trail through switchbacks,
along high ridge lines bridging islands of sky.
He crossed over the wind-swept San Pedro Basin
below the Huachucas rising high on the horizon.
He descended onto the moist and cool canyon floor,
along a stream beneath sycamore, maple, and columbine.

Later, perched up on a stool in an adobe tavern
he leaned against the bar and spread before him
the small translucent envelopes, each containing
a different species of butterfly, each a different color,
a different size and dimension. Others were tucked
into a metal Band-Aid box meticulously recorded.

He has chased his little butterflies since a young boy,
first the great white-banded black cheriomukha
in the marshlands beyond the River Oredezh,
hoping one day to capture an unknown Eupithécia,
that delicate creature blending into its environs,
the swamps deep in thick pine groves and scrub alder.
His researches took him to the Grunewald near Berlin,
to Stromovka Park in Prague, to the Bois de Boulogne,
to Le Boulou and the Ariège-Saurat in the south of France.
There he found a new species of lycaenids above Moulinet,
where the cold winds blow at the foot of the Pyrenees.
He explored the English moor country and the Finger Lakes,
and later the high Churicahua Desert above Portal.

One morning armed with a tarlatan bag he netted
a brown and gray-stippled wood-satyr as it skittered
over the banks of a spring-fed stream running
through Ramsey Canyon’s hushed solitude. Quickly
stepping over a succulent carpet of yucca and agave,
with a deft twist of the wrist and the wide sweep
of a gauzy muslin netbag he captured his enigmatic prey.
A brief agonizing moment and the cyllópsis pyracmon
was dispatched with an expert pinch of its humming thorax.
Now it rests in its glazed casing among the many scattered
on a stained wooden bar table. Some of them were similar
to satyrids found farther north, in the Wasatch canyons,
but this one was new; he had never seen one of these before.
Later that evening, in a quiet cottage beyond the canyon;
each relaxed specimen was removed from its small envelope,
each mounted on the setting board in a supine attitude
to display its delicate undersides for careful inspection, .
only its sculptured sex revealing its genus and species.

These discoveries would speak loudly to him in later life,
while climbing among the old vineyards above Montreux.
As in childhood during expeditions beyond Vyra, the Oredezh,
his remaining years were spent in search of soft-winged blues,
before his own life was extinguished by unforgiving fingers
and he joined his little butterflies pinned in sleep under glass.

Pumpkin Tattoo

Here is my most recent poem, written in the waning days of our summer sojourn in Maine.
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PUMPKIN TATTOO

In the portraits of that house, the windows
are eyes or pieces of the soul almost.
Andrew Wyeth

I am feeling autumnal.

Traveling those Pennsylvania back roads
a dozen times or more I wandered over
the Brandywine’s tranquil oxbows,
looking high and low for the Hill Girt Farm,
thinking that October’s flaming cedars
would lead me to that elusive pumpkin patch.
You told me where to go, when to turn
and where. But where was it? I was lost.

It was far easier to find this old house
among Cushing’s saltwater farms,
here on the foggy margin on Hathorn Point.
We stare deep into the St. George River,
studying the subtleties of the blue distant sea,
the smoky approaches of a sou’wester.
It helps having you here this time around, you
who know all the stories of his time here.
You called him Old Bones, he wanted you to,
and you recall him in his younger days when
he would wander these dry, dusty upstairs rooms.
We look through twelve-paned window at the field
where he watched Christina slowly crab-walk
from the small graveyard down on the point, here
to this weather-worn house encased in clapboard,
grown winter gray-scarred and summer burnished.
There, on the point, her bones now find final rest
in hard-scrabble soil through the seasons of forty years.
The day before they buried her he returned here
in January darkness, wandering these empty rooms,
trying hard to ignore the clatter of the jackhammer
opening her frozen grave, perhaps pondering that day
when frost would heave his own bones next to hers.

And now I watch you wandering through the old
and desiccated house, past the long cold Glenwood
stove, beyond the blue door scratched and rub by age,
I see the pumpkin tattoo etched above your tail bone,
the one you wanted since you were a young girl
wandering those Pennsylvania byways in autumn,
reminding me of my own search for Hill Girt Farm,
that pumpkin patch with the haunting faces carved
in stacked jack-o-lanterns, their bright orange slitted
eyes and tilted smiles glowing as if beacons from
beyond that grave down on the point, the old man’s
bones home to rest though his soul still wanders here.
In these darkening upstairs rooms we sit quietly,
together we watch the gentle sea breeze trifle
with the same moldering muslin through which he watched
her drag herself through the summer timothy, with each
hint of wind the dust of eternity settling over us.

