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Sunday, February 19, 2012

their deliciousness . . .



To a friend who sent me some Roses

by John Keats

As late I rambled in the happy fields, 
   What time the sky-lark shakes the tremulous dew 
   From his lush clover covert;—when anew 
Adventurous knights take up their dinted shields: 
I saw the sweetest flower wild nature yields,         
   A fresh-blown musk-rose; 'twas the first that threw 
   Its sweets upon the summer: graceful it grew 
As is the wand that queen Titania wields. 
And, as I feasted on its fragrancy, 
   I thought the garden-rose it far excell'd:         
But when, O Wells! thy roses came to me 
   My sense with their deliciousness was spell'd: 
Soft voices had they, that with tender plea 
   Whisper'd of peace, and truth, and friendliness unquell'd.


{worth taking a look at the poem flow version on poets.org}


You may recognize these roses from a previous post.  I was rummaging for a trash bag, about to toss them out. I set them on the kitchen counter where the light happened to be shining in, where the light happened to transform them.


So in a week of pretty intense creative angst, there were these dried flowers, that for me rather suddenly and unexpectedly became enlivened. My senses leaned toward their deliciousness.... 


I began to resume my belief in various possibilities.  In possibility itself.


I re-read Wislawa Szymborka's poem "Possibilities" and decided for the 725th time, that I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.  Or the poem-like excursions that I'm currently immersed in. And maybe it all comes down to preferences.  I prefer to see the beauty in thinned out places.  I prefer to position dried flowers in a slash of light.


P O S S I B I L I T I E S


by Wislawa Szymborska


I prefer movies.
I prefer cats.
I prefer the oaks along the river.
I prefer Dickens to Dostoyevsky.
I prefer myself liking people
to myself loving mankind.
I prefer keeping a needle and thread on hand, just in case.
I prefer the color green.
I prefer not to maintain
that reason is to blame for everything.
I prefer exceptions.
I prefer to leave early.
I prefer talking to doctors about something else.
I prefer the old fine-lined illustrations.
I prefer the absurdity of writing poems
to the absurdity of not writing poems.
I prefer, where love's concerned, nonspecific anniversaries
that can be celebrated every day.
I prefer moralists
who promise me nothing.
I prefer cunning kindness to the over-trustful kind.
I prefer the earth in civvies.
I prefer conquered to conquering countries.
I prefer having some reservations.
I prefer the hell of chaos to the hell of order.
I prefer Grimms' fairy tales to the newspapers' front pages.
I prefer leaves without flowers to flowers without leaves.
I prefer dogs with uncropped tails.
I prefer light eyes, since mine are dark.
I prefer desk drawers.
I prefer many things that I haven't mentioned here
to many things I've also left unsaid.
I prefer zeroes on the loose
to those lined up behind a cipher.
I prefer the time of insects to the time of stars.
I prefer to knock on wood.
I prefer not to ask how much longer and when.
I prefer keeping in mind even the possibility
that existence has its own reason for being.




4 comments:

  1. "I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems"
    and
    I prefer wilted flowers to no flowers at all.

    ReplyDelete
  2. I prefer CALM THINGS to other blogs.Thank you very much.

    ReplyDelete
  3. These are all such exquisite shots!
    ~Dawn

    ReplyDelete

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