Yes to the comments on the poem. The unfulfilled promise. The beauty of an unripened fruit. But also… I am interested in that Cyril Connolly book you link to.
Connolly was editor of Horizon magazine in England, and someone who never quite produced the great work he was expected to. An interesting character, and his Enemies of Promise is a fascinating book. His comic denunciation of artists' having of children may be his most famous line: "There is no more somber enemy of good art than the pram in the hall."
I grew up in a town like Pierre, in the coastal hills of Northern California, a town perhaps not unlike Pierre--a frontier town. i grew up there at least until I was 13, and when back in summers, during one of which--I was 21, I wrote many awful, awful poems. The poem below benefits, I think, from being free verse. I could no more have written a formal poem in meter and rhyme than I could have stood on my head or flow to the moon. Under the cloak of "free" verse, I was over many years able to develop as a formalist poet, just as under the cloak of others' compassion and acceptance of my foibles and deep flaws, I was able to grow as a person.
Orange Songs
1
The boy with the flute plays a pipe
And the song rises, a streak of silver smoke.
Another strums country blues, off-tune.
A third hums, mournful.
2
Round and fresh, from a far-off grove,
The fruit’s thrust into my hand.
I drive my thumb down its center;
The splitting of the moon, and bring cool-skinned,
This is really lovely, both the poem and the reflection. I could say so much of the same --- about developing under the cloak of free verse, which is how I first started writing poems, and also grace given to my faults as I blundered my way into something like maturity.
Joseph, Joseph. Tomorrow I will be 83. Today I am consumed with anxiety about an election which I believe that whoever wins will be a loss to our great nation and now I read today’s poem. Thanks much. 😎
I still see stuff like in hardware stores that I could use to turn into something for my dolls house. And I think I could use that and then I realize that I don’t even have a doll’s house anymore. I like the poem, but I don’t honestly think it’s tragic!
Yes to the comments on the poem. The unfulfilled promise. The beauty of an unripened fruit. But also… I am interested in that Cyril Connolly book you link to.
Connolly was editor of Horizon magazine in England, and someone who never quite produced the great work he was expected to. An interesting character, and his Enemies of Promise is a fascinating book. His comic denunciation of artists' having of children may be his most famous line: "There is no more somber enemy of good art than the pram in the hall."
Interesting about Connolly. And we still know people like that. Ann Patchett for one. But not an unknown attitude toward children.
I enjoyed this poem so. much. Yes - a feeling easy to identify with.
She died so young! What did she die of?
Pneumonia, I think, but I couldn't pin it down for certain.
It is immature and frankly quite moving. It captures a sadness that I don’t know you ever outgrow.
I grew up in a town like Pierre, in the coastal hills of Northern California, a town perhaps not unlike Pierre--a frontier town. i grew up there at least until I was 13, and when back in summers, during one of which--I was 21, I wrote many awful, awful poems. The poem below benefits, I think, from being free verse. I could no more have written a formal poem in meter and rhyme than I could have stood on my head or flow to the moon. Under the cloak of "free" verse, I was over many years able to develop as a formalist poet, just as under the cloak of others' compassion and acceptance of my foibles and deep flaws, I was able to grow as a person.
Orange Songs
1
The boy with the flute plays a pipe
And the song rises, a streak of silver smoke.
Another strums country blues, off-tune.
A third hums, mournful.
2
Round and fresh, from a far-off grove,
The fruit’s thrust into my hand.
I drive my thumb down its center;
The splitting of the moon, and bring cool-skinned,
Scented crescents to lips
Displaced in the darkened room.
This is really lovely, both the poem and the reflection. I could say so much of the same --- about developing under the cloak of free verse, which is how I first started writing poems, and also grace given to my faults as I blundered my way into something like maturity.
Thank you for sharing this, Sally. I am really enjoying your new anthology.
Joseph, Joseph. Tomorrow I will be 83. Today I am consumed with anxiety about an election which I believe that whoever wins will be a loss to our great nation and now I read today’s poem. Thanks much. 😎
Oh, we're birthday twins. Happy birthday to you! (I turn 60, which is . . . older than I have ever yet been).
Happy Birthday, Sally Thomas!
Thank you, Zara!
Sally: Happy 🎂 Birthday. You ain’t seen nothing yet.
Thanks. I shall hold on tight for whatever the wild ride turns out to be.
An early happy birthday, and a joyous or comic poem for you as well.
On a different note, in elections we get the government we deserve as we voted them in. God help us!
Happy Birthday!
I still see stuff like in hardware stores that I could use to turn into something for my dolls house. And I think I could use that and then I realize that I don’t even have a doll’s house anymore. I like the poem, but I don’t honestly think it’s tragic!
Yeah "tragedy" is a bit over-dramatic, but it's a very effective piece of melancholia.