This week, we have bouquets of beautiful memories, both
joyful and poignant, as all memories tend to be, for you to enjoy. Our poets
are Wendy Bourke, who writes at Words and Words and
Whatnot, our very own Mary, of In the Corner of My Eye,
and Rosemary Nissen-Wade, our beloved Passionate Crone, who blogs at Enheduanna’s
Daughter.
What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
- William Wordsworth
These stunning lines*,
penned several centuries ago by William Wordsworth, have long reverberated,
deeply, with me and thus are some of my favorite lines of poetry. As I grow older, I find they speak to me
with more redolence than ever, as much of my own poetry cascades in a similar
direction. I find myself harkening back
to 'the hour of splendour in the grass' ... processing the effect of
that metaphorical 'hour' upon the life that followed ... and coming to terms
with the promise of youth: the dawning
of the age of Aquarius, that has yet to dawn.
These ruminations were the genesis of my poem:
eons ago … when flora infused moments … with a blithe defining spirit that wafted round the last of childhood's
summers … the smell of fresh mowed
grass and earth and garden-green and sweet peas … was mine
on this scorcher of a day – held, as I am – in slabs of gray concrete, buffeted
by electrically spun breezes, that –
which was mine – comes to me, again … bittersweet … by virtue of its long-away … and yet … it returns, on a
breath
there were bouquets of commitment and vases of amends and corsages of achievement … there were buttercups of
affection and sunflower fields but … even so, the essence of that halcyon sublimity arrives once more, as
new-as-now
there were hard lessons to swallow down – bad fish to starving men – there was
rage against tyranny, might and money …
there was beauty and compassion and justice … there was love … occasionally, there was a hope or a
dream
sweet peas, a-rambling in tendrils, entwined, on a staff of strings –
colourful notes to an opening
prelude – in sips of cold water and good music and the spell of a great book … in the sunny comfort
and enthrall of home's backyard
the joy of finding oneself at the dawn of connectedness to a stirring soul …
when childish things fall away
and our eyes are opened, with thrilling clarity, to all that is there … for me: THAT SUMMER … ah
yes, I remember it well … it is, mine, still
My parents grew
sweet peas on a stringed trellis they put up in late spring, at the edge of the
family garden. The fragrance of sweet
peas (for those who may not be familiar with the flower) is lovely and delicate
and yet, so omnipresent, as to scent many of my childhood memories of summer
days, in my backyard. The last summers
of grade school, before I went on to high school, were defining summers for
me. Without a rigid school or work
agenda, I was free to do whatever made me feel good. When I wasn't swimming or biking or playing
baseball with friends, I spent a lot of time in that backyard.
Sometimes I would
listen to my transistor radio. The 60's
was an incredible time for music.
Musicians protested; they sang of injustice; they questioned; they
embraced sensuality. Often these songs
had the effect of making the listener feel GR-R-R-EAT!!!
I was never without
a book, usually read on a blanket placed atop aromatic green grass. One summer I went through every Trixie
Belden: Girl Detective Book, in the
series. By the next summer I was into
tomes like: Dostoevsky's Crime and
Punishment and Rachel Carson's Silent Spring. If I couldn't be bothered making Kool-Aid, I
generally settled for a glass of ice water that I sipped through the tunes and
pages of those enchanted hours.
The universe was
full of possibilities, and opportunities to make the world a better place were
EVERYWHERE. The thought of what lay
ahead was exhilarating. I was not alone
in this heady coming-of-age, rite of passage.
All around me, friends were 'piling on' with conversations about new
recording artists and emerging political movements and the War in Vietnam - as
more and more American boys crossed the border 30 miles from town and never
went back.
Many poems shared by fellow
poets, at Poets United make reference to that glorious time-of-life and
speak to the nuances of the emotional tug of a backwards glance to bygone
youth.
Perhaps all
generations, are doomed to have their lofty expectations fall short. I often wonder, though, if the social
movements of the 60's didn't set up the 'Boomers' for a particularly hard crash
landing back to brutal reality. That -
and the fact that qualities which were universally disdained for centuries -
primarily: greed - have become
acceptable - even laudable ... to say nothing of electable. I don't think anyone saw that coming.
At one time,
realistic people acknowledged that life is complicated. It isn't always black and white ... it is
often grey. However, the acknowledgment
that solving problems is not straight-forward has become so tainted by greed,
and the accompanying lack of empathy that greed runs on - issues often play out
in terms of a horrible choice versus a slightly less horrible choice ...
possibly. Choices such as:
- Vote for an
enviro-damaging job to feed your family or kill the planet for your
grandchildren.
- Stay and be
killed in Syria or risk your life, and the lives of loved ones, trying to get
out.
I summed up my frustration in my poem with the
line: 'bad fish to starving men'. Though
not new, I feel that such impossible scenarios, are far more the norm -
everywhere - than in the past.
Wordsworth ends his
piece with the line 'In the faith that looks through death, In years that bring
the philosophic mind'. While it is true
I will always have THAT SUMMER - the
summer of my splendour in the grass - and the wonderful memory of that
exuberant time, I wait - given the state of the earth I will be leaving behind
- for the philosophic mind to confer upon me a measure of hope for this
planet.
[* The Poem that has
come to be known as Splendour in the Grass, is a portion of the much larger Ode:
Intimations of Immortality from Recollections of Early Childhood, published
in 1807.]
Sherry: I so resonate with this poem, Wendy. That time of "splendour in the grass" takes me back, too, to the shining hours of my youth, when life lay ahead like a golden dream. Books and music were part of my every day, as well.
