Enjoyed this one too, Auntie. Over on this side of the pond though, it would be more common to say, "loth (loath) to wait, and I think it would have scanned better. Not sure I get the turtle reference either.
Live long and prosper - H
Printable View
Enjoyed this one too, Auntie. Over on this side of the pond though, it would be more common to say, "loth (loath) to wait, and I think it would have scanned better. Not sure I get the turtle reference either.
Live long and prosper - H
What a delightful poem Wrong On Schedule is. I missed the bus is as good as the dog ate my homework!
Thank you, Hawk and Delta for reading this and for your comments. Also, thanks to you both for cleaning the cobwebs and dust bunnies off my anti-fiction story, "The Worm."
I'll probably get stuck with royalty bills from the heirs of the Desilu estate, 'cause here I go with "'splaining" again:
I went with "loathing" as the present participle form of the verb, "loathe," syn. of "hate," which I didn't want to use in addition to the long "a" sound as one of the two rhymes.
Turtles traditionally go slowly, right? As opposed to
hares, racecars, SSTs. (Watch--the news tonight will probably report on a tortoise that can go from zero to 60 in 0.7 seconds.)
Altered the clanging rhythm of l. 9-- it could be 8 syllables if you don't break "fuel" into 2 syllables, 9 syllables if you do. (Either way, it makes me look like a dolt.)
And thank you as well, Delta. Even though the "dog ate my homework" line has become hackneyed, it didn't stop me from using it in a poem from April of Ought Eight. It may have been previously posted, I can't find the link; nevertheless, here 'tis:
Excuses, Excuses
Uh-- on a sleep-over I overslept.
The alarm forgot to bzzt
because the power went out
partying last night
and this a.m. it’s choking
on the short hairs
of the dog who bit it.
After eating the kids’
homework, the pup regurgitated
facts: 1066, the sum
of the hypotenuse, meiosis.
I missed my ride,
and it doesn't miss me.
The bus broke down
in tears because it came
down with a case of dys-Lexus-ia.
Me, I've got Venus
envy at the wrong time
of month, cramping
my style. My water broke
all over my dry Tortugas.
I had to stop to smell
the peonies. I left
my wallet in my other plants.
I cut you
a check that bounced
while it jogged to the mailbox.
It sprung a hammy
while tying the string
on its sweatpants.
At the orifice I already gave
a fig that flouted Newton’s Laws.
My pockets are philosophical
but not deep --
they're empty now
of their last seven-fifty,
donated to an orphan in need
of pouring a latté
into his Florida panhandle.
These quicksilver dollar
sprout wings, right?--
just like the ones suddenly
protruding from my back -–
I'd really, really,
really love to help you out,
Pal, but right now
I gotta fly.
I loved your 'being an American' ... Didnt think you had it in you
The continuity between subjects is really lovely, it has sort of a "slide-show" effect (with nicely self-contained lines)- which adds to the silliness. I confess the word "emblem" on the same line as "fate" had me searching for some grand parable. I think it's a nice illustration of the distance between failure and scapegoating. I didn't need to place the "grand parable" because this poem is the story of my life.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
Mandatum
Sure, I remember the man.
He was sitting right there,
on the center stool
of the bar. Brought in
a bunch of his buddies–must've
been a dozen of ‘em. Like
college kids in total awe
of their professor, they hung
on his every word.
Their fawning flattery he sloughed
off like a ratty old coat. I got
the feeling he was the kind of guy
who'd gladly scratch your back
without expecting a back-scratch
in return, ya know? I bet
he wouldn't even mind washing
some bum’s smelly feet. I swear
if a thug had rushed into my joint
and fired off an Uzi, he'd throw
himself in front of the bullets.
I mean, he split his sandwich
with his friends, kept buying them rounds.
You'd think a guy like that
wouldn't have an enemy in the world,
right? But– “Watch out
“for the ones who hate me,” he says.
“They'll eat you alive. They'll scatter
discord like promiscuous seeds, strangle
you as a vine. They'll pit
each of you against the other, trick
you into betraying me.”
