This little exercise is an example of a verse form called the A L'Arora, or alarora, one of several new forms invented by writing teacher Laura Lamarca and called things that sound like some part of her name. This one was invented to help students cross the gap between Free Verse and actual verse forms. That "conversational" irregular rhythm that Free Verse writers love is welcome. An A L'Arora consists of eight-line stanzas, at least four of them. (Careful! This easy form lends itself to long rambling poems.) Only the sixth and eighth lines regularly rhyme. The rhyme scheme can thus be notated by word-nerds as abcdefgf.
I wanted to post this on Substack, then thought that I don't know whether any Substack readers are spider-phobic. Readers of this site should be accustomed to all kinds of spiders and bugs and gross-outs by now. You read about large caterpillars that sting; you read about large caterpillars that stink. You can stand to look at a cute little spider that does neither.
Cellar spiders are harmless. Their favorite thing is those fungus gnats that like to zoom, as if on dares, into other animals' eyes, ears, mouths, and noses. If you see cellar spiders in the house you probably need them in the house. However this photo was supplied to Google by Xceptional Wildlife Removal. If you can't enjoy having cellar spiders in the house, at least treat them as wildlife to be carefully removed. (They'll usually stay outside if they're put outside--unlike wasps, who tend and defend their nests.)
This wet summer bred masses of fungus gnats. The wasps tried, but couldn't possibly eat enough to keep the gnats from making themselves a nuisance. We needed all the help we could get.
So here is a celebration of the office-mates I've enjoyed watching since August. They've been no trouble at all; in fact they've been quite entertaining.
In summer the computer screen
attracts tiny gnats and moths and flies
by dozens, parading up and down
and back, forth, sidewise, in circles,
each promenade a scent tour
of another invisible tiny trail,
a titillating gossip through
the last hour's P-mail.
A spider weaves a horizontal web
between the screen and a book
left on the desk for reference.
When the computer is in use
she hovers, fascinated by
insect-like movements between
the air beyond and plastic
layers of the screen.
She doesn't catch much here
although I'm on her side,
thinking the prancing nuisances
are better recycled into spider.
One does buzz into her web
but, instead of tangling
in what must now be dusty strands,
flies off, leaves damage dangling.
Yet somehow spider gets enough
to keep her watching the action,
the endless movement of pixels.
She'd like to pounce on a pixel,
as if she could eat those words,
crunch numbers for snacks,
feast on a Poem-a-Day,
stuffing herself to the max.
It takes her about a week to learn
that pixels can't be seized,
because her web's to the far right side
where brightest light attracts most gnats;
pixels left and center tease.
She still wtches each letter
with avid eyes, but stirs only
when real gnats' flight promises better.
In another week her mate
weaves a horizontal web below.
Neither has much hunting luck
where the pixels come and go.
How many calories does it take
to fuel a spider? Few.
He takes his week to see for himself:
pixels are only good to view.
The pair of food porn addicts
survive, but can they mate?
Probably that neds more protein
than the screen yields.
Early in the second week
the male moves on.
"He is gone, let him go, God blast him,"
the spider tells herself. "I'm glad he's gone."
When the nights grow chillier
gnats die out, as always.
Today, for the first time in
more than fifty days,
the webs hang empty.
I'd like to tidy dusty webs away,
but don't. The spiders may return
the next warm day.
I'd like to think the female
caught up with the male
before some mouse or bird did.
Outdoors, they found prey,
maybe the place where all the gnats go.
Maybe, protein-fed, she ovulated,
he produced sperm cells,
and Patient and Impatient mated.
Nature is not a publisher.
Nature does not demand
that every couple's story end
with happily-ever-after.
Actually most don't.
No red ribbon bow
is wrapped around each spider's tale.
I'll never know.
But from the ceiling, as I type,
descends a cellar spiderling,
gnat-size, but moving slowly
on a straight line of silk,
rappelling to the laptop's edge,
efficient, cellar-bound.
I wish it a good winter,
safe on the ground.
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