A Flash Fiction Tale of 'Stella, the Ceili-Dancing Squash (Stink) Bug'

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For one Monday Poetry Bus, a few years ago, TFE had requested that we board the streetcar named desire and finish a poem that he had begun a while ago, which happens to mention the name Stella (the beer and Paul McCartney's daughter's clothing line.) 

Well, I had an incident with a precocious bug in the Tutoring Resource Center which I coordinated at the local university. After learning that there was an infestation of these 'squash bugs' (or 'stink bugs') in another building where I had just visited, it dawned on me that perhaps, this little critter had hitched a ride in my hair because it wanted to hang out in the TRC. All this inspired a little flash fiction tale with the main character, unbelievably....Stella! So here 'tis: 

Stella, the Ceili-Dancing Squash ('Stink') Bug

by Jeanne Iris Lakatos

A March sun warmed the oak tree, standing at the entrance of the Old Main Building. Melting snow formed puddles in which blue birds and sparrows graciously bathed.

"Oh my," yawned Stella the squash bug. "It's already March! St. Padhraig's Day will soon be here, and I must stretch me dancing legs. What's that I hear? A lovely professor humming a ceili dance?! Why, I'll just leap into those long brunette locks and see where she takes me."

Stella waited until Jeanne passed right under her branch, took a deep breath and JUMPED!

"Ah! There we go!" she smiled.

Jeanne never saw the squash bug, clinging to the top of her head. She moved quickly across the campus, still humming the merry tune while Stella bounced to the rhythm of Jeanne’s Stella McCartney heels clicking along the brick sidewalk.

The professor opened the entrance door to Berkshire Hall and stepped down the hall to the Tutoring Resource Center where she headed straight to her CD player to raise the volume of her Celtic music album. Ah, Stella loved that melody and decided to move a bit closer, so she leaped off Jeanne’s hair, and oh no! She fell right into the blinds against the window...flat on her back!

"Please, PLEASE help me, Professor!" she cried, flailing her dancing legs. "See? I'm doing a ceili dance! The Connemara!"

Jeanne heard the THUNK of Stella’s fall, and peeked behind the blinds to see the squash bug’s wiggling legs. 

"Ahhhh!" screamed Jeanne, "A huge bug just fell from somewhere into the window!" Eeeeewwwww! Someone, please…. Help me get rid of this thing!"

“Thing?!” I’m of a proud line of perfectly fine squash bugs, I’ll have you know,” retorted the indignant Stella.

A brave Biology student calmly held out her hand to the bug. Stella elegantly crawled into her fingers.

"Go raibh maith agat!" she smiled to the student.

The girl gently placed her on a twig outside the door. Stella sighed, "I'll just wait here on this maple tree branch until the Professor returns. I'll jump onto her hair again, and when she brings me back into that joyful room, I'll show her a few ceili steps."

Jeanne thanked the student, thought to herself, “I could use a Stella right about now! Too bad they don’t allow beer on campus.”

Instead, she searched through her Stella McCartney catalog and made plans to buy a new hat.

***********************************************************************************

Extra Credit Haiku: 

I, dressed in Stella,

he, with Stella beer, 

chatting through a stellar night.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Your Smile - Votre Sourire

       

                                  This is a little patisserie in Rheims, France, 

                     where I had a lovely cup of coffee and an almond croissant. 

Your Smile                                                       Votre Sourire

I am alone                                                         Je suis seul.
but I am not lonely,                                         mais je n'ai pas de solitude,
for I have your smile                                       parce que j'ai votre sourire
in my heart.                                                      dans mon coeur.
Your love flows through me                          Votre amour, le courant a traversé moi 
with delightful enthusiasm                            avec l'enthusiasme ravissant,
as a cup of warm tea                                        comme une tassede thé chaud
in a French cafe                                                dans le restaurant du café en français
on a rainy day                                                   sur un jour de pluvieux
brings solace                                                     effectuer la consolation
and quiet laughter                                            et rire de calme
to my soul.                                                         a mon âme.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos                                       © Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic in English and en Francais, click HERE.) 