Consent of the Governed

We are spending our summer in a small town in Maine. We have been coming here each summer for almost a quarter of a century, yet only now am I beginning to appreciate its wonderful history. In 1736, a group of citizens of Gloucester, Massachusetts petitioned the colonial governor to settle land near the coast in the Province of Maine (it would not become a state until 1822). The petition was granted the following year, and in 1739 a group of settlers cut a road from Yarmouth, on Casco Bay, through the intervale to the headwaters of the Royal River at what is now Sabbathday Lake. A blockhouse fortification and palisades were erected on high ground in 1753-1754 during the French and Indian War. The town of New Gloucester was eventually incorporated in 1774 at a time when the thirteen American colonies were organizing to express dissatisfaction with their treatment by the British crown. Upon incorporation the good people of New Gloucester made it known that it would gladly contribute to the common defense of the united colonies in support of full independence.

So today I went to the town meeting house, dating from circa 1772, where members of the local historical society gathered for a reading of the Declaration of Independence. This commemorates the 235th anniversary of the ratification and announcement of that most eloquent of documents which gave birth to the American republic. Strangely I cannot recall the last time I read it, or heard it read, and I had forgotten how long it is. Sitting there and listening to those words, and contemplating their full meaning and intent, I realized, perhaps for the first time, that there is more to the 4th of July than fireworks, family picnics, and a day off from work. The Declaration of Independence is America in a nutshell. It expresses what we as Americans feel we deserve and why. I had forgotten this until I sat there this morning and listened to what it sounds like when we as a people stand up for what we believe in. I think a lot of us have forgotten what wonderful and beautiful music this can be.

OMG

A BBC commentator based in Washington, DC recently made a farewell visit to some of his favorite haunts in that city before being posted back to the UK. They are all places I know well as a result of living and working in and around our nation’s capital for the past 36 years. He took his trusty tape recorder with him and at one of these establishments he decided to engage some of the people around him in an informal current events quiz. If I had to give this exercise a title it would be “well-informed Brit meets uninformed Americans.” It was a sad testament to an all too common fact. Many, if not most, Americans have very little knowledge (or interest) in the world around them. No, that’s too kind. They have little regard for their immediate surroundings. Asked who George Washington was (and I will remind you he lives and works in the city named in his honor), one individual knew that it was the guy who chopped down a cherry tree. He had no idea that he was the first President of the United States.

Several were asked, if President Obama were to die, who would take his place. One thought it would be his wife, Michelle. Maybe she could do a better job, but still, that is not the correct answer. Another thought that Congress would have to go into a special session to decide who would be most qualified for the job (a thought that is almost scarier than the answer is stupid). Only one individual knew the answer . . . the Vice President. I breathed a sigh of relief until this same person did not know who the VP is. OMG!

When asked who would be next in line should both the president and the vice president (whoever he is) be incapacitated the answers were just as varied. Thanks to Al Haig, a number of individuals thought the Secretary of State is number three in the order of succession. Close, but no cigar. Thankfully, more people did know that the correct response is the Speaker of the House. Unfortunately, only a few knew this person’s name. “Starts with a ‘B’ I think,” one chimed in. “Nancy somebody?” came another response. Another came close. “Boner, right? Isn’t that how you say it?” When the inquiring Brit provided the correct pronunciation, the person added “I don’t know, I think it’s pronounced ‘Boner.’ It sounds better.” Where I might agree with that, it is still just a little distressing to consider that this person, like Mr. Boehner, might be making important decisions that affect my life.

Finally, folks were asked to identify the president of France. Most people just gave an embarrassed giggle and admitted they did not know. Another at least knew that Nicholas Sarkossy is married to a beautiful model. Yet another answered, “Who cares about the French?” I’m betting it was the same dunce who did not know who George Washington was. I’ll say it again . . . OMG!

So why is it that so many Americans are ignorant of the world around them? That is putting it mildly. Perhaps they have become so independent and self-possessed that they seem to have knowledge only of their immediate surroundings; if they can’t see, touch, smell or taste it, why do they need to know about it? Nathan Willis, upon encountering his fellow Americans in Paris during the first half of the 19th century, wrote of their “inquisitive, sensitive, communicative expression which is the index to our national character.” We read and hear how little interest or concern our country’s leaders have for the current state of our education system. Perhaps we are seeing the payoff right here. Americans are taught to believe that our’s is great country, one that others look to as a model. Then how is it that so few of our citizens have any idea how this country really works? What has made us great? I sometimes feel that our leaders see this Ignorance as bliss, or so the old saw goes. Don’t believe it. If we don’t know, it’s our own fault. We should be asking and answering the hard question and not excusing ignorance with a guilty giggle.

After listening to the BBC commentator sign off there was a news story on how both China and India will pass the United States as the world’s top economies by 2030. Did you ever stop to wonder how this might be possible? This goes against everything we were taught to believe about our country and ourselves. Perhaps all you need to do is visit one of your favorite haunts and ask those around you if they know who George Washington is. You might be surprised by the answers you get. Then again, maybe not.

Members Only

Frankly I am getting tired of all the wiener jokes and double entendres in the news lately. It seems like everyone is fixated on male genitalia these days. At the moment, I guess we can point the finger (or whatever) at Anthony Weiner, the now disgraced former member of the House of Representatives from New York, who thought it might be clever to post explicit photographs of Big Jim and the twins on his Twitter account. And what is it about some New York politicians? Who can forget Eliot Spitzer, the disgraced former governor whose own private parts and an affair with a big city grisette got him into hot water. At the same time it launched him into a new career as a CNN commentator which allowed him to offer his own cogent thoughts on Mr. Weiner’s wandering wiener. Does anyone else see the irony here?

