Tales from the Microbial Laboratory

The Microbial Lab Gives Thanks...During Wartime

~The Microbial Laboratory~

[Clockwise around the table, starting on the left:  the eclair-baking postdoc, the lab's senior doctoral student, a graduate student friend-of-the-lab, the lab's masters student, the next-to-senior-student doctoral student, and the lab's exiled poet laureate.  And yes, they're flipping me 'the bird'.  You all should know by now that maturity isn't our strength...actually, they're just saying how unfair it is that I always take the photograph, and am never in them.  I just say it's one of the few 'perks' of my pseudo-job.).]

~~~~~

In wartime, truth is so precious that she should always be attended by a bodyguard of lies.

Winston Churchill (1874-1965)

~~~~~

So this is what a lab looks like during wartime:  still smiling, still grateful, still funny, still passionate and productive - but also frayed around the edges, stressed, worried about what the future holds, and  angry.  Thankfully however, they are still willing to sit at a table with each other, with pitchers of margaritas and good quacamole and cheese dip - still willing to momentarily overlook the war and express gratitude.  The tab was picked up by both of the lab's doctoral students - one had a gift certificate to the place we went to, and another used the money she won for her second place for her presentation in the graduate school's Student Research Day.  Everyone was thankful for that.

~~~~~

From the NYTimes, Lives During Wartime:

WAR by an unknown Author

Politicians talk about the need of it,
Old men boast about the glory of it,
And the soldiers just want to go home.  

~~~~~

This has been a laboratory ritual for over 10 years now - and I paused a bit this morning when I realized that four years of giving thanks, laboratory-style, are documented in these pages, this one as well as three previous years:  2006, 2007, 2008.

~~~~~

It's an important thing to do, this expressing of gratitude.

~~~~~

From a fascinating piece by Robert Kaplan at the Atlantic:

The end of the Cold War was not just a culmination of the Long European War that began in 1914, but also a new beginning that allowed us to direct our energies towards liberating societies further eastward. It’s a struggle we’ve devoted ourselves to for a while now, and we’re fairly far along with it: the European Union is now struggling to incorporate Serbia, and we are trying to salvage something noble from Iraq and seek peaceful regime change in Iran.

~~~~~

I know how corny this sounds, but I always start off by giving thanks for everyone's hard work - and I always end the exchange by saying how grateful I am that they all join me for this little ritual.  In between these two things, we take turns, going around the table one at a time, and give thanks:  for each other, for opportunities, for genomes and favorite microorganisms, for fellowships and interesting science and little discoveries and paychecks and poetry, for Obama's election and past mentors, and then finally we play a silly 'mad lib' game by the lab's former senior doctoral student (who recently defended and couldn't attend). 

And then we go home. 

~~~~~

From a piece in Mother Jones titled 'Defining Terrorism':

There’s a lot of evidence to suggest that Nidal Malik Hasan was (a) quite mentally disturbed and (b) motivated by religious beliefs, but that doesn’t make what he did a terrorist act. Unlike, say, a suicide bomber in Jerusalem, there’s hardly even a hint that he was trying to make any kind of political statement. There was no note, no videotape left behind, no explanation while he was shooting, no nothing. What kind of terrorist does that?

(Did you immediately jump to the conclusion that the incident at Ft Hood was a terrorist act?  I didn't.  Even after I heard more details, I didn't view it as a terriorist act.  I'm not trying to place any kind of judgement on this - I don't know whether it was 'good' or 'bad' that I didn't jump to that conclusion - but I do know that I'm glad that I didn't.  In time, by following hopefully just procedures, we will know more.)

~~~~~

Oh!  And not to forget that before we got started, Katherine (the lab's Poet Laureate In-Exile) read us a poem of gratitude that was written by a student in the poetry discussion group of her spouse, the poet Richard Garcia.  It was a poem that made you hold your breath a bit, waiting to see if the outcome was the one you hoped for.

~~~~~

April 17, 1984 by Fred Thomson

 

Thank you unknown driver of the blue maxima

Who was doing only what the law allowed.

Thank you for having both hands on the wheel

And thanks for not lighting a cigarette

 

I appreciate it that you were keeping proper lookout

Glancing right and left

And that your speed was slow.

