Fifty years ago this week, The Blob oozed off the silver screen and slipped through America's nightmares . Of course, I didn’t see it until the 1970’s. In fact, the version I saw might have been a remake. Nevertheless, a boy of 8 or 9, I was captivated. What awful, gleeful, destruction. Yuck!!! However, even now, I am drawn to one short scene. A young man is getting his hair washed in a barber shop. As the barber scrubs the man's hair, the blob rises from the sinks drain and, amidst screams of terror and pain, consumes the young man’s skull. I remember crying – not because of the screams, not because I was afraid, but because I felt so sorry for that unlucky man. How unfair! How terrible! I believe that scene sparked my first sincere, tangible feelings of sympathy. Funny - that purple pool of sludge and slime made me human.
As noted in past entries, my family and I recently vacationed beneath the Grand Tetons in Moose, Wyoming. I was surrounded by God's handiwork - the miracle of Nature. The scenery, the wildlife - I was and am in awe. My notebook was ever ready. I wanted to capture this beauty and my awe within my poetry; however, such muse only inspired two small poems. I once believed that poetry was an external force that surrounded us all - much like Emerson's philosophies regarding Nature. As a poet, it was my obligation to become a transparent eyeball, tap into poetry, and allow it to guide my pen.
Now, I'm not quite sure. Considering the Nature that surrounded me - mountain and moose, bison and butterfly, I should have been able to write volumes - yet, only two poems. Perhaps poetry is not external. Perhaps it's internal - in me waiting...waiting for me to pick up a pen and look within rather than outward.
Inspired by my dog - although she is quite young and is not a pointer. Poetry is full of mistruth!!
For Now, He’ll Lick the Sun The old pointer rises from his grass patch, muscle and sense focused on a squirrel traversing the fence line, a happy child bobbing across imaginary tightropes. But his hips bear only the weight of chases splitting sleep’s meadow and glade. The afternoon retains its warmth. There’s still time to sniff the day. He’ll savor squirrel meat and heart within the keep of different shadows.