“Oh, no, Chief! Not us!” every last
one of them cried. “Oh, yes,” he says,
“One of you will turn me in.” Now here’s
the thing that knocked me out – I swear
on my mother’s grave!–he shrugged!
“What are you going to do?” he says.
“It has to be done.”
You'll never believe what
he told ‘em next: “Love
one another.” That’s it. Pretty
simple, huh? Maybe not
as easy as it sounds. I picked
up his empty glass. “Another
one, Sir?” “No,” he says,
“I'm done.”
Tell you one thing, Pal. It'll be
a long time before I forget that night.
Never saw anyone like him before
(or since.)
Damn! It’s dark in here.
Let me open these blinds.
Where’s it written that a gin-mill
has to look like a mausoleum?
Look at it out there, the sky
half-blue, half-gold, the clouds
rolling around like happy lambs;
little green crowns poking out
on the ashy branches of that big
old corner oak; the relics
of snow sliding off the curb
and running like rivers down the street.
What d’ya think? Are we
finally gonna get a spring this year –
or what?
How appropriate to the season, and how excellent a choice or series of choices never to have pushed the analogy with JC.
Jesus Auntie. I bet you are a card to share a beer with.
Appropriate for the season, of course, but also adorned, as always, with your pitiless wit, humour and rhythm. I enjoyed the last S the most! Thanks! Bar
Excuse my ignorance in writing but isn't that a bunch of prose? Don't mind me Auntry but I get pinged when my poetry turns into a narrative, rather then a set of images. Your poem is just that too. Not that I don't enjoy it. I'm under the impression that prose poetry is a preference rather than a rule breaker.
Well, AuntShecky, I have a feeling you have succeeded at one of those rare holiday poems that is not at all a chore at the expense of its syrupy context.
"Heater", "gat", "burner" might make for more appropriate colloquialisms. Uzi has a sort of a comical touch to it though.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I loved this block, it's such a potent quotation. Is it from Shelley's Queen Mab? It reeks of spiritual warfare.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
This line made me laugh hysterically.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
This is such a sweet poem at its core. As Prince said, you pushed all the right envelopes. What a jovial hoodwink you've created.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
As witty and lively and passionate as Aunty's poem is, this dialogue between you and her poem is an entirely worthy companion piece to it. But then your comments are always well worth reading.Quote:
Originally Posted by deryk
Uh-oh. (It's exactly what I wanted to push.)Quote:
Originally Posted by PrinceMyshkin
A "card." That's an epithet most associated with yours fooly-- an unemployment card! Oh, I kid!Quote:
Originally Posted by Jerrybaldy
Well, I knew that's the risk one takes with colloquial language. I did, however, spend much time in trying to achieve a sense of rhythm in the lines and especially set up an arrangement of line breaks, which is the most prominent way a writer can try to differentiate free verse from prose. I guess as far as you're concerned I've failed. I greatly appreciate your opinion, though, Delta.Quote:
Originally Posted by Delta40
As well you should, because your fooly resorted to using a cliché. It does, however, sound like something a bartender might say for emphasis.Quote:
Originally Posted by deryk
Thank you Bar for your kind comments and to allof you for commenting on my dramatic monologue from a talkative innkeeper to a inquisitive customer. The title is the root word for "mandate" or "commandment," which in earlier times was expressed as "Maundy."
I'm grateful to those of you who liked the imagery, but --except for the modern references of Uzi, sandwich and such-- much of it has been borrowed from the original Source.
Here are some of the passages to which my humble lines directly or indirectly allude, in the order in which they appear in the Holy Thursday liturgy, not necessarily in the order in which they appear in the poem:
Is. 61 (via poetic license "green" was substituted for "gold" with the word "crowns," as a modern bartender would probably not use the word "diadems.")
Rev. 1: 5-8
Luke 4: 16-21
Ex. 12: 1-8, 11-14
I Cor. 11: 23-26
John 13
John 15
Again, thanks to all with the hopes that you continue to enjoy your respective springtime celebrations.
