Green grass in unmown tufts,
root-bound daffodil spikes without blooms,
dandelion buttons, purple deadnettle
shawling the tomato bed, ground ivy
weeds big as couch doilies, mole tunnels
like varicose veins on the legs of the ground,
the whole uneven landscape bounding
in undisciplined exuberance
just hatched flies half-sized on the car,
unmoved when my daughter opens
the sunlit door on her way
to celebrate her thirty-second birthday
beautiful in a strapless dress with beaded belt
like American Indians made
that I remember
from camp in the wild north.
Like the one I made: tiny beads of red, blue,
yellow, green and black hooked with a needle,
organized there at the start of a life
utterly unconcerned with how it would turn out.
So lovely, Ruth.
ReplyDeleteThanks, Maureen. Even as I age (and feel it), spring just keeps coming. Happy May Day. :-)
DeleteI really like this. A few quick, spontaneous thoughts...
ReplyDeleteLanguage carefully chosen to describe the spring, the landscape/garden as yet still uncultivated, yet to come into planned fruition. The weeds still have it, anarchistic, undisciplined — but EXUBERANT!
Flies, moles — perhaps not the most obviously lovely of creatures — then, bang, the beautiful vision of the daughter, in sunlight, on a special day...
A memory of an artistic, disciplined, homely, organised activity (the beaded belt), then the last line begging the unspoken question: how did it turn out — whether undisciplined, exuberant, like the cusp-like, disordered end of April or the promise of the beginning of May?
O wonderful, spontaneous thoughts, Robert! Once again you pull out, and together, simple elements from my poem through your own eyes and ears. Thank you so much for doing so.
DeleteAs my friend Rauf (east Indian, not American Indian) said on FB when I posted a photo of Lesley and me taken shortly after she was born, how quickly the generations pass! And the circle of seasons comes and comes, and goes and goes.
Happy May Day!
To me the poem lives on the tension between art and life, order and chaos. Excellent!
ReplyDeleteYes. I see myself on a continuum in this tension. It always wants to be balanced with the other, seemingly opposing force.
DeleteThanks again!
There, grass and girl, catching your eye, begging for notice. How tender this portrayal of spring; how carefully orchestrated too, methodical analysis,as a scientist taking careful notes.
ReplyDeleteRosaria, I learned to "read closely" in college, as an English major. Maybe it's what we are all given to do, to "read closely" the life around us. Thank you for the way you put it, in such kind attention.
DeleteI love you description of the undisciplined exuberance of spring. And I remember well catching tiny colorful beads in needles to make jewelry and belts.
ReplyDeleteMary, how does it seem so long ago, our lives as children? But it's the same life. Our hands remember, these same hands. We live in a spiral, I think, reviewing the same experiences, and with age, we [hopefully] do it with more consciousness. Thank you.
DeleteLovely, Ruth. So much of this poem seems to related to beginnings, including remembered beginnings, and I am especially moved by the last half of the poem — your daughter emerging through the sunlit door, her beaded belt reminding you of one you made when you were utterly unconcerned with how things would turn out.
ReplyDeleteThank you, George. It feels like a reversal, this aging, becoming more aware of what is around, but less concerned with results. We can't go back to childhood completely, but I long for the rapt attention of that time. Every day we get another chance to ". . . arise in the morning [and] think of what a privilege it is to be alive, to think, to enjoy, to love ...” (Marcus Aurelius, as you no doubt know).
DeleteYou catch all of those "beads"--grass, dandelions, mole "veins" (smile), flies, daughter--on your poetic needle and make a new belt, wistful and excited at once. Such is the power of your language. Such is the power of spring. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteDS, I treasure your poetic observations. Thank you.
DeleteLovely poem Ruth. It sings of spring and your surroundings, what makes you life – a nice spring poem.
ReplyDeleteThank you, Vagabonde. Spring keeps coming, through our children and grandchildren.
DeleteI hope Lesley knows you wrote this, Sister, and that she reminded you of something even I remember so vividly. April 30 was Queen's Day for a long time here in the Netherlands...up till this year. Lesley would like that, too, I think? :)
ReplyDeleteI did tell her, Boots, but I don't think she's had a chance to read it yet. Oh yes, Queen's Day! But not now any more, I wonder?
DeleteWell it will be King's Day now... :) but I wonder if on a different day, to honor the mother and former queen?
DeleteI dig things that unfold into existence. This poem unfolded.
ReplyDeleteLove the way that belt wraps around this nest of word memories and hugs them tight.
ReplyDelete