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Anniversary Remembrance

Sometimes I envy them the lives they lived, the death they died:
They perished at the peak of lovers’ hopes and nuptial pride—
No growing old for that glad monarch or his happy bride.

Some twenty years ago at summer’s end I saw them glide
In glory men may never know: bright-winged and compound-eyed,
And then burst into bug-splats on my windshield side by side.

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Daniel Pugh MD, born in 1938, was an enthusiastic amateur folk-singer in the 50s and 60s, and is now retired from 50 years of practicing psychiatry. 

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5 Responses

  1. Jeff Eardley

    Great stuff Daniel. I couldn’t see the punch-line coming, although the clues were all there. From one amateur folk-singer to another, thanks for a great laugh out loud.

    Reply
    • Dan Pugh

      You also owe thanks to Classical Poets for your not seeing the punch line coming. I had forgotten to request that the accompanying artwork NOT be a picture of butterflies, but SCP saw the danger of that and provided a perfect picture.

      Reply
  2. Frank Rable

    Dr. Pugh,
    You fooled me. And I loved it! I thought, “Why monarch?” “Does compound-eyed mean bifocals?” Then epiphany of epiphanies! Poor doomed butterflies.
    A Rorschach test on a windshield.

    Reply
  3. Rachel

    Ha! Right up to “compound-eyed,” this had me thinking of the ghosts of some royal couple killed during the World Wars. (Who? Archduke Ferdinand and Sophie? I couldn’t make it out.)

    The last line bug-splatted all that completely. Thanks for a good smile!

    Reply
    • Dan Pugh

      It’s interesting that this poem was classed by the website as humor, and indeed it made you smile. It always makes people laugh. I expect it to.
      But I was not smiling when I wrote it. My marriage was falling apart. My heart and thoughts were grieving as I rambled around aimlessly walking the dog – and then I was unexpectedly visited by the muse for the first time in my life.
      The poem that sprouted out of my miserable musings seemed at the time to express nothing but self-pity grown mawkishly extravagant. The violence of the death of the butterflies mirrored the violence of the impending dismemberment of my little human family.
      And yet it seemed to be some kind of art, so I wrote it down and preserved it. I have settled into viewing whatever art there is in it as belonging to the “Country and Western” category – both funny and tragic.

      Reply

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