 

I’m grateful you had those brake shoes replaced

And the rotors checked;

the master cylinder reservoir topped off with proper fluid

And that the radio had not taken your attention.

 

And I apologize most solemnly for not

Making eye contact and failing to acknowledge your gift

 

As I chased my three year old son

From around the corner of Alhambra hall

And down the walk behind the hedged sidewalk

Hidden from your view

Until he/we darted headlong

Into your path

So close we smelled the scorched rubber on pavement

and felt the whisper of your metallic blue hood

four inches from our wide eyes.

 

I am in your debt kind sir

Angel of god.

 

~~~~~

I would like to say that I left our lab gathering feeling warm and thoughtful - of course a bit of me did (and how could I not?  It's a genuine exchange of gratitude - there is no sense of obligation or annoyance peaking through) - but honestly, as I left I found myself only becoming more (and more) angry.  Angry about the situation that I find myself in, and as a result that I find my entire lab in - a situation that has evolved more out of fear and jealousy and misguided priorities and narcissism than about capability and dedication and science.  The Microbial Lab has never been stronger, more interesting, or more productive.  I wish I could share with you the full story here, but I cannot.  But on Friday evening, I drove home knowing that this, this whole lab thing, is what I am good at - really good at - and I felt little gratitude and only anger that it has not been valued by a very few individuals (aka the ones in 'power') and instead has been resented...and because of this, I don't know if next year at this time I will have a similar gathering of passionate scientists sitting around a table warmly and sincerely reflecting on the past year and what they have to be grateful for - I don't know if there will even be a Microbial Lab or where I will be living or how I will be paying my bills.

They say that it is during the most difficult of times that it is more important than ever to be grateful, to find elements of your life or situation that you are thankful for...so with that in mind, I will say that I am forever grateful to the individuals that have walked through the door of my laboratory over the years - students and others who have struggled, worked crazy hours, grown frustrated, learned how truly difficult writing well is, had moments of discovery, accepted my Food Offense perogatives, and been gracious and generous with one another.  I am grateful to those in my lab today, those who have kept their heads down during an extremely difficult time - and remained focused, hard-working and professional.  They've been cheated out of one experience (and had it replaced by another) because of my situation - and have remained steadfast.  For these things I am grateful.

But I am still mostly angry.

~~~~~

Disclaimer:  I by no means equate the situation that my laboratory is in right now to a 'real' war.  It is our own little 'ground' war, within the relative smallness of our individual lives.  A real war is our experience times about a hundred gazillion worse experiences - and as someone raised as a pacifist in a 'peace church', I don't even claim to understand the true compexity of war and rarely deeply understand the need for it.

From an editorial titled 'The Historic Brethren Peace Position':

 And it was in 1935 that the Church of the Brethren drafted the statement which says, "All war is sin; it is wrong for Christians to support it, or to engage in it."   

~twilight~

~Blossomtime in grayscale~

~~~~~

The remnants of Ida are rambling through the lowcountry tonight - bringing with it some much appreciated rain and warm winds.  The oh-so delicate Pointer Sisters are refusing to go outside - I suppose that Annabelle Lee has a reasonable excuse, especially after her three hour escape through the fence this morning into the woods and marshes that border my neighborhood - and I suppose that the Dan's excuse is that she is still pouting that she didn't manage to escape herself.  Honestly, sometimes it feels like keeping the Pointer Sisters in line is a full-time job.

~~~~~

As for me, I'm relieved that Annabelle Lee is safe at home, and I'm glad that a grant got submitted successfully yesterday.  It was rather large collaborative effort, one that was officially submitted at two minutes prior to the 8 pm deadline, only to have an error message come back - followed by another submission at two minutes after the deadline.  Today it appears that the proposal was accepted, so there has been a collective sigh of relief.  Proposal submissions such as this redefine what 'last minute' means, especially since at 10 minutes until 8 pm I decided to edit one of the required submission documents - and I was given 5 minutes by the university's grants office to do so.  Yeah, nuts - I know.

~~~~~

With Katherine not physically present in the laboratory during this challenging wartime period, the flow of poetry into our routine science days has lessened - so tonight I was happy to receive an email from her regarding a poetry reading this Friday evening that is part of The Poetry Society of South Carolina's Monthly Programs.  Once again she introduced a new poet (a musician poet in fact) to me, Doug Van Gundy, who resides in West Virginia and teaches at West Virginia Wesleyan.  I think I will try and attend his reading Friday evening - and hopefully he will read the poem below, a poem which includes a line about that time in the evening when the dog is unable to find her ball in the grass near oaks - a time that Annabelle Lee and I are quite familiar with.

