He’d circle like a helicopter <br />the butterflies he’d study; <br />they’d know he was a lepidopter <br />and think of him as buddy. <br />Than all his notebooks none are neater; <br />among the ones he numbered <br />you'll find a Madeleine lolita <br />and Pseudolucia humbert, <br />Lolita’s Percy Elphinstone, <br />Van Ness, Electra Gold, <br />for butterflies have names on loan <br />as they their wings unfold. <br />The blue that’s Polyomatini <br />lives, Latin, in the tropics; <br />he found them like a genial genie, <br />no butterfly in topics <br />that touch on entomology. <br />Before he died he’d sob, <br />regretting, in apology <br />the viewings death would stop, <br />the sightings of the flight of wings <br />of Nabokovian blues. <br />I’d like to be a man who sings <br />while giving God his dues, <br />appreciating all the hues <br />God painted in creation, <br />for He it is who gave the cues <br />to all of propagation. <br /> <br /> <br />Steve Coats writes about Nabokov’s work on butterflies in the NYT, May 27,1997. <br /> <br /> <br />5/27/97,8/18/97,10/9/97 <br /><br />gershon hepner<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nabokovian-blues/
