tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post301426976076927292..comments2024-02-13T07:05:32.433-07:00Comments on Of Poetry: What Will the Fir-Tree Say*John W. Mayhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10462966253651386355noreply@blogger.comBlogger5125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post-64934026057935607762010-08-24T22:58:05.483-06:002010-08-24T22:58:05.483-06:00i loved that wm shakespeare quote, and this partic...i loved that wm shakespeare quote, and this particular entryC.Georgehttps://www.blogger.com/profile/00900536365203871049noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post-14588598075709153772010-08-23T17:35:53.245-06:002010-08-23T17:35:53.245-06:00Wow Cheryl, that was beautiful and beautifully put...Wow Cheryl, that was beautiful and beautifully put. My breath was literally taken away:<br /><br /><b>'We were here. We were alive. We matter'.</b><br /><br />I definitely don't think these activities to be weird or strange or a waste of time; on the contrary, they show an extremely sensitive disposition, a sensitivity to nature and the nature of things that's sadly seldom seen. <br /><br />I'm happy to know you. You're pretty cool (and a great writer).John W. Mayhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10462966253651386355noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post-80017525209403082702010-08-23T16:46:20.861-06:002010-08-23T16:46:20.861-06:00John,
I couldn't agree more on both counts.
...John,<br /><br />I couldn't agree more on both counts.<br /><br />Here's one 'lady's' opinion on the matter: I rarely pick flowers, tree branches ect, just to pick them. But I will go out and gather up as many as I can, before grass cutting day (we have so many beautiful wild flowers that grow in our yard, I hate that they all get mowed down). What I like to do is scavenge(sp?) for leaves that have already fallen, insects that have already died, ect. I must be weird, if I can look at a bug and contemplate the whole spectrum of life and death, but I do. I think it's because they're dead or dying that I like to collect them. I think a part of me just wants to preserve their beauty, to give them a voice that says, 'We were here. We were alive. We matter'.cherylhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/16583811501343752136noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post-81176878134042808312010-08-22T16:20:16.423-06:002010-08-22T16:20:16.423-06:00I love your heart in this post, John. Well done an...I love your heart in this post, John. Well done and thank you!Anonymousnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-2120442619950502271.post-21233049579966178432010-08-22T13:21:29.496-06:002010-08-22T13:21:29.496-06:00Side Note:
Here’s one that has always baffled me,...Side Note:<br /><br />Here’s one that has always baffled me, one I’m sure the ladies won’t be quick to agree with: must we really pluck a flower from the ground, deprive it of the vital source that sustains the beauty of it we see, in order to hand it to another as an expression of sympathy or love? <br /><br />Wouldn’t the expression of sympathy or love persist or be just as valid- or more- if, on a hypothetical, I brought <i>you</i> to the rose bush and dedicated one of its flowers to you? As I see it, not only does the expression remain, but so does the flower and the beauty it exemplifies. Everyone wins. <br /><br />****<br /><br />This reminds me of a Thoreau poem: <br /> <br /><b>Sic Vita</b><br /><br />I am a parcel of vain strivings tied <br /> By a chance bond together, <br /> Dangling this way and that, their links <br /> Were made so loose and wide, <br /> Methinks, <br /> For milder weather. <br /><br />A bunch of violets without their roots, <br /> And sorrel intermixed, <br /> Encircled by a wisp of straw <br /> Once coiled about their shoots, <br /> The law <br /> By which I'm fixed. <br /><br />A nosegay which Time clutched from out <br /> Those fair Elysian fields, <br /> With weeds and broken stems, in haste, <br /> Doth make the rabble rout <br /> That waste <br /> The day he yields. <br /><br />And here I bloom for a short hour unseen, <br /> Drinking my juices up, <br /> With no root in the land <br /> To keep my branches green, <br /> But stand <br /> In a bare cup. <br /><br />Some tender buds were left upon my stem <br /> In mimicry of life, <br /> But ah! the children will not know, <br /> Till time has withered them, <br /> The woe <br /> With which they're rife. <br /><br />But now I see I was not plucked for naught, <br /> And after in life's vase <br /> Of glass set while I might survive, <br /> But by a kind hand brought <br /> Alive <br /> To a strange place. <br /><br />That stock thus thinned will soon redeem its hours, <br /> And by another year, <br /> Such as God knows, with freer air, <br /> More fruits and fairer flowers <br /> Will bear, <br /> While I droop here.<br /><br /><br />****<br /><br />And Again, another Dickinson Poem:<br /><br /><b>South Winds Jostle Them</b><br /><br />South winds jostle them,<br />Bumblebees come,<br />Hover, hesitate,<br />Drink, and are gone.<br /><br />Butterflies pause<br />On their passage Cashmere;<br />I, softly plucking,<br />Present them here!John W. Mayhttps://www.blogger.com/profile/10462966253651386355noreply@blogger.com