We did believe, back then, that we would change the world. Until all of our leaders were assassinated, one by one. I was struck by your line "bad fish to starving men" - such a powerfully affecting line. I, too, am having a hard time hanging onto hope. And yet, we must, for we have grandchildren who want and need to live.
When I look back, those glorious times were full of flowers, too, those of my grandma's garden. She always had sweet peas. Sigh. I love your poem, and your memories. Thank you so much for sharing.
Mary, with her mother
Every Memorial Day weekend we journeyed to the
greenhouse
to pick out flats of petunias, geraniums, and marigolds
to plant around our home and also for the gravestones
of the two cemeteries where my parents’ deceased were buried.
Stooping over the soil with her shovel, hand digging
holes,
Mother artfully arranged geraniums, marigolds, and petunias
and an occasional coleus in her front yard flower beds.
As a child, I often found my mother standing with
her garden hose,
watering her flowers before the rise of the strong morning sun.
I knew not to disturb her then, as this was her time.
Time passed. My mother could no longer care for
flowerbeds.
Her eyesight dimmed year after year, blindness was inevitable.
Instead she planted flowers in large pots on the front porch.
It was important for her to grow flowers.
Then one day when my mother was almost blind
she awoke to find her flower pots stolen.
Gone were the plants that had been her pride,
the only reminder of her gardens of yesteryear.
The thieves stole more than flowers from my mother,
they stole her desire to grow them. She never had flowers again.
They had been all that was left for her to nurture.
Nothing more to care for is a very sad thing.
Sherry: How sad that someone took that pleasure from her, Mary. I so love this poem, full of memories of those tender years. I can see her, watering her garden, enjoying those brief peaceful moments. I love the photo, too.
Mary: When I remember things about my
(long-deceased) mother, I realize that many of my memories involve
flowers. She loved them! As a child sometimes, I would wake up and
wonder where my mother was. I would find her outside early, standing with
a hose watering her flowers. In addition to taking care of flowers, she
took care of the very, very small garden we planted each year. She loved
planting things and taking care of them as they grew. This gave her so much
joy.
It was sad for my mother when she was losing her sight. She could no
longer go outside and take care of plantings in the yard, but she could care
for planters (with varied plants) which she kept on our front porch. Not
as extensive as a garden, but living things for her to nurture, and watch grow. It
was so very sad when she woke up one morning and discovered someone had stolen
these planters with flowers overnight. We could hardly believe this, as
these planters and plants were really not very valuable — except to my
mother. Who would do this? I still wonder. And it still makes
me sad to remember how devastated my mother was after this thievery.
I often think of my mother when I stand outside with either a sprinkling can or
a hose watering flowers. I think if my mother could see me at these times
she would smile to see me, following her example, being a caretaker of
plants. And THAT gives me a good feeling!
Sherry: So lovely, Mary. Every morning in summer, in my childhood, I was wakened by the slap of the hose against the side of the cottage, as my grandma watered everything down against the heat. When I think of her, it is always with flowers, too.
I, too, am now reduced to flowers in pots on my balcony. But it gives me such pleasure to have something growing. I was such a gardener when I was younger.
I so enjoyed your poem, and your thoughts about it. Thank you so much.
In closing, we leave you with this very sweet poem of remembrance penned by Rosemary.
Rosemary has always been
passionately alive!
I
walk out my door some days
into a feeling of Andrew,
my late-life husband:
things we did together,
places we saw ... the same
exact mix of sunlight and breeze.
Or I go to my little boys,
down the back yard
on a good drying day,
playing under the clothesline.
Me pegging, and watching them.
Their white singlets and nappies.
Not often my own childhood –
here is so much warmer – but
sometimes the way the winter sun
glints on the river, or the rare
pockets of fog in the hills,
a smell of coming rain....
Sherry: This is so lovely: feeling Andrew near, the memory of those little boys, while you hung nappies on the line. Sigh. Lovely memories. Life is so full of them! To keep the heart full to brimming. Rosemary, how I love this photo of you when you were small: you have kept that vibrant life force all your life. It is lovely to behold. Tell us about your poem.
Rosemary: There's really not a lot to say about
this. It just happened one day, out of nowhere, expressing what I was feeling
at the time I was feeling it.
I suppose I am at a time of life where I tend to do
some looking back. Luckily I have also reached a stage where happy memories
outweigh the painful. I can remember my husband Andrew now with more pleasure
in our time together than pain at his passing, and the good things about my own
childhood and my children's rather than the problems.
And of course, it was some particularly pleasant weather which caused me to
recall the specific moments in the first two verses, and then led me to reflect
that such triggers are rarer with regard to my own childhood. I grew up in
Tasmania, which is pretty cold, and now live in the sub-tropics. But, because I
live in a town very like the one I grew up in, scenically, our winters here can
sometimes flash me back.
It was indeed a very sweet moment or two. Sweet
weather, sweet memories.
Sherry: Very sweet, my friend, and thank you for sharing them.
Such a lovely nostalgic bouquet of blooms and memories, my friends, wasn't it? Thank you so much, Wendy, Mary and Rosemary, for sharing these lovely poems, and thank you, our loyal readers for stopping by to read them. Do come back and see who we talk to next. Who knows? It could be you! (But, a hint: next week we have a very special feature for you: Robin Kimber will be sharing with us his memories of his boyhood in London during World War II. It is special, and not to be missed.)