I don't have an opinion on critiquing poetry in the same way that you do Aunty since I really do speak from ignorance. I don't think it is a matter of passing or failing here - just me learning.
A faberge, AuntShecky, glittering, exquisite, and beautiful.
Sorry Auntie, a bit late with my appreciation, but it is very good. The JC analogy was obvious but not rammed down the reader's throat, and I enjoyed the wit and the rhythm.
best, H
Thanks again, Delta --I'm your fan, and thanks to our newly-minted mod, Ms. q., and to Hawkman.
Just to reiterate, because I feel like it: even though it's difficult, we have to try our best to follow the "mandate":
Love one another.
Up next--
Blank Verse's posting today reminded me of this one from 3 or 4 years ago. I can't remember if I posted it on the LitNet before. If so, here's the encore:
Gabriel’s Hounds
Like rejects from a choir,
they seem to wander
aimlessly, or toddle
comically in their
geese-y, gawky way,
the racket divining
for holy water –
a drainage pond here,
an impromptu puddle there.
Between the bullet and
the bow they would pray--
if they could--
(both in English and en Québécois)
instead of an angry howl,
a gaggle of trumpets
not yet tuned.
Meanwhile missed grace
assumes a guise
of flight, a true
arrow pointing
toward Judgment Day.
NOTE-- 5/7/11:
The source of this comes from Brewer's Dictionary of Phrase and Fable, edited by Ivor H. Evans, New York: Harper & Row, 1981, p. 461.
Whew!
Mandatum - Err, better late than never? :) Apologies for the delayed response to this (formerly) topical allegorical poem!
It reminded me of Immram by Paul Muldoon, the modern master of long, narrative poems. (And a shorter poem called 'The Ferryman's Arms' by Don Paterson.) Muldoon is also a master of form, of course, which is where 'Mandatum' isn't as strong. Like Delta, I found this quite prosey - good lines of prose, don't get me wrong, but prose all the same. In your reply to her, you said:
I've sensed you're more comfortable with metred poetry and this might go some way to explain that. While line breaks play a part, they are by no means 'the most prominent way' to write in the style.Quote:
I did, however, spend much time in trying to achieve a sense of rhythm in the lines and especially set up an arrangement of line breaks, which is the most prominent way a writer can try to differentiate free verse from prose.
Free verse works more to voiced stresses - technically called 'isochrony' - rather than artificial metrical stresses. Line breaks play a part by delineating or breaking voiced phrases or clauses and helping create a rhythm that (most often) has a regularity - but a natural regularity, so it can fluctuate, rather than one chained to metre. So I found the rhythm here quite unnatural and jerky. For example, I found a lot of the line breaks odd. This stanza in particular:
Why break phrases like 'Love one another'? Or 'Pretty simple, huh?'? Or the phrasal verb 'picked up'? Or 'Another one, Sir?' Breaking the language like this in the context of this dramatic monologue seems incongruous for this working-class, straight-talking character.Quote:
You'll never believe what
he told ‘em next: “Love
one another.” That’s it. Pretty
simple, huh? Maybe not
as easy as it sounds. I picked
up his empty glass. “Another
one, Sir?” “No,” he says,
“I'm done.”
There are a couple of other phrasal verbs broken:
Perhaps you have an argument with the first example, that it enacts the 'hanging on' being described; but I'm not so sure about the second.Quote:
they hung
on his every word.
Their fawning flattery he sloughed
off like a ratty old coat.
And I found the final stanza to be uncharacteristically articulate and poetic for this straight-talking bar tender!
But all that's not to take away from the achievement of the content of the poem, which is brilliantly inventive and intelligent.
And thanks also for posting Gabriel's Hounds - another enjoyable, cleverly-written piece.
Thanks to all who responded to earlier postings, and esp. to you, Blank Verse. Thanks for the nice references to Paul Muldoon (of whom I've actually heard and read a little before) and to Don Paterson, whom I will learn about with great pleasure.
