Summary

The author, Daniel Barry, reflects on a serene moment of writing poetry at a picnic table, sharing the space with various insects, and finding a meditative and expansive sense of comfort in their presence.

Abstract

In "Insects Don’t Appreciate Poetry," Daniel Barry captures a tranquil scene where he immerses himself in the art of poetry writing. As he pens his thoughts, he is joined by a myriad of insects, including tiny green ones with black dot eyes, ants, a gnat, a spider, a fly, and a ladybug. Rather than being disturbed by their intrusion, Barry embraces the sensation of their movements across his skin, finding it both meditative and a test of patience. He humorously imagines the insects' journey as a contest and marvels at their determination, even as he recites his poetry to them, convinced that the vibrations of his voice might affect their pace. Despite the distractions, Barry continues to write and read, ultimately expressing gratitude for the absurd yet comforting expansion of his personal space boundaries.

Opinions

The author enjoys the presence of insects during his poetry writing session, viewing them as part of the creative process rather than a nuisance.
He is amused by the idea that the insects might be engaged in some sort of competition or challenge as they explore his body.
Barry shows a sense of respect and fascination for the insects, refraining from forcibly removing them and imagining their possible motivations.
He finds a unique connection with nature, likening the insects' touch to a form of massage and himself to a novice Saint Francis of Assisi.
The author believes that the insects are indifferent to his poetry, yet he continues to share his work with them as an audience.
Barry reflects on the experience with a sense of humor and philosophical insight, suggesting that others should try such a meditative interaction with nature.
He appreciates the unexpected expansion of his comfort zone, acknowledging the value of sharing space with these small creatures.

Insects Don’t Appreciate Poetry

Poetry

Tucking onto a picnic table, I open a book of poetry.

And, placing the book face down on the table I begin to write some poetry for myself.

It’s the kind I'm most fond of, the kind that effortlessly oozes out of my fingertips

It’s times like this that I wish I could just… write… faster… so that the words manifesting on the page could rival the speed of my incoming thoughts.

By and by, Insects appear.

little green ones with minuscule black dots for eyes march from right to left, under my nose, across my picnic table.

They soon discover my elbows and collectively agree to traverse my hairy Irish-Italian arms and legs.

A journey across the epidermis to test my patience.

There are now at least six of this kind promenading my skin at a single time.

Defying gravity as they patiently crawl upside down, in whichever direction the paths of my limbs take them.

One of them has made it to my t-shirt — congratulations! But where are you going?

Perhaps it’s some sort of contest — the last fellow to cease crawling or the first to be banished by my gargantuan sausage fingers wins!

I refuse to remove them by force — they could be counting their steps, and God knows they’ll make themselves miserable if they don’t reach 10,000.

Besides, I am becoming quite fond of feeling thirty-eight legs on my body at a single time.

And so I try to distract them by other means — I recite my poetry to them, the audience, galumphing on the venue of my corpse.

None can understand my words but surely they can feel it pulsating the venue — oscillating waves of sound through my body.

No one stops to feel — no discerning, microsecond pause. I convince myself that some have even accelerated — their crawl becoming a relative walk.

Hypnotized by your steps I see?

I continue to write and ignore the dozens of nerves telling my brain that something strange is happening.

A Gnat attempts to spelunk my ear canal. Ants step over my shoes.

At this point I finally realize that Insects have no conception of personal space.

An unrelated Spider the size of a penny races with the pace of an impatient Wall Street stockbroker across my thigh.

A lone Fly nibbles at my ankles while a prudent Ladybug looks on from some far-off precipice. At least they haven’t yet invited the Mosquitos.

Me and my Insects puffing the same air

All the while I continue to write this…

It’s actually quite meditative; you should try it sometime.

Getting massaged by these little nodes of life — and I, their grateful benefactor. Thanks for this absurd expansion of my range of comfort.

I feel like a novice Saint Francis of Assisi, with Insects and Spiders having taken the place of Mammals and Birds, persistently multiplying.

Putting down my writing and picking up my book I continue to read.

More from Daniel Barry

Birds Are Persons

Poetry

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