My blog today is a poem which I've been working on for some days (and it's still not finished - the ending is particularly weak). Now, I haven't written any poetry for nearly fifty years, and it's taking me a while to find my voice. I didn't trust myself to free verse - need a bit of structure but not too much - so I chose blank verse for this. It's about the amazing spring we've had and all the wonderful wild flowers, and also about being glad that I'm still here to see them.
In case you were wondering about the references to Hockney and Larkin, David Hockney did a series of paintings that I saw last year called, I think, 'The Coming of Spring', which included some paintings which I didn't at all like at the time, of hawthorn trees in bloom, which really did look like fat white caterpillars. I see them differently now, though, because of him. And I had to acknowledge, not wanting to be accused of plagiarism, that the lines about the train ride were rather similar to the poem by Philip Larkin called Whitsun Weddings' where he's taking a train south from Hull at Whitsun and sees wedding parties at every station.
Finally, apologies to those who read my bluebell blog - the elements of that post are repeated here.
A birthday poem
I thought I'd never see another spring
But she is here in glory. So am I,
The illness managed but not gone for good.
'Incurable' they say, but so is life.
And life is to be savoured, drop by drop.
This amazing spring, fickle I fell
Serially in love with each spring flower.
Snowdrops my first passion, spreading cloths
Of purest white in February's dark woods.
Then primroses along the lane held sway,
Muddy from passing tractors, shy and pale,
But strong and long-stemmed, begging to be picked.
Cerulean bluebells in my secret spot
Were next: the massive oak tree, broken bench,
Where I lay supine looking at the sky,
Through branches of unfurling gold-green leaves,
The old dog nearby, or leaping through the blue
Chasing hares who'd long since got away.
And now it's May, and hawthorn conquers all.
Hockney, I thought, painted them as worms,
White caterpillars, unearthly strange.
But (shamelessly recalling Larkin's 'Whitsun Weddings')
As I rode the train north one hot May day,
Through Shropshire fields, I saw Hockney was right:
They look invertebrate, languid and limp,
Or swooning like shy brides along the fields,
Surrounded by their cow parsley attendants.
Lastly it was the turn of campions to bloom,
Carpets of red or pink on verge and bank.
Forgotten was my love for white or blue,
Carmine was the colour then which ruled my heart.
And now as my stolen birthday comes (I might
Have gone by now, as three score years and four
Is more than I'd expect), an orchestra
Of hues strikes up in verges left uncut.
Red clover, daisy, coltsfoot, parsley, vetch
Wild radish, sorrel, meadow buttercup
And others I don't know.
If only I
Believed in Him, I would be thanking God
I am alive to see this dazzling spring.
But I am deeply grateful nonetheless
To those who treat me and to those who care,
And look for joy in nature, life and love..
.
