Flower Poems

Recently I’ve written a series of flower poems, all similar to each other in metre.

 

Snakeshead Fritillary Flowers

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Snakesheads in the shadows

Droop their speckles

 

Hang their heads on thin green

Necks – mournful

In the shadows. Now a

Spear-like leaf

Quivers in the dusk-light

 

Here the buds are weakly

Green and palish –

Here are dim deep purple.

Delicate scales

Stud each head half-opened –

 

Shape like diamond.

Careful arch of neck-stalk

Purple tinged

Careful set of the petals

Over grass-net.

Snakesheads in the shadows

Droop their speckles.

Magnolia Flowers

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Like soft white leather

As white as a feather

So thick and slow

Like petals of snow

Or face of moon

All bigly strewn

Upon the ground

Without a sound …

 

Speedwell Flowers

Looking up the doll’s eyes

Watery as oceans

 

Full of tears like daybreak

Skies. Like distant

Hills their fragile petals

 

Melting blueness

Faintly white-lined like the

Paler sky-edge

 

Darker blue their veins

Weeping blueness.

 

The Tulip-Bud

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Twisted at the top

So the peak was like a star

It was smooth green and pale

 

Deepening to the top

Which now was fast un-twisting.

It then was flecked with nightly purple

 

In cracks up to the top

Between the saving green

The deep, fair silk with depth was showing

 

And like a beetle’s wing

In light of evening-time

The light on the silk was changing, like stars on the shore-bound wave

 

It stands just at my door

Within a garden pot

And now the nightly luscious twist is calmly quietly opened

 

I  made the last line of each verse get longer beat by beat as the poem went on, to give the feeling of expanding and opening.

And here are some tulip-photos I took in the garden yesterday:

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(You can find these poems on the new Poetry page I have created)

Spring Behind the Hedge

It may be some mistake of mine –

For people call it winter still

And Christmas is but lately passed away

With all the rest of the old year, to where

The bygone days all go – and yesterday

I looked out on the garden, and

It darkly glowered back, with a wet

Face under a furious sky. Though t’were

Midday, the light was cold and dim.

And yet I still believe that on

A day in January, not long ago

When some thin golden sunlight had made

Its quiet way out of the prison of

The clouds, I thought I heard the voice of spring

A-whispering in the sodden grass, and saw

Her face, as it peeped shyly through

The bare and dripping silvery hedge.

Let Me Have It

A short essay on yearning

‘Bring me the sunset in a cup,
Reckon the morning’s flagons up
And say how many Dew,
Tell me how far the morning leaps—
Tell me what time the weaver sleeps
Who spun the breadth of blue!
… Who built this little Alban House
And shut the windows down so close
My spirit cannot see?
Who’ll let me out some gala day
With implements to fly away,
Passing Pomposity?’
Problems, Emily Dickinson.

 

There are many things in life that it seems we can never quite reach – that excite an unexplained yearning for something – and we cannot quite decide what it is that we want. Usually, it is small things that make us feel this way – at least, things that are small in our life, but outside our life, immensely large. Dawns, limestone rivers, very tall trees, moss, huge leaves, summer skies, Christmas lights, frozen lakes,  Monet’s waterlilies, the sea. All these things give me a feeling of something I want – like an urge to be in them – not just looking at them, but in them, part of them. The feeling is perfectly captured in the first line of the poem above – ‘Bring me the sunset in a cup!’. It is a major part of our lives, this subtle feeling – above all, a major part of beauty. Whatever is really beautiful, really great and powerful, is like subtle torture to a human mind. We cannot get enough of it, we cannot grasp it properly and hold it forever. We are used to things, objects we can hold and keep – pretty plates, clothes, money – we cannot bear the elusiveness, the powerful vagueness, of nature.

But it is when one of these yearnings is unexpectedly fulfilled that a magical moment of our lives is created – a moment we will always remember. Like the time I went moonlight bathing – the time I climbed a young beech to the very top and swayed with it in the wind –  and the time I wrote this poem about:

My Memory

2017

I saw the river, waiting for me,

And every mossed-rock with a smiling face,

And all and everything under a spell

The golden spell of the sun’s last rays,

Like the yellow resin from out of a tree

That catches the bugs that into it fly

And keeps them safe for all the years

Thus it catches my soul as my soul flies by

With its airy wings newly sprouted from joy

And holds that joy in its memory

And mine.

The river it holds the memory also,

Let it flow with that memory, on forever,

With a rush and a sparkle over the pebbles,

And the silken weeds like mermaids hair,

And the moss-cushioned rocks, and mingle,

Its sound with the sound of the wind passing by

High over the mountains from whence it came

And on to the sea, that endless sea;

And there let it crash with the waves on the beach

And foam on the rocks as the tide draws out –

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And finally, here’s another poem, about the same concept as my essay:

Let me have it

Let me have it, that something I never can reach –

Let me dance in those poppies that scatter the sky!

Let me drift on those wisps of velvety peach!

Let me slide down those beams of dusty sunshine!

Let me sit on that pale arching curve of a moon!

Let me gather those stars, behind prickling pine –

And wear them on a necklace that forever I’ll keep.

And, for a pendant, what most I should like,

Is one of those bright embers, when the fire falls asleep.

 

Why always so high, so far out of reach –

You taunting great velvety dome of a sky?

If closer you came, I might crawl through that breach,

That fiery crack in the pearly enamel

When the hot sun sinks over a silvery sea.

And what should I find, pass’d through that red channel?

Might I slip out of the atmosphere, and down

The cold milky-way go soaring at ease?

Let me go with the wind to rustle the tree’s green gown.

 

Why, Nature, so allusive, so flitting and shy,

Like the soft butterfly, who flees as I near?

On some big water-lily pad let me lie

And down the quiet stream go a-floating far.

Make the clouds my kingdom, hedge, tree and all,

With a palace, all shimmering with light from the stars.

On the crest of a wave let me ride away!

Forever let me lie on a bed of rich moss,

Let me dress in the sky at the dawn of the day,

And at Nature’s bosom I ever will stay.

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Poetry and Photographs

Today I’m posting a poem I’ve written about this time of year, with some photos of the garden to go with it. Here it is:

The air is crisp and frosty, with sharp edge,

The sunlight shines full golden on the ground,

It melts the frost, and bares a greener hue.

The atmosphere is bright and brilliant blue;

Nestling among the grass, a million water drops,

Like little diamonds glisten, shine, and flash.

And not one snowy cloud does blot the sun,

By bite of cold the day is not undone.

 

 Spring comes, she melts a path though ice and sleet,

Upon the ground she scatters flowers and light,

Though through the trees the harsh cold wind does blow,  

Still, up from stark bare ground, the snowdrops grow

So pure, so fair, with silver needle leaves.

Then straight stand daffodils, with yellow dresses bright,

And crocus-cups, filled up with slanting sunlight show,

And in the breeze they wave, they dance; they blow.

Now  for the photos:

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‘And crocus cups, filled up with slanting sunlight show’

IMG_7885Still, up from stark bare ground, the snowdrops grow

So pure, so fair, with silver needle leaves.

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‘Then straight stand daffodils, with yellow dresses bright’

 

 

Nestling among the grass, a million water drops,

Like little diamonds glisten, shine, and flash.

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‘Upon the ground she scatters flowers and light’

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These dew drops are not on grass, so are not actually related to the poem, but they are so pretty I decided to put them in anyway