Selected Poems and Songs, by Robert Burns

I am by no means a poet nor am I a connoisseur of poetry.  I have posted here before works by Robert Frost as, from time to time, I do appreciate a good poem.  It's important to slow down sometimes and take in the world around us, isn't it?

This past spring, I spent some time with another poetic Bob:  Robert Burns (Scotland, mid-late 1700s).  Overall, I have to say that I enjoy Frost more than Burns due, in no small part, to the fact that I can understand his writing better...literally.  American Frost always writes in English whereas Scottish Burns writes sometimes in English, sometimes in his native Scottish dialect.

For those of you who haven't seen or aren't familiar with Scots, consider the classic New Year's anthem, Auld Lang Syne (by Robert Burns).  Do any of you have an effing clue what that song is about?  Probably not, but I'll give you a hint:  it is a nostalgic piece about a time long past (or, for those of you familiar with my niece/goddaughter, "a long day ago").

Fortunately, the publication that I read included a Scots-English glossary in the back, but flipping back and forth in an already hefty volume made for rather cumbersome reading.  I didn't actually finish the entire book but, to be fair, I probably wouldn't have anyway.  I can't read a book of poetry cover to cover, can you?

I picked a few poems to read here and there throughout this publication, but three stood out to me.  I'll share these with you here:

A POET'S WELCOME TO HIS LOVE-BEGOTTEN DAUGHTER
The first instance that entitled him to the venerable appellation of Father

[Context:  Burns wrote this poem after the birth of his first child -a daughter named Elizabeth- who was born out of wedlock.  He had rather a notorious reputation as a floozy but, despite being the product of such scandalous actions of the day, Burns adored his baby girl.  Sadly, he never married her mother and baby Elizabeth was eventually raised by Burns's mother, after her (Elizabeth's) own parents married other people.  Nevertheless, as a weathered parent myself, I found this poem to be rather sweet and touching as it was written by a young, brand-new dad...and some things never change with the passing of the centuries.]

Thou's welcome, wean; mishanter fa' me,
If thoughts o' thee, or yet thy mammie,
Shall ever daunton me or awe me,
My sweet wee lady,
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me
Tyta or daddie.

Tho' now they ca' me fornicator,
An' tease my name in countra clatter,
The mair they talk, I'm kend the better,
E'en let them clash;
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter
To gie ane fash.

Welcome! my bonie, sweet, wee dochter,
Tho' ye come here a wee unsought for,
And tho' your comin' I hae fought for,
Baith kirk and queir;
Yet, by my faith, ye're no unwrought for,
That I shall swear!

Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint,
My funny toil is no a' tint,
Tho' thou cam to the warl' asklent,
Which fools may scoff at;
In my last plack thy part's be in't
The better ha'f o't.

Tho' I should be the waur bestead,
Thou's be as braw and bienly clad,
And thy young years as nicely bred
Wi' education,
As onie brat o' wedlock's bed,
In a' thy station.

Wee image o' my bonie Betty,
As fatherly I kiss and daut thee,
As dear and near my heart I set thee
Wi' as gude will
As a' the priests had seen me get thee
That's out o' hell.

Lord grant that thou may aye inherit
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit,
An' thy poor, worthless daddy's spirit,
Without his failins,
'Twill please me mair to see thee heir it,
Than stockit mailens.

For if thou be what I wad hae thee,
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee,
I'll never rue my trouble wi' thee -
The cost nor shame o't,
But be a loving father to thee,
And brag the name o't.

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND (MAY 1786)

[Context:  Advice to a young friend named Andrew Hunter Aiken, the son of another recipient of Burns's poetry dedications (Robert Aiken, The Cotter's Saturday Night).  Burns demonstrates a familiarity with other literary works in this poem, including a reference to Shakespeare's Hamlet.  Offering counsel to a friend that we, looking in the proverbial rearview mirror, might give to our own, younger selves.]

I Lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend, A something to have sent you, Tho' it should serve nae ither end Than just a kind memento: But how the subject-theme may gang, Let time and chance determine; Perhaps it may turn out a sang: Perhaps turn out a sermon. Ye'll try the world soon, my lad; And, Andrew dear, believe me, Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, And muckle they may grieve ye: For care and trouble set your thought, Ev'n when your end's attained; And a' your views may come to nought, Where ev'ry nerve is strained. I'll no say, men are villains a'; The real, harden'd wicked, Wha hae nae check but human law, Are to a few restricked; But, Och! mankind are unco weak, An' little to be trusted; If self the wavering balance shake, It's rarely right adjusted! Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, Their fate we shouldna censure; For still, th' important end of life They equally may answer; A man may hae an honest heart, Tho' poortith hourly stare him; A man may tak a neibor's part, Yet hae nae cash to spare him. Aye free, aff-han', your story tell, When wi' a bosom crony; But still keep something to yoursel', Ye scarcely tell to ony: Conceal yoursel' as weel's ye can Frae critical dissection; But keek thro' ev'ry other man, Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love, Luxuriantly indulge it; But never tempt th' illicit rove, Tho' naething should divulge it: I waive the quantum o' the sin, The hazard of concealing; But , Och! it hardens a' within, And petrifies the feeling! To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, Assiduous wait upon her; And gather gear by ev'ry wile That's justified by honour; Not for to hide it in a hedge, Nor for a train attendant; But for the glorious privilege Of being independent. The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, To haud the wretch in order; But where ye feel your honour grip, Let that aye be your border; Its slightest touches, instant pause Debar a' side-pretences; And resolutely keep its laws, Uncaring consequences. The great Creator to revere, Must sure become the creature; But still the preaching cant forbear, And ev'n the rigid feature: Yet ne'er with wits profane to range, Be complaisance extended; An atheist-laugh's a poor exchange For Deity offended! When ranting round in pleasure's ring, Religion may be blinded; Or if she gie a random sting, It may be little minded; But when on life we're tempest driv'n A conscience but a canker - A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, Is sure a noble anchor! Adieu, dear, amiable youth! Your heart can ne'er be wanting! May prudence, fortitude, and truth, Erect your brow undaunting! In ploughman phrase, "God send you speed," Still daily to grow wiser; And may ye better reck the rede, Then ever did th' adviser!

NINE INCH WILL PLEASE A LADY

[Context: Y'all know what this is about. I couldn't believe my eyes when I saw this amidst beautiful works like the previous two samples I've given, but there aren't a lot of ways to interpret this...declaration. Anyway, I couldn't stop laughing because bros be bro-ing, since time immemorial.]

Come rede me, dame, come tell me, dame,
My dame, come tell me truly,
What length o' graith, when weel ca'd hame,
Will ser'e a woman duly?
The carlin clew her wanton tail,
Her wanton tail sae ready;
I learn't a sang in Annandale,
Nine inch will please a lady.

But for a countrie cunt like mine,
In sooth we're nae sae gentle;
We'll tak' twa thumb-bread to the nine,
And that's a sonsie pintle.
O leeze me on my Charlie lad!
I'll ne'er forget my Charlie!
Twa roarin' handfu' and a daud,
He nidg't it in fu' rarely.

But weary fa' the laithern doup,
And may it ne'er ken thrivin';
It's no the length that gars me loup,
But it's the double drivin'.
Come nidge me Tam, come nodge me Tam,
Come nidge me o'er the nyvle;
Come louse and lug your batterin' ram,
And thrash him at my gyvel.

Click here for a side-by-side translation of this work into English. 

A softer side; a dose of nostalgia; a bawdy song for dudes.  Three starkly different poems, all by the same writer.  Whether he is doting on his little princess, offering advice to a young friend, or being gross, Robert Burns certainly has a way with words.  

At the Same Time, Eris

Several months ago, I shared a poem called Chernobyl Kids by writer Eris.  I came across another one of her works today that brings me great pleasure and validation as an elder Millennial, rapidly approaching middle age.  At the Same Time is an ode to those of us who, while aging, are still not quite old enough to accept it.  Any woman (or man) above 35 can probably relate to some degree.

AT THE SAME TIME

Dermatitis, greying hair,

Folliculitis in my underwear.

Eczema and skin that flaps,

Stretch marks that look like road maps.

Skin tags on my neck and pits,

Sagging tits, Christ! I can’t shit!

Hemorrhoids I have enjoyed,

All because I could not void.

PEEK-A-BOO!  Who’s come to call?

What fun!  My bladder starts to fall!

Is that my uterus I see?

Ah-ah-AAACHOO!  Oops, I just peed.

Scoliosis,

Halitosis,

Hashtag osteoporosis.

Hair that grows in weird new places,

How ‘bout this ol’ diastasis?

I guess my body’s getting old;

Now my joints ache in the cold.

Nah, JK, false alarm!

Hot flashes warm me like a charm.

Old piercings that now get infected,

Hold up!  My youth is resurrected:

Acne,

Backne,

These comedones attack me!

It should come as no surprise

That all these years, I’ve been fed lies.

No line exists ‘tween “young” and “old”;

And now, my dear, let truth be told:

Zits and fine lines

Come at the same time.

