Who Mourns?

[hillwalker]

WHO MOURNS?

Who mourns a fading rose?

Who gathers in the grey-lined rain
to stand stiff sentinel
in black, respectful silence;
waiting as it tips its sodden face,
and dares recount a world of colour?

Who mourns a dying flower?

Who bows his head
except to longingly inhale its scent,
recall each fragrant petal;
life diminished
as the world grows dim?

Who dares to throw a wreath?

H

[PrinceMyshkin]

I have the faint intuition that this might be an anticipatory eulogy for our ravaged world, which would of course account for the restrained but dispirited tone of it.

[Hawkman]

A somber lament this, hill, but it's a very good poem, redolent with despair and loss.

[Delta40]

It's nicely constructed Hill and sombre.

in black respectful, silence;

do you mean the line to read this way or

in black, respectful silence;

[hillwalker]

@Delta - thanks for the tap with your fly swat; it's so easy to lose concentration. The comma has now been relocated to its rightful place in the line.

@Hawk and @Prince - dispirited, despairing - well, yes I guess that's what I was aiming for without becoming too morbid.
A thoughtful nod towards the way the world is heading; and perhaps I have indeed dared throw a wreath.

Thanks again

H

[Haunted]

I can't help thinking of a wreath of roses and the sad irony of that. I admire the grace and symmetry and the solemn, respectful tone.

[firefangled]

There's a fine ambiguity in the last line after a poem that speaks of a world too diminished to acknowledge a dying rose.

A wreath is typically an homage, but in this case your last line seems to ask are we ready to acknowledge the end of a world of color.

Very subtly done, I thought.

[yuka]

Rose? the national flower of your country?

[blank|verse]

Hear the voice of the bard! Pure William Blake this one, hill ('O rose, thou art sick...').

And very good as well, if a little archaic with the use of interrogatives to frame the structure of the poem. As firefangled stated, there is a nice ambiguity in the symbolism being used, the flower (even if a different one) and the imagery of mourning, and the wreath, puts the reader in mind of Remembrance Day services; which itself reminded me of Wilfred Owen's 'Anthem for Doomed Youth' ('What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?').

The suggestion of the wreath at the end has got me thinking, because of course they are made of flowers (or leaves and twines at least). Have people stopped valuing flowers - and by extension, nature - except for their practical use?

A couple of things I wasn't convinced by: the 'grey-lined rain' is ambiguous and a bit of an unnecessary distraction. And

except to longingly inhale its scent,
is the poem's weakest line: 'longingly' doesn't seem to fit the narrator's voice and it breaks from the otherwise terse tone of the poem. I think you could take a leaf from Blake's book (excuse the pun) and try and contain the poem more - use metre to underline the force of what the narrator is saying.

But overall a successful poem, I thought.

[hillwalker]

@Haunted - how astute of you and b|v both to spot what inspired the thought processes behind this poem (the irony of a flower's life cut short to commemorate death).

@firefangled - thanks for your generous comments

@yuka - the rose was not chosen for its nationalistic significance but for its beaty and fragility, and as a symbol of youthfulness and hope more than anything else.

@b|v - Blake being my all-time favourite poet it was never my intention to copy his style, but I suppose some things rub off on us subconsciously.
You make a number of valid points - I paused long over 'longingly' in order to retrieve the meter - and the 'grey-lined' rain was a late addition, perhaps a tweak too far.

H

[Delta40]

sometimes we look for a meaning which doesn't exist. I interpreted the poem to refer to an English Rose, aged and ultimately dying. we all lose our colour, like my grandma did. I would not have read it as anything else.

[AuntShecky]

Thoreau and Emerson (and their latter-day followers) might be inclined to mourn the fading of a flower. In late November around here, across the meadows and at edges of the woods the petals of yarrow and the Nova angliae asters turn to fluff, and like the threads of milkweed fly through the air, or disappear completely. Occasionally the former blossoms dry up and turn a brownish gray as they stubbornly cling to the stalks. Such sights fill me with melancholy --toward plantlife yet! (Of course, I never express this, lest I disclose further evidence for people to certify me crazy.)