To your valid criticism, I will respond, as much as I hate "'splaining" (i.e. "justifying") my choices. Every line break is deliberate, with the notion of enjambment more than natural speech rhythms. I wanted to throw a couple of curve balls -- setting up one possible meaning while switching in the next line to something else, as in "pretty," "picked," (a ref. to the selection of the Apostles), "hung" you can fairly well guess what it refers to, given the occasion, as well as the two-word line "I'm done."
I already posted the scriptural references for the concluding lines of my ditty, and already 'splained the difficulty of combining such with colloquial speech. Still if the bartender/speaker is "uncharacteristically articulate," perhaps we can say this.
Thanks again! Now to the next one in Reply # 302
Re Gabriel's Hounds. Sorry Auntie, I seem to have overlooked this piece but I bleatedly took a gander at it. :). Not sure why Gabriel's hounds though, with the reference to out of tune trumpets, maybe they should be Joshua's :D And why pointing towards judgement day, traditionally in these isles a goose was for Christmas, at least untill we acquired the Turky habit from our colonial cousins...
LLAP - H
DELETE
Sent via PM instead
Written from a model. The source of the form for this one will be "revealed" later.
Heaven Scent
Brimstone and its indistinct twin
both reek up through their membrane’s narrow rift.
The finer world’s aroma’s thin.
A dream-catcher hung out to drift,
reversed for this rare wind’s descent,a secret cupped balloon that’s skyward sent
a censer's swaying lift:
to snare from mystery the faintest whiff
of unknown mist, now captured down to sniff.
It's hard for this reader to make sense out of most poetry. Regarding 'Heaven's Scent', it seems as though Hell is trying to sample the aroma of Heaven via balloon and cup. This might be an inane interpretation of a good poem. It's evident that, no matter what one makes of the content, the technique is solid and it's not often that it's done so well.
J
This poem is strikingly elliptical if not cryptic. I loved the negative image of the elemental opening. It immediately brings me to Milton's depictions of the varied gulfs and weird nebula that separate Heaven and Hell -as well as Earth.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky
I am confessedly completely lost when I arrive at "unknown". You've wrought a very alluring abstraction, but it simply implodes for me at that point. I travel from enticing Ark and incense imagery to tabula rasa in the final lines. This keyhole needs a source! I have searched!
I especially like the thought of you playing with fire on this piece! Very Faustian, AuntShecky!
O won't you share your secrets from those dark materials?
Thank you Jack and deryk for your "takes" on #302. I have to say that while nothing in the piece disputes your
interpretations, they were not intended. Your observations were part of the intention of an earlier piece, "Scratch,"
(#228.)
Did either of you recognize the form I used for "Heaven Scent"? I "borrowed" the meter and rhyme scheme from a 9-line stanza created way back when, specifically this one.
Here are 2 more ditties -- not necessarily "blasts"-- from the past:
Bum
Call this guy a man on the street in every sense.
He lists his address as the corner of Hudson and Broadway,
but mail sent there would reach him just by chance.
Empty soda bottles stashed in the cart with his goods
can earn deposits for his pockets along with the spare change
and random smokes he cadges from workers on their break.
He gets along. Every day he hustles without a break.
We could say he’s got a full-time job in a sense.
Why not hang across the street? Who couldn’t use a change
of scenery? Find another block, walk a different way,
maybe hitch-hike to the country – that would be good.
Sometimes a guy’s got to climb out, step up, take a chance.
Head-shakers, tongue-cluckers, here’s a treat, another chance
to judge! For social scientists, an in vitro specimen to break.
Ready? Go: he’s drunk, on drugs, or in some other way no good.
Perhaps his brain is damaged, schizoid, or just lacks sense.
Maybe he’s a vet who came home and lost his way.
Would-be reformers, here’s your cause for social change!
Still, he gets along. He’s alive, he’s fine, no need to change
his ways to soothe the status quo. No chance
of our joining him, huh? The strata stand, in a way,
parallel: a rung up, better; a rung down, worse. No break
in this ladder. It rarely falls. We’re all stuck with the sense
that we can’t move up, won’t move down, in line with all our goods.