~~~~~

The Back Yard by Twilight by Doug Van Gundy

These are the hours I love the best:
when the golden light of summer has climbed
to the top of the abandoned building next door

and all of the neighborhood
cats have slinked from inside
the woodpile beneath the back porch

and the cicadas and katydids
and grey tree frogs begin advertising
in the cacophonous personals section of the woodlot

and the dog can no longer
find his ball in the tall grass
at the edge of the darkening oaks

and citronella wafts across the crabgrass and mingles
with the lingering smell from the deep fryer
at the diner at the bottom of the hill

and the air grows heavy and moist
and the sound of the traffic on the
four-lane takes on a veiled quality

and the blue-white of the sun
is reflected in a satellite’s
long aching arc across the sky

and the windows open
and the box fan comes on

and the neighbor’s coon hound catches
the scent of something toothy & wild
and sounds his dutiful alarm

and the faint bruised smell of a skunk comes on
with the throw of the same switch
that turns on all of the fireflies

and the early windfall apples
fall without any wind at all.

 

(you can listen to Gundy read this poem here)

[This poem first appeared in Ecotone, Volume 3, Number 2, 2008]   

'...in the storm of roses'

I spent some time in the garden today - a quiet October Sunday with off and on clouds and a slight breeze.  There was the fragrance of re-blooming roses everywhere - roses responding to the cooler nights and less harsh days.

I love roses.

Most of my roses are heirloom roses - with names like Francis Dubreuil and Perle des Jardins and Souvenir de la Malmaison and Mrs. B. R. Cant and Marie Pavie...fragrant roses, each with an interesting history and story to tell.

Roses are pure poetry, aren't they?  

~~~~~

In The Storm Of Roses by Ingeborg Bachmann

Wherever we turn in the storm of roses,
the night is lit up by thorns, and the thunder
of leaves, once so quiet within the bushes,
rumbling at our heels.

~~~~~

 
~~~~~

Red Roses by Anne Sexton

Tommy is three and when he's bad
his mother dances with him.
She puts on the record,
"Red Roses for a Blue Lady"
and throws him across the room.
Mind you,
she never laid a hand on him.
He gets red roses in different places,
the head, that time he was as sleepy as a river,
the back, that time he was a broken scarecrow,
the arm like a diamond had bitten it,
the leg, twisted like a licorice stick,
all the dance they did together,
Blue Lady and Tommy.
You fell, she said, just remember you fell.
I fell, is all he told the doctors
in the big hospital. A nice lady came
and asked him questions but because
he didn't want to be sent away he said, I fell.
He never said anything else although he could talk fine.
He never told about the music
or how she'd sing and shout
holding him up and throwing him.

He pretends he is her ball.
He tries to fold up and bounce
but he squashes like fruit.
For he loves Blue Lady and the spots
of red roses he gives her

~~~~~

 
~~~~~

a woman had placed by Anne Blonstein

after jorge luis borges

a yellow rose
in a hotel glass
the man had kissed her
on the neck
had kissed her
on the mouth

but these kisses belonged to yesterday
there would be no moment
of revernalization

yellow roses came from china
open in may before our hybrids
unfold pink rugosities and baroque scent
expose dusty fissured yellow pearls.