The Night Before Christmas, by Clement C. Moore

We all know it.  We all know the poem The Night Before Christmas by Clement C. Moore.  Millions of American families read it aloud on Christmas Eve; countless re-publications (with varying illustrators) have flown off the shelves of stores year after year.  The Night Before Christmas is synonymous with its titular holiday.

But that wasn't always the case.

In her book The Everything Family Christmas Book, author Yvonne Jeffery writes, "On Christmas Eve, 1822, Dr. Clement Clarke Moore unveiled what is arguably the most popular Christmas poem of all time, A Visit from Saint Nicholas.  Also known as 'Twas the Night Before Christmas, the poem was written strictly for the enjoyment of Moore's children, but a listener present at the reading was impressed enough to send the poem to The Troy Sentinel, where it was published the following December."

I, for one, am so glad this friend did.

Jeffery continues, "[Clement Moore] liked to dabble in rhymes and poetry, but was too embarrassed by A Visit to take public credit for it.  The poem was published anonymously until 1844 [1837 according to some sources], when Moore, presumably encouraged by the poem's success, included it in a collection of his other works."

She expands further, "Much of what we now consider as essential to Santa -such as his plumpness- first appeared in Clement C. Moore's poem A Visit from St. Nicholas.  Moore apparently based his St. Nick on a rotund gardener who worked for him, but preferred to call the character St. Nicholas rather than Santa Claus.  Moore's portrayal of St. Nicholas as a generous gift giver and friend to children was, of course, an outgrowth of the legends surrounding St. Nicholas.  The influence of [Washington] Irving's (often imaginative) accounts of the Dutch legend is also apparent throughout Moore's poem.  Moore was not the first to assign a reindeer to St. Nicholas, but he was the first to set the total at eight, and the first to popularize the names now associated with the animals."

My favorite edition of this beloved poem is the one illustrated by Cyndy Szekeres (1982).  Her darling illustrations feature an adorable family of mice being visited by St. Nick himself.  Parents, in particular, will appreciate the very real capturing of mice-children's reactions upon being awoken in the middle of the night.  (Think: mandatory potty breaks, mild temper tantrums, overstimulation.)  Readers should also pay close attention to the details in the home furnishings of the little mice:  the matchbox bed, the dollar bill area rug, the spool of thread end table (and so on).  It is, in my opinion, the most charming rendition of this poem ever published.

THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house,

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there;

The children were nestled all snug in their beds,

While visions of sugarplums danced in their heads;

And Mama in her kerchief, and I in my cap,

Had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,

I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.

Away to the window I flew like a flash,

Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.

The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow

Gave the luster of midday to objects below,

When what to my wondering eyes should appear, 

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer.

With a little old driver so lively and quick

I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick!

More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,

And he whistled and shouted and called them by name:

"Now, Dasher!  Now, Dancer!  Now, Prancer and Vixen!

On, Comet!  On, Cupid!  On, Donner and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch!  To the top of the wall!

Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"

As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,

With a sleigh full of toys and St. Nicholas, too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof

The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

As I drew in my head and was turning around,

Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.

He was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back,

And he looked like a peddler just opening his pack.

His eyes, how they twinkled!  His dimples, how merry!

His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.

The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.

He had a broad face and a little round belly

That shook when he laughed like a bowl full of jelly.

He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,

And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself.

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head

Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,

And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk,

And laying his finger aside of his nose,

And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,

And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.

But I heard him exclaim ere he drove out of sight: 

"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!"

Christmas Trees, by Robert Frost

November was a shit show.

I started the month with some seemingly minor injuries (incurred in October) that I'm still working on healing.  Then my son decided he wanted to go headfirst down a fire pole on the school playground, ending with us being refused by three urgent cares before finally going to the emergency room...where he won himself a pair of staples in the head.  Then, we went out of town.  Then, we decided to move.  Then, it was Thanksgiving.  Then, I got scammed, like some sort of amateur.  Then, I got a third injury.  I haven't rested any of these injuries enough and I'm going on two months of no exercise or activity beyond packing and hauling boxes.  Everything hurts and I'm just finally getting to the point in this process where I can stop and take care of myself a little.  Oh, and by the way, Christmas is coming.  This year, I am thanking my past (and forever) OCD self for completing the Christmas shopping by Halloween.  Had I not done so, Christmas would be a debacle.