The old line “There but for the grace of God” is no damned good.
for the limits of sympathy end at temporary change.
For all we know the guy’s a Ph.D., with more common sensthe crisis team says he needs classes, training’s his only chance.
Give him a shower, give him some soup, but don’t give him a break.
Get him a job (at minimum wage), get him out of the way.
Who gave the command that he has to live this way?
Who wrote rule to write off lives, in the guise of doing good?
Who answers this man who begs for just one lucky break?
Those romantic ideals of freedom should change.
This poor slob’s not free!Ask the man who’s rich by chance:
he gets along, he’s doing fine, as far as he can sense.
The ranks could break, or get stacked in a different way
so they make sense – wouldn’t that be good?
Instead the structure stands, and change comes by chance.
Ninja Gal
In this world made for us we’re made to work:
sowing and reaping, building and ripping up our world.
The economy is too refined in our crude and greedy time.
Minions in suits run things, ruin things. They move
invisible money around. Nothing useful, nothing done by hand,
they transfer funds, crunch spreadsheets, manage assets.
Me, I’m outside the margin: “No income, no job, no assets.”
What doesn’t bring home bucks and bacon isn’t work.
On paper, little value accrues by my own hand.
Sewing and cleaning, cooking and washing make up the world
from which I crave escape, but too confined to move.
It could be a virtual prison, as if I’m doing time.
Reality seeks respite in dreams, as one time
I imagined I made a film: Crouching Tiger, Hidden Assets.
Of course, I was an “auteur.” I shouted “Action!” to move
the crew to block and grip, light and shoot my life’s work.
Naturally I was the star, the greatest in the world.
In every scene I directed myself and gave myself a hand.
I played a ninja, packing lethal power in my hand
while gracefully leaping into the air, in so-mo or frozen time.
“Impossible” you say, “in a gravity-strung world.”
Well, you can’t blame a gal for capitalizing on her assets,
no matter how many critics say they don’t work
or how my earth-bound feet and fate refuse to move.
Clad in black jammies, cat-like I could move,
with a scarf round my forehead, my serious hand
pointed perpendicular to the sky. Would that work?
Not every movie made is worth the effort and time;
some slice profits open, gutting assets.
The bottom line’s the top star in the world.
I’m just not cut out for show biz, or maybe any world.
Like going straight to video, I just can’t move
up. I’m a “ninja”– no income, no job, no assets.
Now, don’t go around thinking I exist hand-
to-mouth. I’ll remember to check in from time
to time and write if I find work.
Among the assets hidden in the world,
rewards for work might someday move
into my empty hand. When’s Show Time?
Two sestinas - not a very tractable form to work in, ostensibly. I knew #302 was derivative
of Donne, from the very first flash of the structure, I thought "Donne." Very well. I like your palate.
I am making this addition to my post, now, to thank for renewing my faith in poetry as an art
that is not entirely lost on those who publish their work on the internet - or, if not lost, in some
form affronted, maimed, or otherwise (if such were possible) corrupted. I'd commend in chief
your poem 'selfish stream' (I haven't the time to read them all) for its metrical achievement
in part, but for its altogether good writing. I must say I'm fairly disapproving of your free
verse ventures, or those I've read, and feel you fare much better in structured verse.
O.M.
Indeed, a very tricky form, and a lengthy one. You cheated a bit with "Broadway" though :D I must give one of these a go and see how I get on... I really enjoyed these offerings which have strong rhythm to drive them forward.
Live long and prosper - H
I'm not as well-educated in forms as our other posters, but I will say I enjoyed Ninja Gal especially. The overwhelming sense of futility was apparent, but not too self-pitying to be a turn-off.
What kind of meter did you use, if you don't mind me asking?
Well, I tried to overlook my natural aversion to sestinas, Aunty, but to little avail.
They're both very accomplished pieces, the first in particular is recognisably your voice and anecdotal narrative style, but - like with all sestinas I read to be fair - I soon get distracted by the end words and feel the poem is going on too long just to satisfy the requirements of the form.