So I'm heartened to see a poem that shows me that other people may share such a sentiment, so odd in this modern world so devoted to commercial interests it all but ignores the flora and fauna of nature. Although this poem is nostalgic and heartfelt, it is neither polemical nor maudlin.

The best image is the one of the wreath, which this time of a decorative arrangement of bits of plantlife, especially evergreen, to celebrate a season of joy.

But for centuries -- prehaps dating back to ancient Roman times-- wreaths characteristically symbolized mourning. I can remember from childhood that the front doors of neighborhood households would be hung with wreaths for several months after a beloved family member had passed away.

This is why your use of the wreath to represent mourning -- for the natural world of its origin -- is so beautifully appropriate.

[Jerrybaldy]

Reading your poetry reminds me of my two glorious single years between marriages when I would finish work, go to the pub, be served by a PYT and spend the next two hours banging my head against the wall with the cryptic crossword in that day's paper. Happy days.

[qimissung]

I love your irony. I would stop to smell the flower if i could.

[hillwalker]

@Aunty and @qimissung - thanks for waking up and smelling the flowers.

and @Jerry - I'm hoping my efforts don't give you a headache!
Presumably they remind you of the cryptic crossword clues (rather than the PYT).

H

[jajdude]

hill,

you are special.

[Bar22do]

WHO MOURNS?

Who mourns a fading rose?

Who gathers in the grey-lined rain
to stand stiff sentinel
in black, respectful silence;
waiting as it tips its sodden face,
and dares recount a world of colour?

Who mourns a dying flower?

Who bows his head
except to longingly inhale its scent,
recall each fragrant petal;
life diminished
as the world grows dim?

Who dares to throw a wreath?

H

When a rose looks tired, I cut short its stem, fill a bowl with water and it floats there as if with a new life, for yet another moment... till it fades for good. I dry some, between a book's pages...
Yes, Blake, but it brought to my mind E. B. Browning's opening line of "A Dead Rose": "O Rose! who dares to name thee?"... and more of it...

"... The heart doth recognise thee,
Alone, alone! The heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, -
Though seeing now those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose! than to such roses bold
As Julia wears at dances, smiling cold! -
Lie still upon this heart-which breaks below thee!"


Bar

[Buh4Bee]

This is a poem I would read at a funeral. It makes me think of how the mourning process can begin even before death occurs. Much enjoyed.

[hillwalker]

Thanks jersea for your welcome feedback - and jajdude and bar for reading and responding.

H

[DieterM]

Such a beautiful poem – it made me think of Françoise Hardy's song text that, for 60s pop, was really very poetic. Your poem rings in my heart like Hardy's melancholic voice humming and singing those words. The Google translation would go like that (the original is, of course, much better as far as choice of words and rhyme are concerned):

"We are but dust
And my friend the rose
Told me this morning
At dawn I was born
Baptized with dew
I blossomed
Happy and in love
In the rays of the sun
I closed at night
And woke up old

Yet I was very beautiful
Yes I was the most beautiful
Of the flowers in your garden

We are but dust
And my friend the rose
Told me this morning
Behold, the God that made me
Makes me bow my head
And I feel that I fall
And I feel that I fall
My heart is almost bare
My foot in the grave
Already I am no longer

You admired me yesterday
And I'll be dust
Forever tomorrow.

We are but dust
And my friend the rose
Died this morning
The moon, tonight,
watched over my friend
I saw in a dream,
Dazzling and naked,
Her soul dancing
Far beyond the clouds
And smiling…"

Best to you!

[Tinbit]

A twist in life, nobody stops to noice.....

[hillwalker]

Thanks so much Dieter - it is indeed a beautiful lyric (and I remember the lady well - she had the beguiling look of Marianne Faithful rather than the artificial glamour of Cilla Black)....

and Tinbit - thanks so much for dropping in and posting a welcome comment.

H