After reading Granny Fran's post this morning, I searched for this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. I love everything about this poem from the opening lines to the closing lines. Although I've had one unpleasant experience with skunks (getting rid of the odor on a sprayed dog is a matter of time and great effort), my affinity for skunks is a result of a childhood experience in which Laddie was entranced by the pet skunk of someone he knew. He wanted to get us one, but Mother said that although they were beautiful creatures, they were not pets and it would be like having a pet racoon or flying squirrel. We knew people who had tried to keep these as pets with unsatisfactory results. So the "poems that
[have] been hiding in the eyes of skunks for centuries" will remain in the images from Nye's poem.
I used to have a collection of pig poems (a favorite unlovely one was by Sylvia Plath). Another one was by Plath's husband, Ted Hughes, and others by Wendell Berry and Elizabeth Bishop and Louise Gluck. All were copies I made from various anthologies, and I don't know where they are now. Except for children's poems, pig poems are usually unlovely, but with vivid imagery.
And then there are the bat poems. Next week, a bat poem...
I've made progress at the office. To say they were behind in their filing is an understatement; each pile has to be separated by company, then by well name, then by date. THEN they can be filed...if they can be squeezed in.
The floor is a useful sorting place, but my knees were a wreck after sitting cross-legged amid the piles reciting: BPPJ 18, Brooks 18-1, Jeter 23 -1, Jeter 23-5, Dance 1, Kincaid 1, Dance 2, Tomkins 3, Garret 3-B and on and on.