Of course, all of this going on has meant a long pause in my reading.  I'm in the beginnings of a classic novel, which doesn't exactly make for light reading in the midst of all this.  I will pick it up again soon, but I will definitely not have a review to post before the end of December.  Not possible.  In the meantime, I thought I would share another poem from our boy, Bobby Frost.  (I will try to have a second poem for you -by another author/poet- prior to Christmas.)  Taken from The Everything Family Christmas Book (Yvonne Jeffery), the description of this particular poem is as follows: "His offering gently explores the tension between commercialism and the natural way of life."  On point.

The last bit.  Read it to the end.  The last bit to me is just so magical and sweet and everything I hope that you and your loved ones encounter during this festive season of warmth, love, light and generosity.

CHRISTMAS TREES

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out,

A-buttoning coats, to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods -- the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn't thought of them as Christmas trees.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I'd hate to have them know it if I was.

Yet more I'd hate to hold my trees except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine,

I said, "There aren't enough to be worth while."

"I could soon tell how many they would cut, 

You let me look them over."

"You could look.

But don't expect I'm going to let you have them."

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round.  The latter he nodded "Yes" to,

Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer's moderation, "That would do."

I thought so, too, but wasn't there to say so.

We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

And came down on the north.

He said, "A thousand."

"A thousand Christmas trees! -- at what apiece?"

"He felt some need of softening that to me:

"A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars."

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them.  Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those.

Regular vestry trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn't know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn't lay one in a letter.

I can't help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

Fall Family Birthdays, by Jammy

In light of this beautiful and festive season, I wanted to share a delightful work by my favorite poet: my daughter.  Sure, there is a hint of nepotism here, but isn't like you're paying to read anything we write at The Surly Bookworm.  So swallow that complaint.

Known here by her nom de plume, Jammy is quite a prolific writer.  She produces original poems, essays, short stories, and comics by the dozens, and has done so since she could speak.  What can I say?  This apple didn't fall far.  (Awww, all the hearts!!!)  She has actively chosen here to incorporate repetition, free verse, and onomatopoeia.

Without further introduction, please enjoy

FALL FAMILY BIRTHDAYS
by Jammy

September, October, November,
it spells the word
son.

September, October, November,
it spells the word
son.

My brother's in October,

My grampa's in September,

My dad's in November.

Me, my mom, dad, and brother
drive to [my home town],

To celebrate their birthdays,
Vroom, vroom, vroom.

My November Guest, Robert Frost

We have had a really nice November.  Halloween was frigid but, in the week since then, the temperatures have risen, the sun has shone, and I've even left the house in shorts.  It's weird.

The weather for the coming week or so is forecasted to continue this unusual trend, and you will certainly not find me complaining.  Nevertheless, I do reflect upon past Novembers where Old Man Winter has made an earlier appearance.  I don't miss him, but I do anticipate his coming with some measure of excitement.

In a splendid burst of melancholia -the type that usually accompanies this time of year- our homeboy Robert Frost reminds us of what we are missing (or perhaps what we aren't missing) this month.

MY NOVEMBER GUEST

My Sorrow, when she's here with  me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.

Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted gray
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted tree,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

Chernobyl Kids, Eris

Today, I have another poem to share of an entirely different variety.  Compared to the contemplative and often pastoral writings of Robert Frost, Chernobyl Kids is an abominable and darkly humorous work by comic writer/poet Eris.  In the vein of Go the F**k to Sleep (Adam Mansbach), Eris taps into the inner minds of parents by articulating what we all want to say to our children in the face of their frivolous complaints (shut up!).  As our grandparents and parents reminded us, "there are starving people in China", Eris provides privileged children everywhere with an equally ridiculous and pointless reminder, "you are not a Chernobyl kid".  Horrid, grotesque, inexcusable, and entirely awful...

...I kinda love it. 

CHERNOBYL KIDS

Back in 1986,
Some kids were living in the sticks.
A big explosion made them all sick.
They are Chernobyl kids.

You got grounded, it feels like jail,
But don't you rant!  Don't you wail!
Look at Goran, he has a tail!
Cuz he's a Chernobyl kid.

Your referee makes a lousy call
You want to rage and screech and bawl.
Mishka can't play with a radioactive doll
Cuz she's a Chernobyl kid.

You didn't get the toy you wanted,
Got mad at Mom, and stomped, and grunted.
Have you met Bogdan?  His growth is stunted
Cuz he's a Chernobyl kid.

Time for school!  Dad woke you from a dream.
Plug your ears!  Prepare for a scream!
Maxim limps down the street to let off steam
Cuz he's a Chernobyl kid.

Your teacher's being really stern,
Ugh!  You had to wait your turn!
Natalia has a third degree burn
Cuz she's a Chernobyl kid.

