.
Cicada Serenade
Boys hang their beat on the heat of the summer.
Sticky days twang with their thick, tinny ring.
Banshee crescendos and thrums from each drummer
Shiver mesquites where the mockingbirds sing.
Noons throb and drone with the buzz of winged minstrels
Crooning a tune of cacophonous zeal.
Soaring and swelling, their zing-a-ling kindles
Spooky staccatos with she-bug appeal.
Patios pulse with the eeriest symphony.
Raucous ensorcellment dazzles the girls.
Shuddering squalls kiss the stuttering timpani
Stoking a burst of fortissimo swirls.
Nerve-scourging coos from these screeching pursuers
Strangle the notes in the nightingale’s breast.
Stars shoot in shock as these clangorous wooers
Split moonlit ears in their amorous quest.
Riding wild waves of vociferous revelry
Cupid scuds by on a cushion of cloud.
Arrows are aimed with his dimpled-grin devilry
Teasing the volume from roaring to loud.
.
.
My Pink Hibiscus
a villanelle
Our globe is gasping in a fug of fumes
From bovine blasts that foul the fairest sky—
But still my pink hibiscus buds and blooms.
As sunlit hummers flit, as passion zooms
Through trumpets on a syrup-sozzled high,
Our globe is gasping in a fug of fumes.
Each day the boom of gloomy news resumes.
Our breath spells death for Mother Earth. She’ll fry!
But still my pink hibiscus buds and blooms.
The arctic ursae skirt their iceless tombs
As jerks on jets fly by to tell us why
Our globe is gasping in a fug of fumes.
As quibblers nibble crickets and legumes
I feast on beef and blank their anxious cry—
And still my pink hibiscus buds and blooms.
Once more the mock-shock tune of doomsday looms—
That lockstep, lip-synched chorus of goodbye.
Our globe is gasping in a fug of fumes…
But still my pink hibiscus buds and blooms.
.
.
Mourning a Mockingbird
A froth of feathers fluttered as I trod
The garden path. Down drifted on the breeze
Like snowflakes scattered by the hand of God
To swirl before it settled under trees.
Beneath a gnarly bough I saw a glint
Of sin—a green-eyed glimmer in the sun.
A twitch of tail and whiskers flicked a hint
That calm at Eden’s core had come undone.
The tooth and claw of he who nudged and purred
Had ripped a summer dalliance apart.
This savage deed has pierced a breast and stirred
A surge of notes torn from a state bird’s heart—
A dirge hurled at the moon of bloodshed-red.
I’ve barred the tabby devil from my bed.
.
.
Susan Jarvis Bryant is a poet originally from the U.K., now living on the Gulf Coast of Texas.
“I’ve barred the tabby devil from my bed.” – Love that line!
I had fun writing that one, Jeremiah. Thank you!
1. Thank goodness the cacophony of cicadas is relatively brief and then not heard again for years. I am always enchanted not only by your masterful manipulation of alliteration, but also by your fusion of British and American English.
2. I really loved the subtle (to me) or not so subtle (to others) images of the “fug of fumes,” as compared to the buds and blooms of your hibiscus. What fun to read such a poem!
3. Sorry for the mockingbird and also a little empathy for the tabby who was unalterably propelled by instinct and left wondering what went wrong.
Thank you for your close reading of these poems, Roy. I’m especially glad you like “My Pink Hibiscus” – the poem was inspired by my beautiful backyard hibiscus that carries on giving carbon-dioxide-assisted joy in spite of the regular warnings of plant food poisoning the planet.
These are all perfectly delightful! Cicadas (and crickets too) are among my favorite things about summer and fall. I love their music, and you’ve imitated it in lovely ways here, with your always-virtuoso use of sound, as in “ Crooning a tune of cacophonous zeal”. And then you highlight another of my favorite summer- into- autumn themes; my giant hibiscus are red, and the last bloom dropped a few days ago, which is always a sadly-poignant moment for me. Your cat-and-mockingbird story is so well told that I fear it must have really happened. I do love both birds and cats — but cats want what they want! “That calm at Eden’s core had come undone” is just brilliant!
