Poetry Sunday: Monarchs, Viceroys, Swallowtails by Robert Hedin

For many years, my garden was a haven for butterflies of many kinds. Monarchs, queens, viceroys, swallowtails of various kinds, buckeyes, red admirals, sulphurs, skippers - they all came in good numbers. Walking into the backyard at any time of day and any time of year would almost guarantee an encounter with some species of butterfly. But things have changed in the past couple of years. There's been lots of construction going on and the neighborhood has changed but is that the reason that I don't see as many butterflies as before? Or is there some even more sinister reason? The flowers and the trees are still there, waiting. And I, the gardener, am waiting and hoping for their return.

Monarchs, Viceroys, Swallowtails

by Robert Hedin

For years they came tacking in, full sail,

Riding the light down through the trees,

Over the rooftops, and not just monarchs,

But viceroys, swallowtails, so many

They became unremarkable, showing up

As they did whether we noticed them or not,

Swooping and fanning out at the bright

Margins of the day. So how did we know

Until it was too late, until they quit coming,

That the flowers in the flower beds

Would close their shutters, and the birds

Grow so dull they’d lose the power to sing,

And how later, after the river died,

Others would follow, admirals, buckeyes,

All going off like some lavish parade

Into the great overcrowded silence.

And no one bothered to tell the trees

They wouldn’t be coming back any more,

The huge shade trees where they used

To gather, every last branch and leaf sagging

Under the bright freight of their wings.

Poetry Sunday: Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver

How about we share another Mary Oliver poem? After all, you can never have too many of those. In this one, the poet seems to acknowledge that it is often hard to simply live in and enjoy the moment, perhaps because we are afraid it can't last. She urges us to give in to that moment and fully experience the joy. Although "much can never be redeemed, still, life has some possibility left." Don't Hesitate by Mary Oliver If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don’t hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still, life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches or power in the world. It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins. Anyway, that’s often the case. Anyway, whatever it is, don’t be afraid of its plenty. Joy is no...

Poetry Sunday: Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney

My mother was a farm wife and a prodigious canner. She canned fruit and vegetables from the garden, even occasionally meat. But the best thing that she canned, in my opinion, was blackberry jam. Even as I type those words my mouth waters! Of course, before she could make that jam, somebody had to pick the blackberries. And that somebody was quite often named Dorothy. I think Seamus Heaney might have spent some time among the briars plucking those delicious black fruits as well, so he would have known that "Once off the bush the fruit fermented, the sweet flesh would turn sour." They don't keep; you have to get that jam made in a hurry! Blackberry-Picking by Seamus Heaney Late August, given heavy rain and sun For a full week, the blackberries would ripen. At first, just one, a glossy purple clot Among others, red, green, hard as a knot. You ate that first one and its flesh was sweet Like thickened wine: summer's blood was in it Leaving stains upon the tongue and lust ...

Poetry Sunday: Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman

You probably remember poet Amanda Gorman from her appearance at the inauguration of President Biden. She read her poem "The Hill We Climb" on that occasion. After the senseless slaughter in Uvalde this week, she was inspired to write another poem which was published in The New York Times. It seemed perfect for the occasion and so I stole it in order to feature it here, just in case you didn't get a chance to read it in the Times . Hymn for the Hurting by Amanda Gorman Everything hurts, Our hearts shadowed and strange, Minds made muddied and mute. We carry tragedy, terrifying and true. And yet none of it is new; We knew it as home, As horror, As heritage. Even our children Cannot be children, Cannot be. Everything hurts. It’s a hard time to be alive, And even harder to stay that way. We’re burdened to live out these days, While at the same time, blessed to outlive them. This alarm is how we know We must be altered — That we must differ or die, That we must triumph or try. ...

The Nature of Things

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