How all the others lean on her or lay themselves across her back. Untidy bales of hay. She stoops CRUSHED beneath the withered corpses. Either side REVIVAL. RESURRECTION Day. trumpets sound their yellow notes bright as that first day when they were wings... were they wings...? are they wings? The yellow sound surges wavers... Image of wings whose wings? Hers? Maybe she is/was an angel what sort of? of death? Too hot that's what did for her -- and all the others. Never so tightly packed in life never so close. Death huddles them together.
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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Tuesday, 23 April 2013
Too hot for daffodils
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I am trying to figure out who the 'she' is, Dave. This is kind of eerie to me, Dave. "Death huddles them together."
"She" is the one daffodil that has not succumbed to the heat.
ah we have no fear of the daffodils dying yet....the heat has not found us yet, still crisp...grisly imagery that makes you sit up and take notice...nice opening with her laying among the bodies...well played sir
this poem evokes so many past images, among my favorite of flowers... the incestuous poets as narcissus... the harbinger of spring, the bedecking of Cambridge in the youthful why is there war revolution... that damn lone flower in the industrial tangle of Ginsberg or some ancient artifact in the plush jungle... the one dry weed that lingered thru the winter in the snow McGovern's daughter lost going home from a bar and in the tribute to a scientist dying young back then I quoted the them as if to read your seasons backward, you writer of haiku's... that nothing cold can be declared dead... You could write a whole book of poems around this image... beauty in the brief temperate time of blossoming the joy, not what comes just before or after going to seed... thank you for the daffydown lillies... one final snow up here one poet sleeping chilled in the bulb... we hear them and know them bright and golden even if in the pain of it we recall how we missed her... what the spell of the aphordel but pauses free and simple in which the gods might envy?
Most of our daffodils are surviving still, as they're huddled around the base of a towering hedge.
But those poor few in full sun...well, like me, they are not used to it so are beginning to huddle together...as if they've caught sight of the Grim Reaper!!!
A truly fabulous poem.:)
Indeed, I've been learning about Yellow benedictions - another synchronicity!
Always suspected Eden was a show trial on our way to terrible free will
Keep em coming:-)
Such a picture evoked by the simple daffodils! Brilliantly rendered Dave!
Impressive, the sense of heat and light as a weight,a perception I know well here in Italy in July and August damp days, in England I think it doesn't happen so often..except one tremendous summer I remember: 2003.
Quite right Dave - they are flowers of the chily weather. One hot day and they begin to droop and only the strong (usually King Alfred's) can stand the heat.
The killing heat of Hades. Like the daffodils I wilt in it.
At risk of repeating myself: welcome back! My poem was a bit premature. The heat lasted a day and a half!
Much thanks for an inspiring response, which I found most moving -- particularly:-
You could write a whole book of poems around this image... beauty in the brief temperate time of blossoming the joy, not what comes just before or after going to seed...
Really grateful for such an interesting comment and most especially for the kind words.
Ah, great! So I am not alone! Thanks.
Thanks Hank! Much appreciated.
Yes, I think you are correct in your surmising. Thanks for this.
The Weaver of Grass
Ah, maybe "she" was a King Alfred, then... Thanks very much.
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