Still Life Comes Alive

I've had my Still Life posted on this blog for a long time, and this Circular Still Life is simply a gathering of objects found in my office, some of which are souvenirs of Dublin. The complete collection consists of a lovely fern, an old "That was Easy" button from Staples, a coaster from Connemara, an empty bottle that once held Tipperary water, a de-stress ball in the shape of a globe, and a few extra pretzels tossed in for flavor. The title is Still Life, but life really isn't still now, is it? That said, a circular motion can breathe new life into a moment of stillness. 

Circular Still Life photo

by Jeanne I. Lakatos

Three Haikus on Circularity

Through simplicity

circularity's presence

gathers the spirit. 

***********************

Guided by the heart

a Treasure inspires

this yearning for the return.

***********************

See the returning

composed of inner fervor 

rhapsody sows Love.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

To hear me recite these, please click HERE. 

Upon Viewing the Bog Bodies Exhibit at the National Museum of Ireland

On one of my research trips to Ireland, I visited the National Museum and viewed an exhibit of Bog Bodies. These were individuals who had been discovered buried for centuries within the bogs throughout the country. I was struck by my own emotions as I viewed these remains. At one point, I just wanted to place a warm blanket over their leathered remains and wish them a safe journey to be with our Lord. 

I took this photo of the National Museum of Ireland in Dublin, 

whilst sitting on a bench just outside the National Library.

Upon Viewing the Bog Bodies of Ireland
Inside
the exquisitely sculpted rotunda,
behind exhibits of gold and amber adornments,
exposed in tombs of plexiglass,
lay remains of people
who once held hands,
smiled gently to their loved ones,
kissed softly on moonlit nights.

Centuries pass,

and as her silent witness meets theirs,
she senses a tear's warmth
and whispers a prayer
that their spirits are far away
and at peace.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

You can hear my reading of this poem by clicking HERE.

A Humble Creation

I am posting this poem in honor of my daughter's Birthday. She is indeed a 'humble creation of the Almighty Artist.'  

Photo from Google Images

A Humble Creation

With every minute
the Mighty Sculpture
molds and shapes me 
into that which will
inevitably 
become the fulfillment 
of my dreams ~
His promise,
and I can feel
the special pliancy
of His wondrous hands
as He blends
the Sorrow and the Pain
into the sculpted Reality of 
Love and Joy 
in my life. 
I am a humble creation 
of the Almighty Artist. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(To hear my reading of this poem is on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

Trains! A Phantasmagorical Journey

Grand Central Station, NYC

Photo from Google Images

One week, my poetry group leader asked us to consider taking the train. Well, my trains of thought below switch tracks now and then: from London's Victoria Station Underground to the New York City's Metro North, which in 2005-06, transported me from Connecticut via Brewster, NY to Grand Central Station, NY City, a phantasmagorical experience, centered with love. 

Phantasmagoria

My train of thought travels

along rickety tracks

holding onto every second

of life, whirling images

in hues of benevolence,

common sense,  and innocence

trying to make sense of it all,

love

Thrilling, drilling,

milling, willing,

this train has made stops:

friendships, family,

laughter, tears

love

Dedication, rumination,

allocation, tribulation,

abandonment, containment

achievement, bereavement

love

Once, I rode the train in London.

It stopped suddenly, and we

were told to evacuate.

The bomb did not detonate!

Divine Love

I stepped through a city of bedlam

eyes of fear, fearless, far from home

found my way to the British Library

back to my daughter’s smiling eyes

alive and satisfied, determined:

Loved

Clickety-click, the clock ticks

in synchronicity with New York City.

Passengers wait, date, relate, abate

whirling past the swans, evergreens,

quaint boutiques of Chappaqua:

country love

to Harlem’s door,

racing past graffiti,

colors smearing, words jeering

interlocking letters on a wall

tcxtual shout outs: anxious, proud

confused, fused, words:

city love

Bridge to tunnel, dark, lights blink

so many tracks, interlace under

this train slowly squeals to a stop,

doors open; we walk through the gates

under a Grand Central firmament

to blend in with the multitude

and I am one...

love.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

(You can hear my reading of this by clicking HERE.)

