Sunday, June 13th 2010
It’s five in the morning right now, and the weather’s pleasant as I’m sitting outside. There is a distant chirping of birds and the occasional call of a rooster, and the grass feels so soft and fresh under my feet.
I’m trying to meet a few Model UN deadlines (writing a background guide for my committee) and because I work well away from the boundaries of concrete walls, I thought it would be a good idea to go outside and get work done faster. I was wrong, thanks to lovely creatures known as mosquitoes.
Every time I get in the flow of work a mosquito comes buzzing right in my face. And when I wave my hands frantically to get rid of the tiny vampire, the parasites seek solace in my feet. I went upstairs to get Mospel, but I couldn’t find it. And Mortein coils kind of spoil the fresh perfume of Nature.
So as I continue to work, pestered by these winged monsters, I’m reminded of a poem my sister shared with me. It sums up my deep resentment against mosquitoes perfectly:
When did you start your tricks,
What do you stand on such high legs for ?
Why this length of shredded shank,
You exaltation ?
Is it so that you shall lift your centre of gravity upwards
And weigh no more than air as you alight upon me,
Stand upon me weightless, you phantom ?
I heard a woman call you the Winged Victory
In sluggish Venice.
You turn your head towards your tail, and smile.
How can you put so much devilry
Into that translucent phantom shred
Of a frail corpus ?
Queer, with your thin wings and your streaming legs
How you sail like a heron, or a dull clot of air,
Yet what an aura surrounds you ;
Your evil little aura, prowling, and casting a numbness on my mind.
That is your trick, your bit of filthy magic :
Invisibility, and the anæsthetic power
To deaden my attention in your direction.
But I know your game now, streaky sorcerer.
Queer, how you stalk and prowl the air
In circles and evasions, enveloping me,
Ghoul on wings
Settle, and stand on long thin shanks
Eyeing me sideways, and cunningly conscious that I am aware,
I hate the way you lurch off sideways into air
Having read my thoughts against you.
Come then, let us play at unawares,
And see who wins in this sly game of bluff,
Man or mosquito.
You don’t know that I exist, and I don’t know that you exist.
Now then !
It is your trump,
It is your hateful little trump,
You pointed fiend,
Which shakes my sudden blood to hatred of you :
It is your small, high, hateful bugle in my ear.
Why do you do it ?
Surely it is bad policy.
They say you can’t help it.
If that is so, then I believe a little in Providence protecting the innocent.
But it sounds so amazingly like a slogan,
A yell of triumph as you snatch my scalp.
Blood, red blood
I behold you stand
For a second enspasmed in oblivion,
Sucking live blood,
Such silence, such suspended transport,
Such obscenity of trespass.
As well as you may.
Only your accursed hairy frailty,
Your own imponderable weightlessness
Saves you, wafts you away on the very draught my anger makes in its snatching.
Away with a pæan of derision,
You winged blood-drop.
Can I not overtake you ?
Are you one too many for me,
Winged Victory ?
Am I not mosquito enough to out-mosquito you?
Queer, what a big stain my sucked blood makes
Beside the infinitesimal faint smear of you !
Queer, what a dim dark smudge you have disappeared into !