Thursday, June 3, 2021

Yes, I'm Trying to Impress You But I Don't Count the Dead

Maryland sky from weekend past, most beautiful Spring since the last until the next, did not toggle from Winter to Summer with no Spring like many Mays here, gets that bleggalgaze off the top of blog, gets you these links before they're stale
Capitalism!Trolling and dystopian hypernormality
The squad and kabuki votesNotes on turning seventyCapitalism!
How one house explains zoning in MocoDestroying the means of planetary destruction
This not only short changes what the team I'm on does, it trivializes what we do, deliberately reiterates and reinforces what busboys we are and the requirement we know it
Laura RidingLyn Hejinian and Lisa ScalapinoA (not mine) bleggalgaze
Between the sentimental, the gothic, and the ironic
I prefer (and am used to) being invisible at work, but my colleagues are completely hurt by our invisibility though we've been the only people in the fucking building since March 2020, someday I'll post what I type in notebook about the fucks who rule us and fine metaphors abounding
A (not mine) bleggalgazeJoyelle McSweeney
S.D. ChrostowskaThe curse of the zombie bookWhat I have hidden there
It may surprise you that I woke up with a Guided by Voices song in my head


Tina Mozelle Braziel

Three hundred twenty is the number
         of frogs I’ve raised
and released during the pandemic.
         Yes, I’m trying to impress you,
but I don’t count the dead.
         The ones the hunter drove over.
The ones that dried up
         with the puddle they came from.
The ones eaten by their siblings
         because I filled my casserole dishes
with too many. Yes, clouds drag
         their feet, clothes sour
on the line, and tomatoes bust open
         in the garden. Every day
drawls and hums this song
         that won’t end.
But then, the 321st froglet
         climbs out, tail still swishing,
certain this world
         is as humid as the last.
Ready to join the choir.

1 comment:

  1. Tina Mozelle Braziel's poem reminds me of the following rhyme, sometimes recited by my late father of blessed memory, even in the last years of his long life. He learned it in the early part of the twentieth century, as a Canadian schoolboy. It appears in the 1909 edition of The Ontario Readers Second Book. I regret that I have been unable to find any more information about the poem or the author.

    The Daring Froggie
    -- by James Clarence Hawer --

    Once upon a time
    On the border of a brook,
    A wicked little froggie,
    Who had never read a book --

    Who had never read a story,
    Or a funny little rhyme,
    Had a sad and tragic ending,
    Once upon a time.

    This little froggie, sad to say,
    Was very fond of flies,
    And thought on this unlucky day
    That he had found a prize.

    "Up, up I go," said Froggie,
    "I can climb as well as hop;
    I only hope he'll stay right there
    Until I reach the top."

    "I wish this wouldn't bend so much."
    Said Froggie, going higher;
    "I wish that flies would shut their eyes
    And come a little nigher.

    But he is such a good one
    And he looks so very fine,
    I think I must have him,
    For it's time for me to dine."

    So up he went regardless
    Of the danger he was in;
    He saw a duck below him,
    But he didn't care a pin;

    Till suddenly behind his back
    The reed began to crack.
    And all he heard was just one word --
    And that one word was "Quack!"