And doesn’t the different spelling of the current culprit’s name and the phallic euphemism associated with it bother anyone else? They should not be pronounced the same, yet they are. Following rules of proper German pronunciation, “ei” = “ī” and “ie” = “ē” So not only does Mr. Weiner have a problem keeping his in his pants, he has been mispronouncing his last name for his entire life. Geez!

And what about this “wiener” expression? Do people still use that word today for anything other than a hot dog served at a picnic or the ballpark? I don’t think so. I know my buddies and I used it as kids in the Midwest, and novelist and poet Jim Harrison, who is from Michigan, still uses it occasionally in his writings. But really, I thought that one went out with “winky” and “peter.” I can think of so many more imaginative euphemisms used today, none of which, for the sake of decorum, I will share here. Let me leave this to your imagination, something the media is having trouble with these days.

This is not to say that there have not been a few entertaining items born of this rather sad episode. A columnist in one of our local papers here in Maine addressed the Weiner affair under the title “A Few Wieners short of a BBQ.” I thought that was pretty clever and worth a few chuckles. Probably the best to date, however, is Joel Stein’s “America’s Next Top Weiner,” his very humorous yet bawdy Time magazine exploration of the male’s apparent need to show his penis to everyone based on the results of Stein’s own attempt to follow in Mr. Weiner’s footsteps. He asks if we are “experiencing some kind of sexualized renaissance” or is this just another “pathetic manifestation of the male ego.” Perhaps it is a little of both? Is it the male who is really suffering from penis envy these days?

All in all, given the myriad problems we are facing, I just don’t get all the fuss and fury about a guy who is so cocksure the world would be a better place once it knew how endowed he is. Is this really news? Perhaps Mr. Weiner should have taken a lesson from Gustave Flaubert, the French writer who faced his own demons when it came to keeping it under wraps. In the autumn of 1850, while visiting Cairo, Jerusalem and Beirut, Flaubert availed himself of their many bordellos. Upon his eventual arrival in Istanbul he discovered he was suffering from a raging case of syphilis. He wrote of his “problème” in his journal, including meticulous descriptions of his penis as the disease advanced. When he arrived at a new (for him) brothel in Istanbul, a prostitute asked him to display his compromised phallus in order to prove he was not sick. Flaubert refused. “I acted the monsieur,” he wrote to a friend, “and jumped down from the bed, saying loudly that she was insulting me, that such behavior was revolting to a gentleman.” Now that is class, no? Mr. Weiner, while interested in the role his penis plays in current affairs, could have been just a little more circumspect. It just goes to show you that Mr. Weiner doesn’t know dick.

It's Googleable

This short essay was written for my other blogspot - Looking Toward Portugal - and was posted today. After doing so, I decided I would share it here, as well.
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What a wonderful new word . . . something capable of being found during a Google search, probably the most comprehensive and used Internet search engine. I can think of only very rare occurrences when I have typed in search terms and not come up with a “ghit,” or Google hit, on something even remotely connected to my intended search. The transitive verb “to google” has been used almost since the inception of this search engine and it has become a part of our everyday speech. The American Dialect Society, founded in 1889, called it the “most useful word” in North American English in 2002. In fact it has become synonymous with web searches regardless of which search engine is being used. “Google” has also been incorporated in other phrases having to do with the use of the search engine, such as the frequently used “Google Bomb,” “Googlewashing,” or “Google bowling,” all of which have to do with the intentional high ranking of websites turned up during a Google search. I find this all quite fascinating.

But I must confess that I have not heard the adjective “googleable” used before this weekend, although I guess it makes sense. If you can have a verb, why not an adjective? So I looked into it and sure enough there are folks out there that use this term regularly. There is also the derivative noun “googleability” which is the ease with which information about a person or thing can be found on an Internet search engine (not just through Google).

How did I find this information? By running a Google search of course. Doing so I found literally dozens of googleable words using “google” as a base. Here are a few of my favorites: “Googleheimer’s” - signing on to Google and then forgetting what you were going to google; “googlescrewed” - to look up directions on Google Maps and get lost when you follow them; “googlebator” - someone who googles their own name; and “googlechondria” - looking up your physical symptoms on Google. There are also some Google-based afflictions: “Googlerrhea” - looking up the definition of “Google,”and “Googler’s Remorse” - when you look up something and the search terms gives you results that you neither requested nor want. I will leave that one to your own imagination.

So I really opened up a Pandora’s box, and afraid of coming down with my own version of Googler’s Remorse, I decided to stop while I was ahead. I wonder what search terms folks will have to use for this blog posting to come up? What is its inherent googleability? Do I even want it to be googleable? It’s up to you. Whenever the “googletunity” strikes you.