The Death of a Naturalist
by Seamus Heaney
All year the flax-dam festered in the heart
Of the townland; green and heavy headed
Flax had rotted there, weighted down by huge sods.
Daily it sweltered in the punishing sun.
Bubbles gargled delicately, bluebottles
Wove a strong gauze of sound around the smell.
There were dragonflies, spotted butterflies,
But best of all was the warm thick slobber
Of frogspawn that grew like clotted water
In the shade of the banks. Here, every spring
I would fill jampotfuls of the jellied
Specks to range on window sills at home,
On shelves at school, and wait and watch until
The fattening dots burst, into nimble
Swimming tadpoles. Miss Walls would tell us how
The daddy frog was called a bullfrog
And how he croaked and how the mammy frog
Laid hundreds of little eggs and this was
Frogspawn. You could tell the weather by frogs too
For they were yellow in the sun and brown
Then one hot day when fields were rank
With cowdung in the grass the angry frogs
Invaded the flax-dam; I ducked through hedges
To a coarse croaking that I had not heard
Before. The air was thick with a bass chorus.
Right down the dam gross bellied frogs were cocked
On sods; their loose necks pulsed like sails. Some hopped:
The slap and plop were obscene threats. Some sat
Poised like mud grenades, their blunt heads farting.
I sickened, turned, and ran. The great slime kings
Were gathered there for vengeance and I knew
That if I dipped my hand the spawn would clutch it.
by Albrecht Dürer
The Cleveland Museum of Art
by Jane Yeh
We meet under the stars, touch noses
In the dark. Our secret greeting.
Our nocturnal meetings are brief, but friendly.
Sometimes I pretend to be asleep.
We really aren’t
The loners you think. We snort and cluck
When we’re together. Our private conversation.
The enchilada of Africa—the whole
Kalahari—is our kitchen.
I’m only interesting to smaller males.
We’re not in a hurry
To copulate. I swing my head from side to side,
Then run away. It’s called flirting.
Our dusty hides are thick, but sensitive.
I capture bugs by accident in my teeth.
By day we don’t gather,
Just do our own thing. I poke my nose
In a mud hole, splash around in my piss.
I’d rather not have a bath
If I can help it. My powerful smell.
As I speak. One by one, we go missing
From the bare savannah.
Above, the high sky.
Our canopy, our heaven.
The New York Review of Books, May 26, 2016
Filed under Images, Love, Poems
Having a Coke with You
by Frank O’Hara
is even more fun than going to San Sebastian, Irún, Hendaye, Biarritz, Bayonne
or being sick to my stomach on the Travesera de Gracia in Barcelona
partly because in your orange shirt you look like a better happier St. Sebastian
partly because of my love for you, partly because of your love for yoghurt
partly because of the fluorescent orange tulips around the birches
partly because of the secrecy our smiles take on before people and statuary
it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still
as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it
in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth
between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles
and the portrait show seems to have no faces in it at all, just paint
you suddenly wonder why in the world anyone ever did them
at you and I would rather look at you than all the portraits in the world
except possibly for the Polish Rider occasionally and anyway it’s in the Frick
which thank heavens you haven’t gone to yet so we can go together the first time
and the fact that you move so beautifully more or less takes care of Futurism
just as at home I never think of the Nude Descending a Staircase or
at a rehearsal a single drawing of Leonardo or Michelangelo that used to wow me
and what good does all the research of the Impressionists do them
when they never got the right person to stand near the tree when the sun sank
or for that matter Marino Marini when he didn’t pick the rider as carefully
as the horse
it seems they were all cheated of some marvelous experience
which is not going to go wasted on me which is why I am telling you about it
[Nicely illustrated here by Nathan Gelgud.]
by Davis McCombs
The bees were working the contents
of the fenced-in metal trash bin,
zigging and scribbling past the goo
of candy wrappers and the sticky rims
of dented cans, entering, as they might
a blossom, the ketchup-smeared burger
boxes and the mold-fuzzed, half-eaten
fruity snack packs, those food-grade waxes
mingling with Band-Aids and a limp
“We’re #1” foam finger while on top
of the disposable wet mop redolent of solvents
and fresheners the F.D.&C. Red No. 40
nontoxic food pigment leaked
from a bloated dip packet where the bees
were buzzing and collecting the high-fructose
corn nectars of that uncompacted jumble
and returning, smudged with the dust
of industrial pollens, to, perhaps, some
rusted tailpipe hive where their queen
grew fat on the froth of artificial sweeteners
out back of the little oily gas station
in the middle of Arkansas where we pulled off
to change the baby’s diaper and had to ask
for the key they kept on a giant ring.
August 3, 2015, The New Yorker
Filed under Bagatelle, Poems