A Pen, So Simple

 

A Pen, So Simple 

A pen, so simple

and fundamental

yet functional

and dependable

somewhat ornamental.

 

A pen, so simple…

of brawny rosewood,

so my fingers could

glide as they write 

to open minds.

 

A pen, so simple,

expresser of mine.

Now, where did I place you?

Oh, Saints Divine,

I implore you,

please help me to find

my much-needed pen

for

without it, 

I feel…………

                                 inert!

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

 

The Wild Irish Girl: a national tale, written by Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan)

The Wild Irish Girl by Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan) and image from book

1888 edition from my collection

In her novel, The Wild Irish Girl, Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan) introduces the ‘national tale’ and exquisitely moves the reader through a traditional, romantic legacy in the epistolary genre of literary style. Moreover, she employs the extensive use of explanatory sidebars to enlighten her readers of unjust penal codes within the Act of Union 1801. 

In addition, she unifies the reader with her cause, that of representing the Irish 'wild' or natural viewpoint of the English aristocracy with her unique voice, illustrating that similar passions faced by women also reflect the power struggle within the intellectual, romantic era. Thus, her choice of the term, 'wild,' is deliberately freeing.  

Listening...

A view of a cold, wet Spring day

Listening... 

I feel strength in the wind today.
It doesn't care what I have to say
because it has a job to do,
spreading seeds and pollen everywhere, 
so I stand very still and listen with care. 

Birds do not chirp as they did the day before, 
but they dart from branch to branch
seeking shelter and food with no worries
about their cold, wet feathers. 
In fact, they seem to enjoy this weather.

Windblown hair wraps around my face
and darting raindrops pelt my cheeks, 
yet here I stand listening
to the bare branches click with delight,
their strong leaf blossoms stand up to the fight. 

Puddles that form along the road 
reflect low, ethereal clouds, 
gliding through the gray sky, 
like pictures painted by a Master's hand.
 Then, I hear a message, simple but grand: 
"Let go; let God." 

© Jeanne Iris Lakatos

To hear me recite this verse, please click HERE. 

Three Part Harmony

One week, long ago, the Poetry Bus had Ms. Kat as its capable 'driver!' Her wish for us was to choose our favorite pub and make the name into a character. Well, my favorite pub, pictured below, was Molly Darcy's in Danbury, CT. It was and still is a place not too unlike the old Cheers bar where the owners and staff really got to know the patrons. I decided to choose Molly, an Irish icon from West Cork, Ireland, known for Celtic psychic talents and add her two best friends, Sheila and Cathleen, to create a little three part harmony. The name, Sheila, has origins in Ireland with a meaning close to 'heavenly' and Cathleen (or Kathleen) ni Houlihan has long been a cultural metaphor for the strength and resilience of Ireland. Enjoy!

Molly Darcy's, Danbury, Connecticut

Three Part Harmony

Molly, Sheila, and Cathleen

three ladies, one spirit

dressed in true green

flirting with melodies

of the wild and free.

Once, tears from a dazzling sun

cast shadows on dreams

but they shook off the dread

by using their heads

with hope, intricately sewn

in each well worn thread.

Now, with winks in their eyes

their songs fill the skies.

With their high heels and beer

they stir up the stardust 

from a firmament of cheer.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Patriotic Sketches

I took this photo of a plaque dedicated to Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan). 

It's located on Kildare Street, Dublin, Ireland, 

where she lived for a while in the early 19th century. 

 

In her book, Patriotic Sketches of Ireland (1807), Sydney Owenson observes political philosophy in the following manner:

...an extension of the mind’s eye to the whole great scale of civil society, and demonstrating the close-linked dependencies of its remotest parts, affords to the benevolence of the human heart, and the comprehension of the human understanding, a social system, gratifying to the feelings of the one, and ennobling to the faculties of the other. (Owenson, 33) 

Here, Owenson illumines her reading audience with the possibilities of revolution through an elevated human consciousness. Particularly, she mentions "benevolence of the human heart." Currently, in our world, political leaders need to focus on the strength found between each heartbeat, that electro-magnetic force guiding each human mind and make their decisions appropriately. 