And now you're encouraging Hawk as well! Maybe at least he'll invent a 'hawkestina' or something...
Thanks, LitNutters, for your responses re: #306.
Advice that has come up more than once is that I should stick to metric forms rather than the netless game of free verse. That strikes me funny, because just a few years ago the strict moderator of another poetry-writing site kept telling me that I didn't know squat about metric verse. Since the LitNet seems to be telling me the opposite, maybe I'm in the wrong game. Know anybody who needs a humor writer?
To the current postings:
"Bum" (not necessarily a self-portrait) comes from Ought Eight, and is my first attempt at writing a sestina. The second one, "Ninja Gal" ( a "non-winning" entry in Pendragon's "Form Poetry Contest" here on the LitNet) is from the autumn the same year, during the time of the big financial burn-out, at least part of which some pundits blamed on the mortgage scandal.
Personally, I don't much care for the first one. It's way, way too earnest for its own good as well as polemical. The second one seems a bit more whimsical and doesn't take itself too seriously, a practice that is deadly for a poet.
The form is a complex one, no argument there. Many contemporary poets try their hand at the form, sometimes masterfully, such as "Sestina" by Elizabeth Bishop. I believe the trick to the sestina is choosing six end words that can have multiple meanings. That way the lines won't be as repetitious and provide more leeway with the subject matter.
To anyone who'd like to pursue metric verse, a handbook which I highly recommend is a slim volume, The Concise Oxford Dictionary of Literary Terms, by Chris Baldick, published in 1990. Here's what that book says about the mighty sestina:
"The form was introduced into English by Sir Philip Sidney in his Arcadia (1590.) A modern example is W.H. Auden's 'Paysage Moralisé' (1933.) Even more remarkable as a technical feat is A.C. Swinburne's 'The Complaint of Lisa' (1878), a rhyming double sestina with twelve 12-line stanzas and a 6-line envoi."
A double sestina! That sounds daunting. I don't mean
writing it, I mean reading it!
I like Ninja Gal. It's rather political in a satirical way.
I'm proverbially late to read poetry here, but found and read your latest two. I'm always scared by poems' length (language problems!) but applied myself to Ninja and found it light and enjoyable. I'm a total ignorant of form and therefore won't critique or praise yours.
But, back from my journey, I shake tiredness with your fine offerings or, rather, take refuge in them not to face the packed up schedule...
Be well, Dear Auntie, thank you,
Bar
Thank you all for your kind responses re: #306. Here's #314:
Eight Days of Rain
Radio wags have started counting down:
only thirty-two more till the next deluge.
Dryness seems mere memory (like wit.)
Our unsoothed nerves slip when wet
percussion pings this building’s plastic pelt;
sewers drown in sour songs from tinny pipes.
Mornings that once milled dew escape the mower,
catch the mold. What bent the honeysuckle’s blades
once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.
Condensate descends and splashes all lives,
but some float through with a now-and-then spritz,
while torrents pound the heads of others ceaselessly.
Awash in gray above, sinking into muck beneath our shoes,
we wring our hands and souls like sodden towels.
If our home star should suddenly deign
to show itself, wonder would strike
us with that alien yellow light.
O great Whoever, Herdsman
of gentle flocks grazing the blue;
Lord of the mayflies, midges, stones;
Dominus of clay and loam, fickle winds
and fearless weeds; and --yes, the Source,
swollen with color-free life-milk to nurse the earth:
wean us for a while, rest.
Then send as many sundrops as you will
to succor goldfinch infants in their nests
and warm the puckered skin of tiny frogs.
Sprinkle sun, dear Father, everywhere
from the faux-rainbow scum-shine on the streets
to the clean leaves of hidden violets in the woods.
What bent the honeysuckle’s blades
once pink, now brown? The world’s fingertips wrinkle
and crease, as after hours spent in banquet dishpans
or indulging in a too-long soak in the tub.
This is excellent Aunty!
