The question of damage caused by deer came up yesterday. Mathgent posted: “I worked with a guy who lived in Marin county. Deer were destroying his expensive greenery. He wasn’t able to stop them. He had heard that the odor of lion dung would drive them away. The zoo allowed him to take away a couple of sackfuls. He spread the stuff out and it worked — no more deer. But during the long drive back from the zoo, the nauseating smell had permeated the upholstery of his car. He wasn’t able to get it out. He had to get rid of the car.”
I’d file that under “you can’t win,” right behind the history of the Jets. I replied: “Yup, that can happen. I’m never giving my brother-in-law a ride to the airport again.”
A steady stream of poems passes by me for OC. Most seem fine to my untrained eye but don’t grab me in the special way that makes me want to share them. Some seem so bad I’ll share a snippet. So today is an especially wonderful day – October 1, 2026. Here are two that floated by!
The first is “No Map,” by Stephen Dobyns from today’s Writer’s Almanac.
How close the clouds press this October first
and the rain—a gray scarf across the sky.
In separate hospitals my father and a dear friend
lie waiting for their respective operations,
hours on a table as surgeons crack their chests.
They were so brave when I talked to them last
as they spoke of the good times we would share
in the future. To neither did I say how much
I loved them, nor express the extent of my fear.
Their bodies are delicate glass boxes
at which the world begins to fling its stones.
Is this the day their long cry will be released?
How can I live in this place without them?
But today is also my son’s birthday.
He is eight and beginning his difficult march.
To him the sky is welcoming, the road straight.
Far from my house he will open his presents—
a book, a Swiss army knife, some music. Where
is his manual of instructions? Where is his map
showing the dark places and how to escape them?
The next is by Stuart Dybek and is called “Nine Bluegills.” It’s today’s poem-a-day from poets.org.
Nine Bluegills
Gutted, scaled, rinsed with the water they swam in,
lie on my uncle’s dock from which they were caught.
Loon Lake is opaque with sunset, but in the dock’s shadow
crawdads on a blue sand bottom gather for a feast.
Tonight, fish in frothing butter will brown in cast iron pans,
but now is the hour of panfish striking a mayfly hatch
as plash by echoing plash, the lake hidden by willows
and pines becomes a reflection from which the moon
rises, “born like us to kiss the water,” my cousin Vera says.
Home from frosh year at Oberlin, summoned by loons
for a night swim, she stands robed in a white towel, her wand,
a Hamm’s, foams in the glow of the kerosene lantern brought
to see my catch and to guide her back to the dock in the dark.
I’m fourteen, on my knees cleaning bluegills.
This is what the poet said about it:
“I grew up in an inner-city South Side of Chicago neighborhood, obviously not the setting for this poem. It’s set on a small northern lake up in Michigan. I wanted, in the length of a sonnet, to recreate it as I’ve remembered. It’s fair to say it’s a poem of place, but ‘place’ can be defined as part lake and bluegills, and part the magical sensibility of youth. I hoped that would suddenly be felt when the poem makes that turn called the volta—that gear shift that sonnets are about, when a nineteen-year-old girl dares to say, ‘born like us to kiss the water.’ She really said that. And I’ve been convinced of it ever since.”
Gotta like a man with a moustache.
The Red Sox were in over their heads this year, with a lineup that was cleanly dispatched by Max (Fried), last night, and Cam (Schlittler) the night before. Very happy to note the first Yankee run was Luis Garcia Jr’s dinger, the ex-Gnat, who finished the night 3 for 5. Boone had him batting third: a show of confidence that was rewarded. Will the bats stay hot against Tampa’s arms? Should be a good series.
Why not the guillotine for Tennessee? They keep botching their executions. Out of four scheduled for this year, only one went off properly. The method they use is “lethal” injection, with lethal in quotes because it ain’t lethalling people. One execution had to be canceled because they couldn’t find the guy’s vein. I’m not kidding.
And then, just yesterday, they tried to execute a woman for the first time in 200 years in the state: Christa Pike. Let’s hail their progress: they found a vein. And they injected her with two doses of the drug. Then they waited.
And waited.
And waited.
The media was present, but a curtain was lowered between Ms. Pike and the observers, so all they could do is hear. And what they heard was her breathing and snoring. For nearly an hour. One of the reporters was overheard saying “F*ck this sh*t, let’s go for pizza.” (No he wasn’t.) Then the state gave up, called it off, and took her to a hospital.
Not only did the drug not kill her, it was no help at all for her snoring problem.
It must have seemed Shakespearian: To sleep, perchance to snore . . .
Here’s Christa. Still walking among us. Pretty well-rested. Sup, Girl?
Wanna learn something new? C’mon, it won’t kill you. In the puzzle recently there were a pair of clues leading to this:
Time flies like an arrow; fruit flies like a banana.
The word “flies” is used in two different meanings. Commenter Doctor John noted that there’s a term for that: Antanaclasis. Yup. I looked it up. It’s when a word (or phrase) is repeated, but with different meanings. Ben Franklin’s “We must all hang together or we will hang separately” is a good example. Othello’s “put out the light and then put out the light” is another: the first saves on electricity and the second kills Desdy. BTW, in a recent production of Othello in Tennessee, he’s unable to kill her: couldn’t find a vein.
Here they are in happier times.
There are politicians I admire. But ever since Caity’s graduation from the nursing program at RVCC, I’ve loved Cory Booker. He spoke at the ceremony. He was funny, inspirational, eloquent — it was a brilliant speech. I wasn’t planning on returning to the Senate floor today, but this letter appeared in the NYT.
“As I watched the moving exchange between Senator Cory Booker, Democrat of New Jersey, and the former special prosecutor Jack Smith, I was filled with pride. Their courage was an inspiration in these dark times.
“Senator Booker presented the facts about President Trump’s efforts to overturn the 2020 election and the Republican Party’s perpetuation of the lie that the election was stolen from him coherently and forcefully. Mr. Smith responded about what his investigation uncovered about Mr. Trump’s role in the violence at the Capitol on Jan. 6, 2021, with a calm, controlled demeanor.
“The critical importance of standing up to this mendacious, self-serving and corrupt administration cannot be overestimated. My sincere gratitude to these brave men. Hopefully, speaking the truth and demonstrating integrity will inspire others.”
Joanne E. Reed, Rye, NY.
We’re going to let Smith and CB close for us today. See you tomorrow!