Frontal Acumen

photo taken by me in Danbury, Connecticut, U.S.A.

In a recent year, we had an extraordinary weather pattern here in Connecticut. As a front rapidly moved through the area, the skies filled with color, then torrential downpours, then sun and warm temperatures. Then, we were back in the freezing zone with snow predicted. As Mark Twain commented once, "if you don't like the weather in New England, just wait a few minutes." Okay, that's the weather report. What does this all mean philosophically?  

Human consciousness continually evolves, and as we move through our daily activities, nuances affect us in ways that sometimes we don't even realize until other events bring these subtle revelations into focus, providing clarity and introspection.

Frontal Acumen

Such grandeur surges

in a moment of wonder: 

guiding, hoping, gusting, 

winds envelop 

swirling reality 

shaking dreams loose,  

sparking an idea 

with Authority. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

An American Civil War Quilt Poem

Below is a narrative poem that I wrote many years ago
in which I used the American Civil War as its theme.

  A nine-patch quilt, hand-quilted by me

Two Tiny, Nine-Patch Doll Quilts

(An American Civil War Tale)

A tiny, nine-patch doll quilt

lay upon a tiny bed

made especially for Maggie Mae

the year her family fled

from all those scornful Yankees,

who were running through their town

setting homes and lives afire

causing Southern hopes to drown.

A tiny, nine-patch doll quilt

lay upon a tiny crib

made especially for Eleanor

the summer when her nib

was loosened from her pen in hand

as the Rebels fired loud

and soon her family huddled in fear

with the other Gettysburg crowd.

Two tiny, nine-patch doll quilts

heard two tiny prayers say,

“Dear Lord, please let our battled lands

be placed within Your peaceful stay,

and help our families change their hate

to Blessings filled with love.

Then, all of us will recognize

Your Blessings from above.”

Two tattered, nine-patch doll quilts

lie in honorable view,

for each is cherished dearly

by descendants of the two

who saw their lives so clearly

pass through war’s destructive side,

for one hundred years of prayer brought

a Rebel son his Yankee bride.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos 

The Brook's Treasure

I wrote this poem many years ago from a memory of seeing a brook, bubbling in the middle of the woods. It's a pleasant rhyme that, hopefully, will bring a smile to your face and a 'treasure' to your heart as you move through your own circuitous path. Enjoy! 

 Photo of a neighbor's pond, fed by a little brook

The Brook's Treasure

For purposes I did wander

For answers I did look

until I finally came upon 

a funny, little brook. 

The brook was not a shallow one,

nor was it very deep,

but in this little, funny brook 

a Treasure I did keep.

The Treasure was a happy song

of life, of hopes, of joys,

and in the interlude there was

a melody of Peace. 

 

The song did have its high notes.

'Twas not without the low, 

and yet, I found that as I wade 

the song would fill my soul

with rippling harmonies

of peace, fulfillment, and the best~

a very special kind of Love

which called me to the test. 

 

I knew, as I sat wondering 

upon this brook tableau

that this was what I muddled for

so very long ago~

a song to fill my soul each day

a song so rich, so rare, 

a song composed of harmonies 

expelling through the air

and filling every twist and turn

with one selected Force~ 

a resolute assurance

of a Treasure true to course.

 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan): 19th Century Revolutionary

Sydney Owenson sheds light on the status of the common man and woman in mid-nineteenth century Ireland and incorporates semiotic structures within her works to communicate with her readers the various discrepancies in legislation, particularly the Act of Union 1801, decades after its enactment. Although inequity in governmental legislation exists internationally, by 1825, the imbalance within the legislative structures is unacceptable to intelligent women associated with the British or the Irish aristocracy along with the increasing numbers of female writers and readers.

