He’d circle like a helicopter
the butterflies he’d study;
they’d know he was a lepidopter
and think of him as buddy.
Than all his notebooks none are neater;
among the ones he numbered
you'll find a Madeleine lolita
and Pseudolucia humbert,
Lolita’s Percy Elphinstone,
Van Ness, Electra Gold,
for butterflies have names on loan
as they their wings unfold.
The blue that’s Polyomatini
lives, Latin, in the tropics;
he found them like a genial genie,
no butterfly in topics
that touch on entomology.
Before he died he’d sob,
regretting, in apology
the viewings death would stop,
the sightings of the flight of wings
of Nabokovian blues.
I’d like to be a man who sings
while giving God his dues,
appreciating all the hues
God painted in creation,
for He it is who gave the cues
to all of propagation.


Steve Coats writes about Nabokov’s work on butterflies in the NYT, May 27,1997.


5/27/97,8/18/97,10/9/97

gershon hepner

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/nabokovian-blues/