Sunday, March 20, 2011

Astrophysics and Romance


It’s over. Thank the good Lord, the sun, the earth, and astrophysics. Good riddance to winter. Welcome to the vernal equinox.

I am finished mourning and protesting. You don’t want to know what happened last week to shut me up. But three women ~ young, middle-aged, and elder ~ snapped me out of it.

On this first day of spring, we have no sun in the sky here, in the woodlands and green hills of pastoral California, just lovely rain. We get our water from an aquifer beneath us. It takes good rains to replenish what people and vineyards use, but we have dry years. We’re gluttons for rain.

Every spring when I was growing up, my father, who was raised by these people:

would tell me, “Spring is sprung, the grass is ris. I wonder where the flowers is.” I looked up the verse this week and learned my dad had created his own version of a poem by the poet Anonymous that was popular in the 1950s.

Out of respect for our blog friend Monkey Man, who invented the Sunday 160 (a profound message in 160 characters), I present here a version that fits his pentameters.

Spring is sprung, the grass is ris.
I wonder where the birdies is.
The poets say in Spring
The bird is on the wing,
But ain’t that absurd?
The wing is on the bird.

I’ll kill a bird with two stones today and include a poem ticket for the Totalfeckineejit’s Poetry Bus. Our guest driver, Uiscebot (how do you pronounce that?), instructs us to abide by his pentameters: write in some new place, no rhyming, and less than 40 lines. The strange travelogue is here: http://theblogsthejob.blogspot.com/

Thanks to an early-morning weather report in the newspaper, I went all the way up to the jet stream for a visit. It was either that or tell you about my new experience with guided meditation. Be glad I chose the weather.

The Weather Man

He said the jet stream is a tubular ribbon
of wind blowing 100 miles per hour
maybe five or six miles over my head,
and I wondered, is that why I hear
that buzzing in my ear when I think
of the black mustache under your nose?

He said a cold front is a wave of energy
sweeping away from the core of the storm,
and I felt a white-hot wave of energy
sweep away from my core as your
black mustache smiled there,
and this I remembered as he said cold
and core and sweep and storm.

He said the jet stream flows like a giant
wave undulating from west to east
for thousands of miles, and I marveled
that my head could contain it all,
the knowledge of your mustache
and your nose like an eagle’s beak,
his speech a buzzing in my ear
and the jet stream of life circling
over my head and under my toes.





Painting by my friend Denise Schryver

18 comments:

Brian Miller said...

hahaha...i love the second one...too funny...i have seen a few funny moustaches in my day as well...a fun mix with the jst stream as well...and of course the wing is on the bird...what a violent people to think otherwise, you have to watch those poets....happy sunday!

bodhirose said...

I think this is my first visit here. I love your cute 160 and enjoyed your description of the jet stream too. It is pretty amazing when you stop and think about it...

Thanks for sharing.

Terra said...

How good you have 3 women friends of differing ages to "snap you out of" a blue streak.

e said...

Lovely poetry. I hope you'll enjoy Spring!

Jingle said...

awesome,

spring is in the air,
everything makes lovely stir...

enjoyed your Sunday 160.

Monkey Man said...

That was a great 160. Love the light humor. Thanks for playing and making the Sunday 160 a part of your terrific post today.

The Bug said...

I loved both of these - but especially the mustache one. It reminds me of conferences I've attended where the speaker's personal mannerisms overwhelmed the material that was being delivered :)

Pheromone Girl said...

The painting is beautiful, I keep being drawn back to it.

I really enjoyed your 160.

Enchanted Oak said...

Ha! The weater man is not the one with the mustache. That belongs to the person called You.
And I wondered if maybe the poem was a little too intimate.

izzy said...

Love it! what a combination of images-
I miss weathermen mentioning the Jet stream.It used to really help me plan for my animals up against weather!
They smell weather fronts coming...now adays I might feel them! thanks!

Kavita said...

hehehhe.. i loved your 160!! so true.. it's the wing that's on the bird.. no? Literally, and figuratively too... :)
Poets are funny people ;-)

Dianne said...

two poems in one day, and a 160 to boot. how did you get off your pity pot? I'm told volunteering and continuing to work helps treat the blues. But then you are too busy to DEAL with it.

I need to start writing again, it took all my free time just to read one blog. yours. Great to hear you read. I LOVE the painting, such light and wind in it.
happy fatted ewes and rutted rams.
Di

RNSANE said...

I had a tablemate on a southeast Asia cruise, once, whose moustache was incredible. We knew him as "Handlebar Hank" and that described his moustache. It was really something - I could not stop looking at it. He looked like every villain I'd ever seen in those childhood cowboy movies!

I'm glad you haven't washed away down there on the Central Coast, Chris. It's been very wet up here...the reservoir look near to overflowing!

TechnoBabe said...

I like the painting by your friend. Particularly the sky colors.
I am interested in the buzzing in the ear when you think of the mustache. I know why I would think of it how it affects me, just wondering about you.

Zed said...

Beautiful. My dad also had his own version of 'Spring has sprung" He is 88 now and still does it yearly. Autumn has just peeped over the mountain here and I am forever grateful for the change in the weather. Glad you are starting to smile again. Zed xx (justnotliketheothers.blogspot.com)

Karen said...

Not too intimate, Chris. Just right! You've made this prompt hour own. Good to hear you're doing better.

Syd said...

It has sprung here for sure. Like your dad's poem.

Marla said...

Well, heck yeah, I want to know the story of the three women who shut you up.

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