For example, in the preface of her essay entitled, Absenteeism, she highlights the need for both the English and the Irish to be mindful of their patriotic responsibilities:

Notwithstanding the intense interest which is felt throughout all England concerning Ireland and Irish affairs, notwithstanding the frequent debates in parliament, and more frequent pamphlets and volumes published on points of Irish politics and economy, the prevailing ignorance on these subjects still operates powerfully in maintaining prejudices the most unfounded and the most fatal, and in retarding those measures of wisdom and of justice without which Ireland can never be happy; or the British Empire secure. [1]

In this statement, Owenson demonstrates commonality between the authority, England, and the respective community of Ireland, as she begins with the phrase, ‘notwithstanding the intense interest which is felt…’ Thus, she engages in the use of negative phraseology linked with passive voice to unite the divergent intentions of England and Ireland.

---

[1] Sydney Owenson (Lady Morgan), Absenteeism, (London: Henry Colburn, 1825) pp. ix and x. For future reference within this study, the work will be cited as Abs.

Flow from Within

I took this photo of the beautiful St. Stephen's Green in Dublin, Ireland.

Whilst deciding to post this 'flow' poem, little did I know that some of my own life experiences would correspond with the poem's theme, written years ago. This phenomenon is a fine illustration of our emotional revolutions. Even though our lives may go through certain trials and tribulations, through the blessings of Divine Love, I've realized, as this poem states, that we have the power within to "release the blissful flow," and I'm determined to do just that.

Flow from Within

Spewing angst 

from the odium,

I ache 

for benevolence

and tolerance 

to stream

 through this tarnished conduit,

praying for the chance to feel

agony evolve 

into opportunity,

releasing 

the blissful 

flow.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

From my operetta, Luminescence, Advice from Anne Bradstreet (Represented as the Passion Flower)

Passion Flower from Google Images

In my operetta, Luminescence, a re-write of the 13th century French narrative poem, Roman de la Rose, the spirit of the poet, Anne Bradstreet, as represented by the passionflower, gives the following advice to Rose. I wrote this with Bradstreet's poetic style in mind:

My name was Anne Bradstreet,

and I have a story of devotion to tell. 

My life was dedicated to the sacrifice 

of one who gave His life, that I might have mine. 

I saw the need for all people, men and women, 

to be mindful of the importance of their individual spirits. 

My passion for the love of my life 

is ever-growing even as I speak from the spirit. 

The seeds one plants in life 

are carried forth to benefit future generations, 

bringing into view the truth of love and devotion 

in a physical manifestation of Divine Ordinance. 

One needs to remember always 

that humility of thought begins 

with the acceptance of the challenge 

within one’s heart. 

Each individual must fulfill that desire 

in order to fulfill the Will of the Almighty. 

Attention to this desire will bring 

happiness and contentment 

as a central focus of one’s life, 

and there will be calm 

in the heart 

of any troubled soul. 

© Jeanne I. Lakatos

Anne Bradstreet

Note: 

Anne Bradstreet was an English-American poet who was born in Northampton, England in 1612 and died in North Andover, Massachusetts in 1672. 

(To hear my reading of this poem on Pod-omatic, click HERE.)

In Honor of Women and Music Day: BLISS is my word

Once, one of my professors asked our class to choose a word from Spenser's The Faerie Queene that particularly intrigued us. I chose the word, bliss. Below is a poem that explains my perspective of this word, for I thankfully pray for blessings received each day.

"Praise the Lord with the harp, make music to Him on the ten-string lyre. 

Sing to Him a new song, play skillfully and shout for joy." (Psalm 33: 2-3)

Bliss

In the Oxford English Dictionary

 resides the little word,

bliss

So many entries for this little word:

bless, blessed and even bleche!

Heavenly gifts 

juxtaposed 

with human expression.

We have the responsibility

to emulate higher levels of demeanor

to elevate awareness,

for each of us has been blessed

with gifts that enhance the living

presence surrounding us

moving humanity forward

in peaceful bliss.

My bliss originates 

in the glorious way 

we speak to one another.

I scrutinize others,

make mental notes 

of their paralanguage:
spiritual linguistics

where the core of truth 

generates the coexistence 

of benevolence and deceit: dissonance!

Sometimes, this confuses me…Bleche!

so I retreat 

to Prayer, the voice within, the Glor*

where music of eternal natural peace 

and soothing sound waves of passion

form consonant harmonies,

my personal bliss.

© Jeanne I. Lakatos    

*Glor: the Irish Gaeilge word for voice, sound