A Contemplation Upon Flowers
Brave flowers . . .that I could gallant it like you.
And be as little vain!
You come abroad, and make a harmless show,
And to your beds of earth again.
You are not proud; you think your birth;
For your embroider'd garments are from earth.
You do obey your months and times, but I
Would have it ever Spring;
My fate would know no winter, never die,
Nor think of such a thing.
O that I could my bed of earth but view
And smile, and look as cheerfuly as you!
O teach me to see Death and not to fear,
But rather to take a truce!
How often have I seen you at a bier,
And there look fresh and spruce!
You fragrant flowers! then teach me, that my breath
Like yours may sweeten and perfume my death.
~Henry King, Bishhop of Chichester (1592-1669)
I bought this book for myself early in the year, along with another copy for a friend. It combines two of my loves, poetry and flowers, actually three of my loves as each poem is also richly illustrated.
I am not sure where the great love I have for poetry in my heart springs from. I only know that I cannot resist a poem. Of any kind. They truly do speak to my being in a special way. I often think in prose. Have I ever told you that? Thoughts come frequently into my head versed and written by my mind as poetry, and I often think in rhyme, although I know full well that poetry doesn't or needn't necessarily rhyme. I hope that doesn't certify me crazy . . . this idea that I think in verses and prose . . .
I also often write poetry myself, inside lined notebooks. Poetry combined with thoughts and feelings. I don't really share them with anyone else. I'm not sure why that is, perhaps it is fear of someone telling me that they are no good? I do not really know. Things like that are very subjective. One man's meat is truly another man's poison and I am sure that Shakespeare at some point was told his work was rubbish . . . but don't compare me to Shakespeare. I am no he . . .
I wrote a lot of poetry when I was at University. My English Lit prof told me she thought I had an arresting style, and to keep it up, but life got in the way. I didn't even finish Uni. Back in the 1970's Uni as a single mom was a huge challenge, and I was not as brave back then as what I am now.
(This is sooooo on my wish list.)
Poetry is such a very personal thing. Much more so than writing stories is. Poetry comes straight from the heart and is filled with great emotion . . . raw and untested . . . it lays open the bare bones of your very soul. I am not quite sure I am ready for the world to peruse the bare bones of my soul just yet, maybe I never will be . . . but I do know that I can no more not write than I can not breathe. Indeed it is as much a part of me as my breath . . . be it good or be it appallingly bad . . .
I breathe in experience and then breathe it out in words . . . and feelings . . . word paintings . . . embroidered richly with my life's blood . . .
I see something like this and my soul longs to paint it in verse . . . majestic and proud amidst the mist of a thousand mornings. He protects them, watches out for them . . . sometimes powerless against the forces of nature . . . and yes . . . of man.
We are such silly creatures. We've been gifted with everything and yet we have taken it all so for granted. Misused our stewardships . . . of land and of beast, abusing them often in the worst ways. We are the creators of our own demise. And still He loves us ANYWAYS . . . gives us second and third and even fourth chances. He never gives up on us, even though many of us have given up on Him . . .
Inside each of us He has planted that seed . . . that yearning to create and to become much more than we are. Not many of us water it, and I often wonder why that is. Is it fear that keeps us from doing and becoming what we were intended to become?
In my case I would say yes. Fear combined with a lack of confidence in myself and my talents has held me back. Add to that a strong sense of responsability which often puts the needs and wants of others first. It is not wrong to care for others . . . however misplaced that care might be. And much of mine has been misplaced.
Our lives are filled with an abundance of paths and opportunities. Our choices determine our destiny . . . but it is never too late to change your path or head in a new direction. This I do know for sure . . . life is filled with old endings and new beginnings.
When we come to the end of our days, will they read as poetry? Filled with purple mists and the raging winds of whimsical prose? I don't know. What I can tell you for sure is that the poetry of my mother's life lived still has the power to move me in strong and tangible ways. It is written upon my soul where it occupies space which is strongly interwoven within the prose of my own life's heartbeat.
I close my eyes, only for a moment,
and the moment's gone
All my dreams pass before my eyes,
a curiosity
Dust in the wind
All they are is dust in the wind
(
music)
Its a dull day out there again today. I worked very hard yesterday trying to get everything done before the month's end. I have one more thing to finish today and then April will be done and dusted. Whew! I am not sure why, but my days seem to be flashing by more quickly than they ever have, and yet . . . if you ask me on most days I will have to truly think before I can tell you what day of the week it actually is! I think today is Wednesday . . .
A thought to carry with you . . .
° * 。 • ˚ ˚ ˛ ˚ ˛ •
•。★★ 。* 。
° 。 ° ˛˚˛ * _Π_____*。*˚
˚ ˛ •˛•˚ */______/~＼。˚ ˚ ˛
˚ ˛ •˛• ˚ ｜ 田田 ｜門 ★
*A beautiful day begins
with a beautiful mindset •。★★ 。* 。
Have a wonderful Wednesday. Don't forget to stay safe, wash your hands and remember . . .
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And I do too!
