Today's poem is about those spring-time "conversations" which seem to be going on so furiously around ponds. Frogs! There seem to be hundreds ... maybe thousands ... of them, all adding their voices to the din.
I remember them well from the place where I grew up ... they seemed to be in especially good voice at night ... somehow conveying a certain kind of "all's well" to the listener.
But, feeling my way back through the early morning fog of my brain, I don't think I've heard them this year. Maybe I just haven't been in the right place at the right time.
Could it be that I haven't been listening? Or that I've simply ... well, forgotten?
Which somehow reminds me ... as one thought leads to another ... I've fallen behind on "conversations" myself ... those little "Afterthoughts" I try to post in response to your comments.
I don't know how this happens, but it does. It's happened before. I always regret it. I always try to catch up, but I never feel I've done that completely, either.
I do apologize ... again ... for my slippage in that department ... and I do hope to do better ... soon ... I hope ...
Meanwhile, today's poem:
CONVERSATIONS
How vexing to hear
the voices of those
I could not see
abruptly going silent,
like the gabble of pupils
halting in the presence
of a new teacher.
Then, after I'd passed,
renewed murmur of gossip
growing rumor-upon-rumor,
going mouth-to-ear, flying
too swiftly to follow,
too dense to filter
into any semblance
of real meaning.
If I dared step too near,
I heard sounds like stones
plopping into water,
new silence ascending,
a sense of being watched
by large, careful eyes
judging me from the depths
of a green-coated pond.
© 1997
(originally published in M.O.O.N. Magazine)
***
Today's word: gabble
Afterthoughts ... in response to your comments:
Interesting, Featheredpines, that those birds would be so watchful that an approaching hiker would cause them to shush ... then resume, once she had passed. Around here it seems to be the sparrows which dominate the small talk among birds ... and they don't stop for anybody. I'll have to start listening more carefully as I trudge along.
Whoa, Hechan ... a canoe ... now that's really getting out there in the midst of frogdom ... but a great way to observe the frogs' vocalizing up close ... and I'm glad you liked the development of the poem. Thanks.
2 comments:
That's just how frogs are, too! Here, when I am on the dirt path that winds through the plains the singing bushes become quiet as I walk near them then turn back into full song as I pass. I always wonder, what birds hide inside the brush? I guess I'll never get close enough to find out, but their songs are beautiful.
I loved the frogs singing...and many times...not so musical...but the rhythm was welcome. I'd go out in my canoe alone at night and after they got used to me, they'd continue their chorus and orchestra. I loved the thoughts in this poem...and the way they were carried along right until the end.
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