My Wordless Wednesday this week was an odd looking machine – but all machines are odd to me! For those wondering what it was, here’s the answer!
The ‘Vita’, was Vita Sackville-West, an English writer, poet and gardener, best known for her affair with Virginia Wolfe and the wonderful garden she created at Sissinghurst, Kent.
Here is the opening section of the poem ‘Sissinghurst’ as in the photo above.
A tired swimmer in the waves of time
I throw my hands up: let the surface close:
Sink down through centuries to another clime,
And buried find the castle and the rose.
Buried in time and sleep,
So drowsy, overgrown.
That here the moss is green upon the stone.
And lichen stains the keep.
I’ve sunk into an image, water-drowned,
Where stirs no wind and penetrates no sound,
Illusive, fragile to a touch, remote,
Foundered within the well of years as deep
As in the waters of a stagnant moat.
Vita Sackville-West 1931
Today is the day, but as always I plan to have a birthday month, so I spent yesterday walking beside the river Bovey. This is the result.
I contemplate the transience of the River Bovey.
Every molecule of water that flows past my feet
has a destiny, whether it is to evaporate,
to splash onto the shingle that scratches at my soles,
sink into the peaty soil
or connect with the vastness of the sea.
Every leaf, green, frosted or baked dry by the sun
will crumble, flake along the route
or wash up intact on a beach,
ten or ten thousand miles away.
Every little stick tumbles and rolls
between east and west river bank,
to be claimed by a golden retriever
or gathered by a green consumer
to give home a few minutes of warmth.
From its source between Chagford and Shapley commons,
the Bovey glides, swirls and gushes to merge with the Teign
and rush headlong to the sea.
We are as the smallest drops, the most delicate leaves,
chasing through our three score and ten.
Transient beings, swimming, floating,
crashing against the shore of life,
relentlessly struggling to connect
with the vastness of our race.
Nature’s fair canvas coloured by skilful brush
each billowing cloud unique and fleeting in form hue and shade
each curve and sweep of landscape carved by mystical sculptor
each line of tree planted by a master hand
each blade of myriad green springs forth to reach its zenith
burns dry in heat of summer desiccates
lies waiting for the cycle of rebirth
each swell of tide turns ocean brown blue
turquoise and broken by white horses
what greater work of art could this gypsy capture
than nature’s dynamic masterpiece
Michelle W chose the theme for this weeks photo challenge over at the Daily Post, Work of Art. Join in here, http://dailypost.wordpress.com/dp_photo_challenge/work-of-art/
Oloriel, at We Drink Because We’re Poets gave a simple prompt today, write an ode to the morning. Any morning, in any form and as I love mornings I’m joining in.
Good Morning Devon
The velvet fold of the sky’s gown,
is seal grey and striped with dove.
Light elevates from the eastern horizon
frothy warm candy floss pink,
the lingering mist burns away
and morn’s waking beauty leads me astray.
Silver dew evaporates from verdant fields
where deer startle and go to ground,
in a hedgerow of fragrant hawthorn.
Nettles and fresh cleavers burst forth,
wild garlic a gypsy ransom, red Campion buds
and berries to ripen in season.
Songbirds, whose heavenly chorus sing
a crescendo like a Devon morning in spring,
that is overflowing, ripe with promise
and brim full of joy for each new day.
If you like mornings why not tell Oloriel in verse?
Krista at the Daily Post has picked the theme of THRESHOLD for the weekly photo challenge this week. She says,
A threshold is a point of entering; that point just before a new beginning — that split-second moment in time, full of anticipation. All the hard work is over; relief is palpable.
I find thresholds exciting, that strange space or feeling when things could be vastly different depending on a choice, so it inspired a poem.
the threshold of disintegration
crumbling shattered overgrown
with vine tendrils both living and lost
where Capulet fingers perhaps lingered
flakes of rust eating into metal that
rests precariously no support for any arm
that dares to lean to stretch towards
the golden light still dawning
balcony of decay and neglect
standing on pillars of sustenance
destined to fall or rise from
the threshold of disintegration
Bastets pixelventures challenge is looking for pictures that inspire a poem so I’d like to add this post, I think it fits
She scrambles through the memory door,
with care for the height ascending
heavenwards through the Majorelle sky,
to sit, watching from her balcony,
from her sun-dazzled rooftop seat.
A spectator of unfolding beach drama,
and the tides that turn on loving couples,
with swift momentum on the old.
Hair chopped, scrolled, bleached white
her Rapunzel days are over,
no handsome prince will rise to rescue
his dragon heart fell cold.
This post is for http://wedrinkbecausewerepoets.com/2014/03/25/bastets-pixelventures-march-25-2014/ challenge this week which is UP.
She has a £300 head of woven on Russian hair
She has her head shaven in mourning
Her clothes are designer disposed of when the colour is last seasons
Her clothes are shabby raggy charity shop rejects
She steps out in killer heels feet pampered pedicured and painted
She has heels and soles like elephant hide hardened from a shoeless life
Her house has six air conditioned bedrooms one for each child and three spare
Her six children sleep on the grass covered mud floor
She luxuriates in a bath tub fragranced with jasmine
She walks three miles at dawn to carry home cloudy water
Her family lunch at pizza palace leaving the excess food grabbed in greed
Her children wait twelve hours to share the same maize pap as breakfast
She drives to the shops in a gas guzzling monster
The cost of which would build a clinic and school
She labours in scorched fields ravaged by war and rife with danger
For a dollar day if she’s spared
Just a little piece to mark International Women’s Day.
a liminal waterscape endlessly dynamic
with the twice daily ebb and flow of the tide
where sometimes a lost soul will wash up
or a golden coin from five centuries past
a giant seed pod carried by the Gulf Stream
from five thousand miles away
the bones of a fish sucked white by an albatross
or thrashed by the brutal oceans swell
human detritus of sanitary wear
once flushed through some distant drain
tangled in plastic that surrounded well water
bottled in Delhi sold to an unsuspecting
ill prepared golden triangle tourist
tide so low that the other side may be walked to
if only you’re aware of bottomless mud sink
if not cursed to be the next being
nibbled by crabs, inhabited by barnacles
and gowned in kelp to wash up like a lost soul