You hit your brother, he's gonna tell.
You're feeling you're about to yell.
Remember Goran?  He's been through hell!
Cuz he's a Chernobyl kid.

You wanted some gum while waiting in line,
Dad said "no" so you start wo whine.
Poor Irina has a crooked spine
Cuz she's a Chernobyl kid.

Mom made rice.  You hate this grain!
Don't you dare start to complain!
Svetlana has a growth on her brain
Cuz she's a Chernobyl kid.

It really doesn't matter what you just did.
If you feel you're about to flip your lid,
Shut the fuck up!
And be grateful you weren't on that grid!
Cuz you are not a Chernobyl kid.

[I promise, the second part of More Than A Body is coming, but that book has proven to be extremely dense and slow moving.  More on that later.]

October, Robert Frost

I have a deep love for autumn and (nearly) all that comes in its wake.  October brings with it a sort of beautiful sadness; as one season ends and the world around us goes to sleep, something exciting stirs inside.  This is one of my favorite months.  I was married in October; my son was born in October; I will be dressing as a narwhal in October (no, not for Halloween, just for a Tuesday); my favorite song is a household feature during October.

You know who else loves October?  A one Robert Frost.  Here's what he had to say about it.  I hope you find it...beguiling.

OCTOBER

O hushed October morning mild,
Thy leaves have ripened to the fall;
Tomorrow's wind, if it be wild,
Should waste them all.
The crows above the forest call;
Tomorrow they may form and go.
O hushed October morning mild,
Begin the hours of this day slow.
Make the day seem to us less brief.
Hearts not averse to being beguiled,
Beguile us in the way you know.
Release one leaf at break of day;
At noon release another leaf;
One from our trees, one far away.
Retard the sun with gentle mist;
Enchant the land with amethyst.
Slow, slow!
For the grapes' sake, if they were all,
Whose leaves already are burnt with frost,
Whose clustered fruit must else be lost --
For the grapes' sake along the wall.

Reluctance, Robert Frost

It's back-to-school today.  Boo.  I have ALWAYS hated back-to-school, but perhaps most so as a parent.  Of course, I love the quiet and lack of bickering around the house, but I loathe the inorganic nature of sending kids to sit indoors for a third of the day when it is still warm outside.  School recommences earlier and earlier every year and the alleged powers that be espouse excuse after excuse.  The students hate it, the teachers hate it, the building admins hate it; starting this early is entirely unnecessary.  It's still summer, you basic fucks.

To that end, I stumbled across a rather fitting poem by Robert Frost entitled Reluctance.  I'll let it speak for itself.  It may not be actual winter creeping in yet, but school is in session...and that is winter for the soul.  

RELUCTANCE

Out through the fields and the woods

And over the walls I have wended;

I have climbed the hills of view

And looked at the world, and descended;

I have come by the highway home,

And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,

Save those that the oak is keeping

To ravel them one by one

And let them go scraping and creeping

Out over the crusted snow,

When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,

No longer blown hither and thither;

The last lone aster is gone;

The flowers of the witch hazel wither;

The heart is still aching to seek,

But the feet question "Whither?"

Ah, when to the heart of man

Was it ever less than a treason

To go with the drift of things,

To yield with a grace to reason,

And bow and accept the end

Of a love or a season?

Fireflies in the Garden, Robert Frost

Is there anything more delicious than the final days of summer?  The warmth lasting into the evening as you drink up the sun's final rays, its glow lingering on your skin; the song of the cicadas as the day begins to cool into evening; the soft feeling of sleepiness coming over you as you relax after an active day outdoors in the garden, on the water, or by the pool.  If only those damn bugs would quit biting.

But, there is one bug that doesn't harass.  Universally drawing kids to it -like its insect cousin the moth to the flame- it is a bug that symbolizes childhood in the summertime to me.  Staying up late to catch lightning bugs is a memory so deeply ingrained in me that it is one I seek to recreate annually with my own brats.

We're not quite there yet but, as we near summer's end and Ragnarok back-to-school (the date of which has become so early in recent years that it's frankly vulgar), I find myself dreading the cold that awaits us on the other side of the year.  In those dark, cold months, I hope that you will allow your minds to return to Summer, and be illuminated by her little fairies of light.  With a poem that's far shorter than my wordy write-up, Robert Frost reminds readers of the beauty in the simple, tiny things that we often overlook.

FIREFLIES IN THE GARDEN

Here come real stars to fill the upper skies,

And here on earth come emulating flies

That, though they never equal stars in size

(And they were never really stars at heart),

Achieve at times a very starlike start.

Only, of course, they can't sustain the part.