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...
extract from the poem Koi by John Burnside All afternoon we've wandered from the pool to alpine beds and roses ...
Hello everyone who follows David King (My Father). On behalf of the family this post is to let you know that Dad sadly passed away, peacefu...
It all depends, you see, how you go about it. And that I cannot tell you, for that will be dictated by you and by you knowing your friends...
What makes us suppose that only the living grieve? Now all but lost in this new and familiar world of tall, leaning-together buildings...
Tuesday, 2 July 2013
My First Landscape
My first landscape.
Concrete first. Between two sheds.
(Bicycles and coal.)
Beyond the concrete, grass -
both crawled across
until the grass stopped suddenly,
the rose bed massing hues for our delight
at journey's end for me,
drawn not by blooms, but by
the fallen petals on the ground.
These early odysseys, but fading memories
pinned to a photograph or two,
cross-referenced with later recollections -
like perfumes from the petals,
made for mum and gran,
received with great enthusiasm.
Never whiffed again.
Clear as crystal though, the coal shed memories;
there I'd build my own Black Mountains in the dark.
Apart from that, there is a mist
until the day I passed my first horizon: that
of the trellis, almost garden-wide and backing
all the standards, floribundas, hybrid teas
and shrubs with high-rise climbing plants.
Soon I would discover whole new continents:
a corner full of lilies of the valley,
a path edged either side
with gooseberries and other fruits,
the bushes low enough for me to taste -
and tear my flesh.
There was one far horizon that would wait
maybe another year or so:
tall loganberries formed the final screen.
Beyond were apple, plum and elderberry.
None gave more pleasure, though,
than those Black Mountains in the dark.
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What I love about this poem Dave is the intense smell associated with it - I really can almost smell those roses.
Oh yes. We had a coal shed too. A place of mystery and excitement. I love your memories, and they are so very familiar. Thank you.
Hope you are feeling much, much better.
I love your memories, Dave. You seem to have particularly strong ones of those early years. You give the reader the visuals and the smells, taking us right there with you. As far as a coal shed, well we had a coal bin in our basement. I can still remember the coal truck pulling up, dropping coal down the chute. It was so much easier after my dad eventually put in oil heat....ah, the memories.
nice...you have the adventurous spirit and we used to do much the same...back in the day we would roam for miles...ours was the forest for miles...before the industrial park moved in...but we would literally go for probably up to 5 miles from home...love all the smells
The sheds become the mountains to us, don't they? I enjoyed this poem.
We had a coal shed too.
How I itched to climb in there and sculpt, but my overwhelming terror of spiders kept me firmly on the outside!
Not so my brother...it seemed he had ALL the fun:/
Dave, I am so in awe of your talent. The way you so effortlessly conjure up such vivid images of the sights, sounds and smells of your childhood - to say nothing of the emotions you felt then - leave me breathless.
Yes...you have a unique talent.
Thank you so much for sharing it with us :)
The garden is a childhood empire. You have captured it well and brought back memories for me, too.
A high lyric force David, a marvellous poem about the past, going straight to the centre of my being.
A great hiding place and the delight on hiding artfully described--even the language somehow brambly. K (Manicddaily at Wordpress on mobile device.$
So descriptive of the childhood journey. Every poem you write is different, you have a unique talent.
The Weaver of Grass
Thanks for this reflection. Good to have.
Thanks for your comments and the good wishes. Health is a little erratic at the moment - hence, alas, the postings etc are likely to be.
Yes, the other strong memory I have of the coal is of the man delivering it. Him and the sweep, I used to think they must be related!
You've reminded me of my long lost adventurous spirit... I wonder what happened to it...
I rteally got to adventuring when I got my first "proper" bike.
Each shed was different. Dad's work shed, for example, was a place of mystery and worship.
Strange. We do seem to have a lot in common. Very young, I, too, didn't like spiders - except in the coal shed. There, for some reason, I didn't mind them at all.
Thanks for the observation, so true: the garden occupies almost its own archive in my memory!
Very generous. Much gratitude for this comment.
What an unexpected and thrilling observation! Delightful to hear the language called brambly. Thank you so much!
Thank you Cait, a most generous remark, much appreciated.
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