Category Archives: poetry

The catch in the world’s breath.

humanity, poetry, , ,

THE BODY IS MINE AND THE SOUL IS MINE

‘The body is mine and the soul is mine’
says the machine. ‘I am at the dark source
where the good is indistinguishable
from evil. I fill my tanks up
and there is war. I empty them
and there is not peace. I am the sound,
not of the world breathing, but
of the catch rather in the world’s breath.’
Is there a contraceptive
for the machine, that we may enjoy
intercourse with it without being overrun
by vocabulary? We go up
into the temple of ourselves
and give thanks that we are not
as the machine is. But it waits
for us outside, knowing that when
we emerge it is into the noise
of its hand beating on the breast’s
iron as Pharisaically as ourselves.

– R.S. Thomas

 

 

The History of Honey

bees, poetry,

A thousand bees are drinking nectar and collecting pollen in my garden this week, so it’s time I posted this poem I’ve been tasting for a while. Twice this week I went out to photograph the buzzers, but most of the time with little luck. They are too busy to pose for me!

THE HISTORY OF HONEY

“The History of Honey” — by an aged mandarin,
And I bought it for the pictures of the burnished bees therein.

For the dainty revelations, masquerading up and down,
For the odor of the sandalwood that talked of China-town.

According to the mandarin, the Oriental bees
Were the first to hoard their honey in the mountain cavities.

In the ages of antiquity, each summer afternoon,
They flew in golden convoys to the mountains of the moon.

And there, in caves by cataracts, where nothing could annoy,
Poured gallons in the caverns when Confucius was a boy.

Many mountains bulged with honey stored before the days of Ming,
From each crevice dripped the essence of a very precious thing.

Imprisoned in this honey, aging as the aeons wane,
Are the souls of all the flowers, waiting to be born again:

Every lotus, every poppy, every tulip, every rose.
And those who sip the honey slip beyond all human woes,

Dream again of youth’s digressions, index misty ways of joy,
Turn unto the pagan pastimes of Confucius — as a boy.

Doubtless there are yet secreted some divine distilleries
Overflowing with the wonder worth a dozen dynasties.

But the mandarin, he made no map, contented in old age
To draw the clinging love scenes of the bees on every page.

There he found an inspiration antedating all the Mings,
And he got the ancient essence of the very sweetest things.

-Nathalia Crane

Incense to solace the Princess.

bees, poetry,

These verses are fun when read aloud, especially if shared with a child.

THE BEES’ SONG

Thousandz of thornz there be
On the Rozez where gozez
The Zebra of Zee:
Sleek, striped, and hairy,
The steed of the Fairy
Princess of Zee.

Heavy with blossomz be
The Rozez that growzez
In the thickets of Zee.
Where grazez the Zebra,
Marked Abracadeeebra,
Of the Princess of Zee.

And he nozez that poziez
Of the Rozez that grozez
So luvez’m and free,
With an eye, dark and wary,
In search of a Fairy,
Whose Rozez he knowzez
Were not honeyed for he,
But to breathe a sweet incense
To solace the Princess
Of far-away Zee.

-Walter De La Mare,
from the collection for children,
Peacock Pie

Tiny things grow great and mighty.

my garden, poetry, , , , ,

May is for flowers! The first white echinacea opened today, and many other lovelies are in full bloom, like the Chocolate Cosmos, and a fancy mullein I planted in the fall. I hope it gets tall like the wild ones. Sorry, I can’t seem to get a good picture of it yet.

It’s the time of year when the poppies and nigella begin to look a mess, so I spent quite a while today pulling them out of the area by the front door. The picture above shows the situation “before.”  I also removed one of the three salvia clevelandii that live there; you can sort of see one at the back, reaching for the sky with its long branches. The latest landscaper was a hopeless over-planter, I am realizing every day. I love that salvia and its herby scent, but it gets big. One of them to “anchor” the bed would have been plenty. They are casting too much shade, and crowding the Clary Sage that will bloom next month.

Fuligo septica

I discovered the above thing clinging to the inside of a planter box and a milkweed plant. I pointed my phone’s Seek app at it and it knew immediately what it was. The common name it gave me was too unpleasant for me to want to pass on, but it is a kind of slime mold. Probably some of my readers are familiar with it.

Nigella under the plum tree.

My zucchini, sunflower, and zinnia seeds have sprouted. And I think the amaranth, too, though the leaves I see are such tiny ones, I can’t be sure yet. It’s nice to be home enough that I can go out several times a day, set the hose nozzle to “shower” and moisten the ground for them. Here’s a little poem in praise of seeds.

Seeds

The seeds I sowed –
For week unseen –
Have pushed up pygmy
Shoots of green;
So frail you’d think
The tiniest stone
Would never let
A glimpse be shown.
But no; a pebble
Near them lies,
At least a cherry-stone
In size,
Which that mere sprout
Has heaved away,
To bask in sunshine,
See the Day.

-Walter de la Mare