Regular readers will know I have been keeping an eye on the moths visiting my garden. They come in all shapes and sizes and, frankly, are often jewels of nature with subtle colour shifts.
Often as not the difference between a full range of moths appearing and a limited selection is down to the cold/wind. So last night, when the temperature in South London hovered in the mid 20s and little wind (not something often said in my house), I rather hoped for a decent uptick in those passing through the turnstiles.
And in amongst the pictures here’s a poem I wrote aeons ago about poetry. Its relevance to moths? None at all.
Ars Poetica (2)
A poem is an erotic pass the parcel with words,
Seductively shedding its millefeuille of meanings to tease you with its deceits.
You climb up through its stanzas, in search of the rhythms on the next horizon
Which may leave you, if bereft of inspiration, fractured on its beguiling carapace.
Sometimes, the poem sneaks an idea past your guarded eye with some keyhole trickery;
At others, it blasts its revelations from your heart with a dum-dum of apt metaphors.
At best, a poem can take you by the hand and lead you gently, and with small, ecstatic steps,
To the edge of a chasm of thought, that leaves you breathless at its ineffable depths.
You may hate a poem for showing you that long covered two-way mirror,
Which shines a black light on the inner reaches of your craven self.
Or you may love it for providing you with a periscope to a world,
Which contains a truth about nothing, other than your previously unknowable self.
TanGental 
I love the juxtaposition of the poem with the seemingly unrelated moth pictures. I can’t help but look for a connection even though you clearly said there wasn’t one. Now feeling all sorts of artsy and smug with myself I am off to find a local independent and utterly unmarketed coffee shop where I can stand out as the fake wanna-be hipster I would surely be.
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You’ll be a natural at it. Just go all floaty and flouncy and they’ll never know you’re a fraud…
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I loved that poem, Geoff.
You have quite a collection of moths there. I love the white one, and the tufty headed one (looks like he could have done with a brush) and the camoflage oness best!
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They are remarkable aren’t they! Not sure about the poem but you are v kind to be nice about it
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You are so modest Geoff, I thought it was lovely 🙂
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Oh how kind…
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You almost had a poem in your pictures;
With Heart & Dart and Willow Beauty
China Mark, and Hebrew Character
Garden Dart, Dun-bar and Common Wainscot
Through Marbled Minor to the great Lime Hawk
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Ha what’s holding your muse back!! You’re a natural..
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It is all just glorious, the words, the photos the moths, the camaflage 💜
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Ah well of course I’m flattered about the poetry. Want sure if it might a touch pretentious
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What you, no never seriously 💜
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I thought similar things to what has been said before – there were times when the photos and words matched in quite a meaningful manner – and I’m not even wearing my flouncy garments yet!
That last moth is pure poetry in motion isn’t it – I’ve not seen one like that before and am quite bowled over by it – just a little in love! You need to introduce us – and I might even have a try at adding her into a painting somewhere………..
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The British hawk moths are gorgeous. My favs fir sure. And thank you for the kind words about the poetry
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You’re a man of many moths as well as a poet! England definitely has prettier moths than California.
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Now that’s unexpected. I’d have thought your climate would have been conducive to gorgeous moths.
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Poetry and moths, an unlikely but beautiful combination. Well done!
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Up there with your minibeasts post!!
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Thanks Geoff. 🙂
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