June 6th, 2009


From Poet to Poet

Tonight I was writing a poem using flowers as a metaphor for time and memory. I wanted to make sure I put the accent mark on "wingèd" pointing in the right direction, so I searched it online ... and found this.

Carl Sandburg (1878–1967).  Chicago Poems.  1916.
66. Troths
YELLOW dust on a bumble
    bee’s wing,
Grey lights in a woman’s
    asking eyes,
Red ruins in the changing        5
    sunset embers:
I take you and pile high
    the memories.
Death will break her claws
    on some I keep.        10

The mood is much the same as what I was writing, though the contents are different ... as if that one word were the center of a flower, with poems radiating from it like petals. And reading his poem, I wonder if Sandburg managed to carry a few memories from one life to another.

Fieldhaven at Night

We held our full moon esbat tonight in the ritual meadow. It was beautiful, with the moon rising over the trees. Soft breeze, dusty blue sky dotted with stars like white clover on a shady hill. Also the fireflies were out in force. They love the tall grass and we have patches of it here and there, plus some of the butterfly meadow is unmowed.