~~~~~

~~~~~

To A Friend Who Sent Me Some Roses by John Keats

As late I rambled in the happy fields,
What time the skylark shakes the tremulous dew
From his lush clover covert;—when anew
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields;
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,
A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw
Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew
As is the wand that Queen Titania wields.
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy,
I thought the garden-rose it far excelled;
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me,
My sense with their deliciousness was spelled:
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea
Whispered of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquelled.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Asking for Roses by Robert Frost

A house that lacks, seemingly, mistress and master,
With doors that none but the wind ever closes,
Its floor all littered with glass and with plaster;
It stands in a garden of old-fashioned roses.

I pass by that way in the gloaming with Mary;
'I wonder,' I say, 'who the owner of those is.'
'Oh, no one you know,' she answers me airy,
'But one we must ask if we want any roses.'

So we must join hands in the dew coming coldly
There in the hush of the wood that reposes,
And turn and go up to the open door boldly,
And knock to the echoes as beggars for roses.

'Pray, are you within there, Mistress Who-were-you?'
'Tis Mary that speaks and our errand discloses.
'Pray, are you within there? Bestir you, bestir you!
'Tis summer again; there's two come for roses.

'A word with you, that of the singer recalling--
Old Herrick: a saying that every maid knows is
A flower unplucked is but left to the falling,
And nothing is gained by not gathering roses.'

We do not loosen our hands' intertwining
(Not caring so very much what she supposes),
There when she comes on us mistily shining
And grants us by silence the boon of her roses.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Briefly It Enters, and Briefly Speaks by Jane Kenyon

I am the blossom pressed in a book,
found again after two hundred years. . . .

I am the maker, the lover, and the keeper. . . .

When the young girl who starves
sits down to a table
she will sit beside me. . . .

I am food on the prisoner's plate. . . .

I am water rushing to the wellhead,
filling the pitcher until it spills. . . .

I am the patient gardener
of the dry and weedy garden. . . .

I am the stone step,
the latch, and the working hinge. . . .

I am the heart contracted by joy. . .
the longest hair, white
before the rest. . . .

I am there in the basket of fruit
presented to the widow. . . .

I am the musk rose opening
unattended, the fern on the boggy summit. . . .

I am the one whose love
overcomes you, already with you
when you think to call my name. . . .

~~~~~

~~~~~

lily has a rose by E. E. Cummings

lily has a rose
(i have none)
"don't cry dear violet
you may take mine"

"o how how how
could i ever wear it now
when the boy who gave it to
you is the tallest of the boys"

"he'll give me another
if i let him kiss me twice
but my lover has a brother
who is good and kind to all"

"o no no no
let the roses come and go
for kindness and goodness do
not make a fellow tall"

lily has a rose
no rose i've
and losing's less than winning(but
love is more than love)

~~~~~

~~~~~

Throw Roses by Carl Sandburg

THROW roses on the sea where the dead went down.
The roses speak to the sea,
And the sea to the dead.
Throw roses, O lovers—
Let the leaves wash on the salt in the sun.

~~~~~

~~~~~

Nobody knows this little Rose by Emily Dickinson

Nobody knows this little Rose --
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it --
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey --
On its breast to lie --
Only a Bird will wonder --
Only a Breeze will sigh --
Ah Little Rose -- how easy
For such as thee to die!

~three hundred plus pages~

~Microbial Lab doctoral student, Ben, surrounded by copies of his dissertation~

~~~~~

I don't often post images here of members of my lab group, and when I do I generally try to remember to ask them first.  Earlier in the week I asked Ben, the Microbial Lab's senior doctoral student, if he would take a photograph of himself with copies of his dissertation before he distributed them to his committee - and he kindly humored me and sent me this image.  It was taken in the middle of the night, after a few days with little or no sleep -- after months of writing and analyzing and re-analyzing and editing and reading and re-reading and pulling one's hair out.  These are silly requests of mine, photographs such as these - but to me they're wonderful documentation of the real work, the behind the scenes reality of the dedication and perserverance required to see such a thing as a dissertation through to the end.  Ben, in the middle of the night, surrounded by three hundred plus pages of blood, sweat and tears.  Corny I know - but true.

~~~~~

It's a funny thing, this whole dissertation process.  Today Ben said that he almost wished he could start over again, knowing what he knows now - because he would design better experiments - experiments more focused and directed and, well, just better.  Ultimately, the process of learning is (hopefully) almost always a humbling process, and reminds one of how much there is yet to learn.  The hope is that we can contribute, even a baby's step worth of data, and expand what is known.  That is what we try to do.

~~~~~

When I think of Ben and his time in the lab, I'm sure that he will be remembered as the 'hypothesis generator'.  It's a gift, truly.  Lorenz would definitely approve.

