~Blossomtime in grayscale~
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The remnants of Ida are rambling through the lowcountry tonight - bringing with it some much appreciated rain and warm winds. The oh-so delicate Pointer Sisters are refusing to go outside - I suppose that Annabelle Lee has a reasonable excuse, especially after her three hour escape through the fence this morning into the woods and marshes that border my neighborhood - and I suppose that the Dan's excuse is that she is still pouting that she didn't manage to escape herself. Honestly, sometimes it feels like keeping the Pointer Sisters in line is a full-time job.
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With Katherine not physically present in the laboratory during this challenging wartime period, the flow of poetry into our routine science days has lessened - so tonight I was happy to receive an email from her regarding a poetry reading this Friday evening that is part of The Poetry Society of South Carolina's Monthly Programs. Once again she introduced a new poet (a musician poet in fact) to me, Doug Van Gundy, who resides in West Virginia and teaches at West Virginia Wesleyan. I think I will try and attend his reading Friday evening - and hopefully he will read the poem below, a poem which includes a line about that time in the evening when the dog is unable to find her ball in the grass near oaks - a time that Annabelle Lee and I are quite familiar with.
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The Back Yard by Twilight by Doug Van Gundy
when the golden light of summer has climbed
to the top of the abandoned building next door
and all of the neighborhood
cats have slinked from inside
the woodpile beneath the back porch
and the cicadas and katydids
and grey tree frogs begin advertising
in the cacophonous personals section of the woodlot
and the dog can no longer
find his ball in the tall grass
at the edge of the darkening oaks
and citronella wafts across the crabgrass and mingles
with the lingering smell from the deep fryer
at the diner at the bottom of the hill
and the air grows heavy and moist
and the sound of the traffic on the
four-lane takes on a veiled quality
and the blue-white of the sun
is reflected in a satellite’s
long aching arc across the sky
and the windows open
and the box fan comes on
and the neighbor’s coon hound catches
the scent of something toothy & wild
and sounds his dutiful alarm
and the faint bruised smell of a skunk comes on
with the throw of the same switch
that turns on all of the fireflies
and the early windfall apples
fall without any wind at all.
(you can listen to Gundy read this poem here)
[This poem first appeared in Ecotone, Volume 3, Number 2, 2008]