Eyesight

Morna Rhys

Eyesight


It was May before my
attention came
to spring and


my word I said
to the southern slopes
I've

missed it, it

came and went before
I got right to see:


don't worry, said the mountain,
try the later northern slopes
or if


you can climb, climb
into spring: but
said the mountain


it's not that way
with all things, some
that go are gone


A.R. Ammons


It isn't true this year. I haven't missed it. In fact, I was waiting for it, and it seemed to take longer than it should to get here. I think we're a month behind - could be I'm wrong, but that's the impression I have. 

And still, it is passing too fast. The cherry blossoms are beginning to fall, the daffodils and tulips are ragged. Like Ammons says, we could climb higher up the mountain to a colder level and find spring at an earlier stage, we could go North and search for the same, and we could find the place where the blooms are beginning, the buds are not yet open. 

This poem is a bit of a twist to the heart, though.  

"Some things that go are gone".

Ouch.

Spring on the Woodland Path

Nikolai Ustinov

SPRING ON THE WOODLAND PATH

So long a winter such an Arctic night!

I had forgot that ever spring was bright:

But hark! The blackbird's voice like a clear flame!

So long a winter, such an age of chill,

Made me forget this silver birch clad hill.

But see, the newborn sunbeams put to shame

Our long dead winter: bracken fronds like flame,

Pierce the new morning's saffron-watered light.

So long, so long the winter in our hearts,

We had forgotten that old grief departs

And had forgotten that our hands could meet.

So long, so long: Remember our last May

When there was sunshine still and every day

New swallows skimmed low down along the street.

Ay, spring shall come, but shall we ever meet

With the old hearts in this forgotten way?

FORD MADOX FORD

“I had forgot that ever spring was bright.” That has been true for me. The light – the longer days – the sun-warmth – all these I had forgotten. “But see, the new-born sunbeams put to shame/Our long dead winter.” I experience that too. Like shutting the door of a dark room and walking toward a bright one. And the music of the lines – “So long, so long the winter in our hearts, We had forgotten that old grief departs/ And had forgotten that our hands could meet.” The last poem I posted (“A Portrait of Grief”, by S. Bert Kingsley) also mentioned hands. Hands that are not there to reach for us. And here, the speaker is reminded – hands can meet – they did before. Will they again? Will the old hearts meet the way they did before? A happy/sad question. Encouraged by the light, and by the resurgence of memories, but also saddened by the changes in each other and the losses we have endured.

 

The Trees

Benoît Trimborn

The Trees

The trees are coming into leaf
Like something almost being said;
The recent buds relax and spread,
Their greenness is a kind of grief.

Is it that they are born again
And we grow old? No, they die too,
Their yearly trick of looking new
Is written down in rings of grain.

Yet still the unresting castles thresh
In fullgrown thickness every May.
Last year is dead, they seem to say,
Begin afresh, afresh, afresh.

Philip Larkin

Poems about trees. I wonder how many I will collect here. The trees always seem to be telling us something. I don't even think the non-poetic can deny that. This time they are encouraging us by example to put the past behind us and begin again. What was that poem a few months ago? Begin, by Brendan Kennelly. It's a recurring theme, and one that I seem to need to hear. The belief that I can indeed shake the old leaves off and begin afresh is utterly essential to my sense of hope. As long as I can start again - I will. Year after year, day after day, hour after hour, if need be. Afresh, every moment.

Consider the Grass Growing

Nicholas Hely Hutchinson

Consider the Grass Growing

Consider the grass growing

As it grew last year and the year before,

Cool about the ankles like summer rivers,

When we walked on a May evening through the meadows

To watch the mare that was going to foal.

Patrick Kavanagh

"Consider", Such a good word to begin a poem with. It makes me chuckle a bit, actually. Kavanagh is getting us to do the work. He's not explaining or summing things up, no, he leaves that to us. What is it about this grass growing? It sounds a bit biblical - that whole Psalm 103 thing, "As for man, his days are as grass...", and yes, he mentions the years past, but at the same time he's talking about the future, about expectations. And where do I find myself in all this? Enjoying the moment. "Cool about the ankles" - that is as true a description as there is. I've felt that. I feel it as I read.