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Tuesday 23 April 2013

Too hot for daffodils

How all the others
lean on her
or lay themselves across her back.
Untidy bales of hay.

She stoops
beneath the withered corpses.

Either side
trumpets sound their yellow notes
bright as that first day

when they were wings...
were they wings...?  are they wings?
The yellow sound surges

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.


Mary said...

I am trying to figure out who the 'she' is, Dave. This is kind of eerie to me, Dave. "Death huddles them together."

Dave King said...

Sorry Mary!
"She" is the one daffodil that has not succumbed to the heat.

Brian Miller said...

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

L. Edgar Otto said...


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?

Ygraine said...

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.:)

Cloudia said...

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:-)


kaykuala said...

Such a picture evoked by the simple daffodils! Brilliantly rendered Dave!


Tommaso Gervasutti said...

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.

The Weaver of Grass said...

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.

Elephant's Child said...

The killing heat of Hades. Like the daffodils I wilt in it.

Dave King said...

At risk of repeating myself: welcome back! My poem was a bit premature. The heat lasted a day and a half!

The PeSla
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.

Elephant's Child
Me too!