It is a good morning exercise for a research scientist to discard a pet hypothesis every day before breakfast. It keeps him young.

 

Konrad Lorenz, German (Austrian-born) ethologist (1903 - 1989)

 ~~~~~

Ben has spent much of his time in the lab studying very small things.  Yes, a microorganism is small - but he has been studying nanoparticles and nano-sized bacterial structures, or vesicles, that 'bleb' off of his favorite microorganism, a strain of Burkholderia.  Take a look at the image below.  Fascinating, isn't it?  The larger (oblong) structures are the bacteria - and the narrow 'tubes' (connecting different bacteria) are pili (which facilitate exchange of genetic material between bacteria).  The clump of small (very small) spheres are membrane vesicles.  They do all sorts of interesting things.  Ben has taught us much about the membrane vesicle...and he's shared hypotheses galore.   

~Ben's much beloved Burkholderia~

 

~~~~~

 

Ben sent me a link to the Terry Beveridge Memorial Lecture late this afternoon, which on the last slide has this poem about 'the microbe' that I hadn't seen before.  I thought I'd end this post by sharing it with you.

The microbe is so very small
You cannot make him out at all.
But many sanguine people hope
To see him down a microscope.
His jointed tongue that lies beneath
A hundred curious rows of teeth;
His seven tufted tail with lots
Of lovely pink and purple spots
On each of which a pattern stands,
Composed of forty seperate bands;
His eyebrows of a tender green;
All these have never yet been seen -
But Scientists, who ought to know,
Assure us they must be so ...
Oh! let us never, never doubt
What nobody is sure about!

--  Hilaire Belloc in More Beasts for Worse Children (1897)

~chicken guilt~

 

~a Belfield rose, petals curling at the end of a warm day~

~~~~~

The roses are beginning to wake up again, new growth emerging and buds forming - a definite celebration in response to the end of the dog-days of August.  Much has been going on around the lab:  my senior doctoral student (on the far left in these images and the Jolly Green Giant here) got copies of his dissertation into his committee today (for a scheduled 28 September defense), another student is having success with a new software program to help further analyze her proteomic data, there is writing and samples being run, and I even, for the first time in 15 years, applied for a new position.  I sent off my application materials at 2:53 am this morning, after a long night of obsessing over details - finally deciding that the details were probably not all that important at the end of the day.  I also desperately wanted to get back to 'the lab mission' - writing and submitting to the 'new streamlined' peer-review process an exhausting number of publications in one years time.

~from Nearing-Zero by Nick D. Kim~

~~~~~

The Microbial Lab is fortunate that Katherine is still sending poems our way, even in her absence.  Not only is she still sending poems, but she's also still working on two important manuscripts.  How nice is that?

And what is it about chickens?  Bird dogs and chickens.  A collection of poems titled Chickenhead.  And now a wonderful poem from one chicken's perspective.  Perhaps we are a nation with collective chicken guilt?  

The White Chicken Gives a First Hand Account
- taken from an Associated Press story

by Ceci Peri

I love the red
wheelbarrow
rusting
by the barn---
my sturdy
nesting place,
my refuge
the night
raccoons
laid waste
the coop,
killed all
the laying hens
but me.

Farmer
buried them
in the far yard,
and Laslo,
the brown dog,
dug them
back up,
nuzzled each
gray bundle
against the long
hen house
and, there,
all morning
stood guard.

Laslo,
brother of my heart.

~~~~~ 

~a lab during wartime...with poetry~

 

~Rudbeckia laciniata L., greenheaded/cutleaf coneflower~

~~~~~

At a garden show last October at Magnolia Gardens, I got a tiny little greenheaded coneflower - and it is blooming now in my dog-days-of-summer garden.  It's a sweet thing, perfect really - there's something about yellow in the hot August garden, perhaps it's a gentle plea to accept the warmth instead of fighting it?

~~~~~

Yesterday evening, a few members of the lab met Katherine and her husband for beers at a favorite watering hole.  Katherine had just finished up her first week at her new job downtown - and she was desperate to see everyone - and we quickly caught her up on various aspects of the lab's new 'wartime' life.  Everyone decided to meet every other week at this spot on Friday evening - consider it our new 'ground zero' for coping.

No matter how difficult the war, poetry always makes things a little brighter.  With six of us sitting around the table, Katherine read a wonderful poem to us by a poet that was definitely new to me (and most likely the rest of us at the table, except for Katherine's husband).  Here is a bit of the bio from the poet's website:

With degrees in physics from U.C. Berkeley and Stanford University, Weisburd has worked as a policy analyst for Congress, a science journalist at Science News Magazine and an outreach coordinator for a nanotechnology program at the University of New Mexico. 

Now how fun is that?  (The Microbial Lab has an affinity for poet-scientists...or is it scientist-poets?)

