The tangled apple boughs,
twigs sturdy, budded, bare,
their curves of common care,
bowed by that nurtured load,
October's great carouse
(though barren was the pear),
November's baubles, rare,
lost on December's road.
Histories of years
are packed tight for the spring;
the tenderest blossoming,
confetti littering.
All in the tangle, now,
the gravity, the levity;
all in this tangled now,
ephemera, longevity.
*Tell me how great art
is not a bough in flower -
to paint perception's power
that petals float apart.
But these are instillations,
conspiracies of ages,
honored by the mages,
and yet no fabrications.
They form a sculpture
of jut and load and stray,
a bold, spatial venture
to offer their array.
Now catch low light of evening
and the sly, morning gleam
to shape a boat of seeming -
Ra, riding on the stream.
................
*Some spokesperson said bluntly (of the Turner Prize) that great art wasn't about vases of flowers. Well the Impressionists and the Expressionists, et al, made bloody good jobs of still lives with flowers, nevertheless, was my first thought - then the Eastern blossom paintings came to mind as well.
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Wintering
PoetryIt's yet another MajorSeventh. Hop on the big shoulders and look ... Lastest poems are always posted last in my collections. Winter. So, expect sparse gardens, late autumn and wintry countryside, wry philosophy and humour, tenderness towards litt...