Rather an alliterative feast, Auntie, but some great wit here. Not sure about blades of honeysuckle though. Definitely escapes me as an image. Never really considered honeysuckle to be dangerously sharp, proficient in the use of swords, or even a comic book vampire killer. Hi ho, one lives and learns :D
Live and be well - H
A new satirical gem, Auntie, in which keen intelligence and your poetic art combine successfully! Thanks for your 314.
Warm wishes from Bar
Thank you Delta, Hawk, and Bar for your nice comments re: #314.
Here's my characteristically prolix reply to your replies. (Pop a couple o' No-Doz.)
I had the LitNet equivalent of "buyer's remorse" -- "PPPS--post-posting poster's syndrome"-- as in the very days and hours I was laboring over every blessed line of this thing, real life occurring elsewhere caused multitudes in the Midwest and South of the U.S. to suffer through cataclysmic weather, while here I was writing about a lengthy spate of ordinary rain, at best a nuisance.
But the damn thing was finally "done" and I went ahead and posted.
Although I certainly don't mind -- in fact, I'm flattered -- that the current ditty comes off as satirical, but I'm afraid for this one I wasn't trying to channel Juvenal and Swift as much as wanting to catch a whiff of Wordsworth and especially Thoreau. I get obsessed w. Nature that sometimes I think I might be the flesh-and-blood version of the Enthusiast in this famous Thurber cartoon.
In any event, the reference to the honeysuckle "blades" in #314 was meant to play off the mower mentioned in the previous line. I went outside to check and yep, the honeysuckle petals are spear-shaped, though slightly broader and not as "pointy" as those of the shadbush earlier this spring. If you plug the phrase "pink honeysuckle +free photo" into the Google machine, most of the pictures that come up will show the blossoms as a deep "hot" pink, almost a fuchsia color. The wild honeysuckle around here is --or was-- a much paler, pastel pink, but from this, as well as the white variety, comes the sweet aroma that the honeysuckle is famous for in song and legend.
As of this writing, especially after all that rain, the honeysuckle is wrapping up its gig for the year, along with the violet and the lilac. Next up are pockets of pink mallows and a few early specimens of the wild phlox, with 5-petaled blossoms,and smooth-edged, opposite leaves. I sometimes confuse it with another plant that's also made its appearance this year. It looks a lot like the wild phlox; the only differences are 4 instead of 5 petals, and saw-toothed, alternative leaves) -- which, conveniently enough, segues into the next number:
Dame’s Rockets
Oh, say what are these–
long past dawn,
deep into day,
bursting like benign bombs
in the glare of neglect,
weedy overgrowth, tossed tires?
Their pink, ivory, purple diversity
gives translucent proof
through the blight
that wild hope can defy
their glorious uselessness.
Oh say how those soft petals
thrive–never wavering!
They're almost enough
to make one forget
the bad –also good–
shoots of a woman
whose shared roots,
by sheer chance,
happen to be American–
red, white, and oh-so
blue.
Well Auntie, I have quite an extensive Thurber collection in my library, so precious to me that I actually made a great effort to ensure that his stuff was disenterred from the mountain of boxes in my front room, so that it could be easily accessed from the shelves of one of my few bookshelves.
The honeysuckle that grew in the garden of the last dwelling I actually owned, in that dim, distant past before my fortunes took a nose-dive, was actually white flowered, but my memory may just be playing me fale with my recollection of the shape of its leaves. I believe they were rounded rather than pointy. This particular plant was quite vigorous, having eaten the iron railings on the veranda.
Oh, and ps, Loved the last poem, too, even with it's corney, patriotic finale, with its incorporated pun :D Who was it said that patriotism was the last refuge of a scoundrel?
Live and be well - H
This was my favorite couplet in the poem. It speaks volumes for the appeal of uselessness. The wild hope seems to tie to the "lost" memory of whomever the titular "Dame" might be. I'm still uncertain, but I love the unity of diverse floral colors and metaphorically blighted roots in this poem. Cultivation and neglect rarely strike such a beautiful image when they are both entwined so tightly.Quote:
Originally Posted by AuntShecky