~~~~~

Little God Origami by Stefi Weisburd

The number of corners in the soul can't
compare with the universe's dimensions folded
neatly into swans. In the soul's
space, one word on a thousand pieces
of paper the size of cookie fortunes falls
from the heavens. At last, the oracular
answer, you cry, pawing at the scraps that twirl
like seed-pod helicopters. Alas, the window
to your soul needs a good scrubbing, so
the letters doodle into indecipherables just
like every answer that has rained
down through history, and you realize, in
your little smog of thought, that death
will simply be the cessation of asking, a thousand
cranes unfolding themselves and returning to the trees.

 

~~~~~ 

"You gonna eat that?"

~Crocisma, burning bright in the garden~ 

~~~~~

Handsome Stan and I have returned from our brief Pointer Sister vacation - after a nice visit with my Dad in Virginia.  The infamous pseudo-sisters have been released from the Paw Plaza Hotel and are happy to be home.   More about my trip later...

 ...because for now - I'd like to let you know that a much-loved local poet, Richard Garcia, is the week's Guest Blogger over at The Best American Poetry.  Go and read a bit.  It's great stuff.  Richard is the spouse of the Microbial Lab's very own Poet Laureate, Katherine Williams - and has been mentioned in these pages before (and before that and before even that).  Plus, my ever-charming and interesting lab is mentioned in the comments of his post titled Dogs and Poetry - and a commentor includes this wonderful dog-poem in her comment (sorry Katherine, but I had to see it before next week's lab meeting...):

A Poem by Karen Shephard's Dog, Birch in 'Unleashed: Poems by Writers' Dogs'

"You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?
You gonna eat that?

I'll eat that."

~~~~~ 

~a christmas letter in late May~

~Hydrangea macrophylla 'Pia'~

~~~~~

This little hydrangea, Pia, has been happy this spring - for several years she was in a pot on my deck and finally I put her in the ground ('she' does seem like a 'she', don't you think?) last summer.  She's blooming nicely this year - happily - and I'm glad that her roots have the freedom to roam a bit.  I tend to favor the blue hydrangea colors - which means I don't have to do much, since my garden's soil tends to be acidic, thus making aluminum more bioavailable.

It's definitely hydrangea season.  The oakleaf is covered - the lacecaps are beautiful shades of blue and the paniculatas are just showing a hint of flowers.  Soon the fragrance of the gardenias will be whirling around the hydrangea flowers, acting as if they are friends who haven't spoken in at least a year.

~~~~~ 

As for me - I've been really cranky today.  I'm not sure if it's cranky - or anxious - or tired - or frustrated - or all of the above.  The next several months are going to be a challenging and stressful work transition - I am very hopeful, but it will just take alot of time and energy - time that takes me away from the science.  The science going on in my lab right now is so fun - there is a sense of solid contribution and discovery - everyone is frantically writing manuscripts (with more waiting for attention in the wings) - and yes, writing means there is active learning going on.  I wish I felt lighter and could enjoy it - but instead my days feel as if they are all one giant sigh. 

Yes, this too shall pass (isn't that what 'they' say?). 

Today was Wednesday - so time for our weekly laboratory meeting.  The senior doctoral student was absent, as he was conducting several simultaneous experiments in the lab - so the rest of us, the 'coral group' discussed our manuscripts in progress, our dreams of future manuscripts - as I sighed, thinking about reviewing all of them (which feels good generally - but because of today's mood, resulted in another long sigh).  Before our discussion about all of this active writing we're all involved in, the lab's Poet Laureate read us a poem.  Katherine previously read a poem of Parker's to the lab - but today she couldn't resist reading another.    

