Corvids. Butterflies. Cotoneaster. Proust. Karl Shapiro. Nabokov. And much more. You provide bounties. And you are at least as clever as a crow: "I whittled away at the stump of my childhood."
When my mother was dying we took a shine Karl Shapiro's poem, A Cut Flower, and would - wildly, dramatically - toss out to each other "Where are my bees? Must I die now? Is this part of life."
A Cut Flower
I stand on slenderness all fresh and fair,
I feel root-firmness in the earth far down,
I catch in the wind and loose my scent for bees
That sack my throat for kisses and suck love.
What is the wind that brings thy body over?
Wind, I am beautiful and sick. I long
For rain that strikes and bites like cold and hurts.
Settling down to fondle my recently purchased MG’s now that I am no longer en vacances, I too seem to have ended up with one of Mr. Blodgett’s books, a lovely copy of “Across the Bridge”. It appears to have been read, but what a tidy reader! No mucky fingerprints, red wine stains, or water marks from being read in the bathtub.
Corvids. Butterflies. Cotoneaster. Proust. Karl Shapiro. Nabokov. And much more. You provide bounties. And you are at least as clever as a crow: "I whittled away at the stump of my childhood."
When my mother was dying we took a shine Karl Shapiro's poem, A Cut Flower, and would - wildly, dramatically - toss out to each other "Where are my bees? Must I die now? Is this part of life."
A Cut Flower
I stand on slenderness all fresh and fair,
I feel root-firmness in the earth far down,
I catch in the wind and loose my scent for bees
That sack my throat for kisses and suck love.
What is the wind that brings thy body over?
Wind, I am beautiful and sick. I long
For rain that strikes and bites like cold and hurts.
Be angry, rain, for dew is kind to me
When I am cool from sleep and take my bath.
Who softens the sweet earth about my feet,
Touches my face so often and brings water?
Where does she go, taller than any sunflower
Over the grass like birds? Has she a root?
These are great animals that kneel to us,
Sent by the sun perhaps to help us grow.
I have seen death. The colors went away,
The petals grasped at nothing and curled tight.
Then the whole head fell off and left the sky.
She tended me and held me by my stalk.
Yesterday I was well, and then the gleam,
The thing sharper than frost cut me in half.
I fainted and was lifted high. I feel
Waist-deep in rain. My face is dry and drawn.
My beauty leaks into the glass like rain.
When first I opened to the sun I thought
My colors would be parched. Where are my bees?
Must I die now? Is this a part of life?
Particularly love this entry, Bill. Delicate and deep.
A swallowtail, eastern or black…
Settling down to fondle my recently purchased MG’s now that I am no longer en vacances, I too seem to have ended up with one of Mr. Blodgett’s books, a lovely copy of “Across the Bridge”. It appears to have been read, but what a tidy reader! No mucky fingerprints, red wine stains, or water marks from being read in the bathtub.
Thank you for this. I say yes to the handwriting- her letter "s" is quite distinct - but of course not even close to being an expert here lol