Cynthia, thank you very much for your wonderful comment. For me, the cicada serenade is an acquired taste that I’ve come to appreciate having learned more about these unusual and rather special little crooners. I used to think there were whole choirs of them in the trees shaking the leaves with their song… until George Lionel (our curious cat) brought one inside the house in the soft of his mouth and let our gift loose… an earsplitting shriek ensued that set me straight on that front!
What a terrific trio of poems! All of them absolutely delightful. The pulsing rhythm and alliteration in Cicada serenade is masterful and so evoking. I have never had the pleasure of hearing such a serenade but reading your wonderfully descriptive poem brought them to life for me. Thank you!
Thank you very much, Isabella. I’m thrilled you enjoyed the poems. I had never heard the song of the cicada until I moved from England to Texas… it came as rather a surprise… they sounded otherworldly and somewhat eerie to me. I’ve grown to love them.
In the novel “To Kill A Mockingbird,” one of the characters says that to kill a mockingbird is a sin. Why? Because it is a bird that sings beautifully, just to please us, and that killing it is a gratuitously pointless and insensitive act. I am glad that Susan is back to sing for us, and that her indisposition has not succeeded in taking her away.
“Cicada Serenade” is a richly crafted thing, like a chalice encrusted with precious stones. Certain lines are so wonderful that they make me gasp:
“Raucous ensorcellment dazzles the girls”
“Stoking a burst of fortissimo swirls”
“Arrows are aimed with his dimple-grinned devilry”
How many poets can handle dactyls that well? And the line “Cupid scuds by on a cushion of cloud” makes me envision a pastoral scene painted by Fragonard, or some other French artist of 18th-century sylvan perfection.
The language of “Pink Hibiscus” reminds me of the verbal kaleidoscope of Francis Thompson, an amazing late Victorian.
Joe, I am thrilled to be back. It’s a slow process, but I’m on the mend. Thank you for this beautiful and encouraging comment. I am in a heavenly world of my own when I immerse myself in the creative process of poetry, and to know that you have enjoyed the end result is a wonderful bonus. I am more than happy to know that my “Pink Hibiscus” has brought Francis Thompson to mind… I have just been reading some of his amazing works and I’m an instant fan.
How many commenters know that Susan has just had a birthday? Let me be the first to send congratulations!
Happiest of birthdays dear friend
Those times with others will not end
But stay in their peculiar way
With us within life’s subtle sway
Dearest Sally, what a beautiful surprise – what an honor it is to have a poem written by an accomplished poet and a great friend for my special day! I couldn’t ask for more!
Happy Birthday, Susan!
Joe, thank you very much indeed. The older I get, the more I appreciate my birthdays… and every other day, come to that.
You’re gettin’ pretty good at this poetry stuff, Susan! 3 more ‘very-well-dones’. Hope U 2 made the most of your 50th. 🙂
Mark, how gracious you are… 50 happens to be my latest favorite number… I’ve been 50 for ten years and I’ve enjoyed every wild and wonderful minute! I must say, you’re getting pretty good at this poetry stuff yourself. Your latest are a joy. Thank you very much!
Susan, your use of “syrup-sozzled”, “mock-shock”, and “bloodshed-red” remind me of Dylan Thomas, who often employed compound words. In his poem, “Altarwise by Owl-Light”, for example, we find “owl-light”, “atlas-eater”, “penny-eyed”, “plant-ducted”, “cross-bones”, and “hemlock-headed”. Thomas referred to himself as a “freak user of words”, a poet who was “painstaking, conscientious, involved and devious craftsman of words”. The poet, he believed, must use anything and everything to make a poem work. The three poems presented here work beautifully, and you’re only getting better with age. My favorite line is probably “Cupid scuds by on a cushion of cloud.” But please forgive the naughty tabby. It was only doing what was in its nature.
Cheryl, what an amazing and most welcome comment. I like that “freak user of words” description. I believe the art of poetry gives us poets the opportunity to view the ordinary from unexpected angles… angles that involve using language that lifts each image to greater heights. Dylan Thomas certainly did that, and I always try to… I am a word-nerd but I can only write when I’m sober. Who knows what may have happened if I had Thomas’s stamina for liquor?!