~~~~~

A Christmas Letter by Alan Michael Parker

We're never sure anymore.
We redecorate the living room

in a natural theme—grasses in pots,
a cherry veneer, greens and reds—

while in the meadow a zoomburb grows.
The sky tops up, the birds

are strung like dirty pearls.
We're never holier than this:

cutting through the park-like park
on the drive to the office, choosing to be late,

the park-like park cutting through the city,
the city cutting through geology.

And all day the music's in our heads
and planes narrate the weather.

We never know what to feel.
We go to the gym to go

to the beach, where erosion rules.
We reward ourselves with a movie.

Our food glistens in plastic,
kind of like our bodies.

Who can be alone?
This year, so many people died,

and last year, and more next year:
we're unable to be surprised.

Ah, ye gods. I write to you
from prison, surrounded by your flowers.

Thank you all. In the months ahead
let us gather together—to nosh upon

one day as though it were bread and jam.
Cocoa on a snowy afternoon,

or a little wine. Life.
The family is well, the dogs get along.

Love—

Alan Michael Parker

 

 

 

 

approx. seven hours in the life of a japanese iris (and a poetry reading by Richard Garcia)

Approximately 8 am, 24 May

~~~~~

Approximately 1 pm, 24 May

~~~~~

Approximately 3 pm, 24 May

~~~~~

This evening, at 6:30 pm, the Charleston Poet Richard Garcia (spouse of the Microbial Laboratory's very own Poet Laureate, Katherine Williams) will be reading from his new chapbook of prose poems "Chickenhead" (Foothills Publishing 2009). 

  

 

Richard's reading is part of the Piccolo Spoleto Festival's Sundown Poetry Series - a wonderful (free) event) held at the City Gallery at Waterfront Park (and while you're there, check out Ben Timpson's work).

Below is one of the poems from "Chickenhead".

~~~~~

Nightstand by Richard Garcia


A book is a finer pillow than a stone.  A drowned book floats face-down.
A book in a sandstorm constantly changes its mind.  Who has not heard
of the book carried over the heart that stopped a bullet?

A watch was in love with a thief, but the thief had many watches. He
wore several on each arm.  Like most watches, eventually it got sick of
dreaming.

Nobody cares that the book eats so little to stay alive.  Nobody cares
about the book of bandages.  There is a book looming on the horizon.
The book open to the sky is the horizon.

What to say about the water bottle?  It hardly exists, having already
failed as a river.  And the rain, tapping its fingers, so impatient,
hasn't it already failed as a cloud?

 

~mostly~

If I was a bit more organized these days, I'd be able to quickly find the tag for this rose - bought several years ago from the Monticello Center for Historic Plants booth at the Charleston Garden Show...it might be a climbing 'Old Blush' but I don't know for sure.  Regardless of what its name is, it's quite lovely.

~~~~~

The Pointer Sisters and the Stannish are tucked away safely (if not begrudgingly) at the Paw Plaza Hotel, and I am mostly packed - the lab is leaving on a road trip to Philadelphia early tomorrow.  Our presentations (all six of them!) are prepared, a minivan is rented, and Katherine is staying in Charleston to keep an eye out on the lab - and my grant report just got submitted ten minutes ago.

Yep, its been busy.  I'm a tired camper.

I'll leave you tonight with the poem that Katherine read to us last week.

Have a good week, okay?

~~~~~

Life on Earth by Claire Bateman

Mostly, it was about

eating, & being,

food.  Everyone

came & stayed

for epochs.

Translucent worms

pushed the annual

eighteen tons of earth

through crop & gizzard.

Ants milked captive aphid herds,

stroking their sides

to coax the sticky fluid.

The octopus perfected its monotonous

embrace & release,

& the starfish turned

its stomach inside out,

opened its hinged jaws

as if yawning. 

After awhile, someone

invented the family,

forks, romance,

& related culinary fantasies.

In retrospect,

it wasn’t unlike dreaming.

You could even say it had

a kind of sweetness–

everything about to become

something else, taking

its time; yes,

it was hunger

that made the world

go ‘round,

& on the good days

we could love

how it needed us

terribly as a child:

always naked, never

at fault, the best

we would ever

leave behind.