As for that naughty tabby – please know, I’ve always been drawn to bad boys. He’s snoozing in the warmth of my forgiving nature… again! 😉
Every one of these poems is greatly entertaining and a joy to read Susan. The alliterations in the first one make the cicada sounds come alive in my mind. The second one delights with its repetitions which conjure an air of comforting constancy. It reminds me of the Australian poem Said Hanrahan due to its circular nature which humors the message of doom as it exposes its fraud. The third poem is a tragic story so well told that the evil deed of the tabby can almost be excused.
Yael, thank you! I’m glad you enjoyed the poems. I love your astute observations, especially the Said Hanrahan one – all the fear-mongering and apocalyptic predictions of being “rooned” before each decade is out… and still my pink hibiscus buds and blooms. The foresight of flora is where it’s at. As for the murderous moggy… he’s forgiven.
Susan, these three nature poems are absolutely superb! I especially love the extraordinary sound effects of “Cicada Serenade” — a tour de force of poetic craftsmanship. The “Hibiscus” villanelle gave me both joy and a certain satisfaction in defiance of the nay-sayers who are so obsessed with ideologies that they can’t enjoy the sight of a special flower. As for your mockingbird… Sad but an honest slice of life presented with an attitude of poetically grim acceptance. I also thought of To Kill a Mockingbird and Boo Radley. Life is replete with little tragedies.
Brian, it always pleases me when you enjoy my poetic offerings. You always manage to home in on exactly what I’m trying to say, and you appreciate the way in which I say it. What more could a poet ask? Thank you very much for your fine eye, tuned ear, and appreciation of the craft.
Dear Susan, I wish you a very happy birthday and many, many happy returns of the day. thank you for the wonderful poetry you have given us so far. I look forward to many more to come.
I haven’t managed to comment much lately because my computer ceased to function, suddenly and completely. An apple computer of six years is considered quite old apparently. And they lecture us on saving the planet!
Oh and as I type this, on a laptop that i am not used to, I hear on country file that there is a shortage of lamb in the UK because of a very wet spring, I kid you not.
Hopefully I will get used to this computer and get back to commenting on all the wonderful poems that keep me going and away from listening to the so called news.
Maria, how very kind. Thank you very much for your birthday wishes and for your appreciation of my poetry. I hope all your computer gremlins depart soon. As for the lamb… how can this be?! I’ve never heard of a “very wet spring” interfering with lamb numbers – absolutely baaaaaaarmy! Oh dear! I now have a craving for shepherds pie.
That’s an especially appropriate contrast of refrains in your lovely villanelle, Susan. I first heard the word “fug” in winter, when it carried the positive warmth of “snug and cozy.” But the “fug of fumes” is oppressive in this summer poem–or at least the apocalyptic alarmists say so. I wonder, though. News of apocalypses keeps coming along at irregular intervals throughout human history. Do the current prophets perhaps consider it a snug and comfortable situation when they have the “fug of fumes” to use as a tool of oppression while they fly by on jets and contribute to it?
Whether they believe what they say or not, the pink hibiscus is the perfect contrast. Since it folds itself away after a day, it always appears fresh–and is perennially abundant if you have a bush of any size. Best of all, it cares nothing for that fug of fumes it fails to perceive as it continues budding and blooming. May your recent birthday give you the vigor and color of its likeness for the upcoming year and beyond!
Margaret, I’m sorry I missed this. Thank you for your, appreciation, your imaginative observations, and the beautiful birthday wishes.
Susan, I love experiencing each simple day with you and then watching you turn those days into beautiful poetry. I remember the first time you experienced the ear-splitting cicada love songs, your joy in our hibiscus blooming, and the interest you took in the goings on of the admirable mockingbirds.
I used to think of your gift as a kind of amazing word-tiling. Now, I know and see that your gift is a determination to use all the power of word craft for one purpose… joy.
It is funny that plant food, carbon dioxide, which is at historically low levels, is being demonized as a “poison,” or “fug of fumes.” Most people who lived during the sixties and seventies know what a “fug of fumes” really is… smog. You have highlighted the insanity perfectly.
What we have is a dearth of carbon dioxide. Why else would every commercial nursery add CO2 to their greenhouses. When you see plants flourishing, you know that good things are happening. According to NASA, the earth is greening and the Sahara is shrinking.
Propaganda is not only the overwhelming publication of convenient lies, it is also the covering up of inconvenient truth.
You are always on the side of truth, beauty and joy.