Another re-write, inspired by a quote on Vesna Perkovic's Homepage:
"It is a deplorable mistake we make when we try to understand poetry. Poetry is not to be understood; it is to be felt... to be loved. To try to understand poetry is like touching a rose with innumerable thorns. To try to feel a poem is to lovingly hold a rose without a single thorn. And to love a poem is to grow immediately into the beauty and the fragrance of the rose itself."
Sri Chinmoy
THE POEM AS A ROSE
I take hold of the long-stemmed and tightly-budded rose:
UNDERSTANDING
Running my fingers lightly across her tip
I feel her compacted feathered petals
Making a circle with my thumb and forefinger
I pass my hand down over her head
and run the length of her shaft
My seared palm oozes moist and scarlet
but is mended the moment
it softly journeys upwards again
This dart flies true :
Understanding is between us
FEELING
The diver arcs and enters the water
without making a ripple
Powerful arms pull him slowly downwards
until, trampolining again off the seabed,
he twists and turns weightless slow-motion
half pikes and summersaults within my hidden depths
Boof! Aah! My core is rocked
A meteorite shower erupts
exotic as aurora borealis
I relax and sigh;
Yes, I felt that
LOVING
I lay her stem lightly across my protruding hip bones
and watch my tensed abdomen sink concave away;
I feel this bloom like a secret concealed
in the hidden place of my womb,
an unseen child that grows in the darkness
cocooned there in love
Her fragrance rises like the scent of hayfields
that drifts through my bedroom in June
My lips moisten and part, my throat throbs
and I am intoxicated by this heady suffusion
I yield to her, am taken
and we are completely One
A blonde selling a bunch of roses came into the bar the other night
like a breath of fresh air. 20 swedish kroner each. I was on a high stool feeling, not low, but exposed. Hello, I said, Flowers for the guitarist? She said I could buy him one if I wanted. No way, I replied and laughed, taking in her perfume, enjoying the softness of her hand on my chest as she touched me to emphasize a point. I explained the average British male's attitude to flowers- floristy is for gays! This remark didn't drive her away, but I felt exposed,
exposed to homophobia, exposed to poverty, exposed to shyness, exposed to spiritual agony, not in a peaceful garden. She went round the pub, slim blonde swedish woman wearing glasses, touchy feely.
She mentioned her ex-boyfriend. The 'ex' was like a password that opens a door. Did I have the code? I didn't think so.
I borrowed the singer's guitar for a moment, to play the one bob dylan song I've learned. She was surprised to see me playing.
What could I do? Jump off my stool and follow her to the land of roses. She left with a smile, leaving me with just a rose-tinted memory. I handed back my empty wine glass at the bar and wondered if Johanna would be back in tomorrow night at this Gullsmarsplan bar bistro where James Dean, Marlyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart share a table in a make-believe poster. Play it again, Sam!
this just brings me ALIVE in so many ways because it brings this object - a rose - to life and the poem inspired by it. your ending just had me surrendering completely to everything you had written and all that is in nature... Dawn
WOW--passion burns throughout this write--vividly depicted and brought to life--this poem SOARS! BRAVA!!!!!!! *i'm just sorry i missed it the first time 'round*
Understanding, feeling, and loving, all symbolized by a flower that can sting as well as delight as experiencing sometimes will. Brilliant analogy, Kate. Mesmerizing poem! Thank you.
This is simply sublime. Images that transcend beauty, touching perfection.
Reviewed by Katy Walsvik (Reader)
Reviewed on October 10, 2004
Do you see how many, here, have reiterated another's words, Kate? I was nearly inclined, myself, and then I realized why, perhaps this is... reading and absorbing this kind of gorgeous writing leaves one speechless, unable to feel that words, alone, will adequately express what your poem has done for the heart and soul. I believe that reading this has proven your preface and the poem itself. It is what it is... and I'm filled with it. Thank you. katy xox.
I must echo Phillip and say that I find this poem both interesting, and quite fascinating, Kate. It 'speaks' on so many levels, and it's really quite captivating and unique.
Write on, Poetess!
Reviewed by Andy Turner (Reader)
Reviewed on October 10, 2004
Peter and Anita say it all. Very intelligently done..
Like a metaphysical journey inward...describing in vivid detail and clarity ...the yearning for womanly fulfilment...love..marriage...birth..contentment...progress...
spiritual insight...absolutely glorious renditon Kate....that spills from your essence..
Your observations are as glorious as the long-stemmed rose, Anita, as always. No thorns on you - except those of complete understanding. TY LOL xxx Kate :)))
wow
life, womanhood, love, birth, passion, strength.....all seen in this glorious flower, I have never thought of it this way.......you have an incredible sense of interpertation......maybe its more a sense of feeling......being? Hope I am on the right track here......maybe I should reread......ok......i will but my observations stand...lol....maybe i am a prick! lol.......Anita :)
The songs and art in this book are about our collective emergence after the pandemic and trauma of the last few years - comprised of 5 collections: World as Refuge, Where We Live, In Our Hands, Rhythms of Change and What We See & Sow.
Robin Ouzman Hislop's poetry is certainly in dialogue with some of the key architects of the 'poetics of indeterminacy' – both the Modernist strands represented by the likes of Beckett and Stein, and the postmodernist strands represented, initially,
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like a breath of fresh air. 20 swedish kroner each. I was on a high stool feeling, not low, but exposed. Hello, I said, Flowers for the guitarist? She said I could buy him one if I wanted. No way, I replied and laughed, taking in her perfume, enjoying the softness of her hand on my chest as she touched me to emphasize a point. I explained the average British male's attitude to flowers- floristy is for gays! This remark didn't drive her away, but I felt exposed,
exposed to homophobia, exposed to poverty, exposed to shyness, exposed to spiritual agony, not in a peaceful garden. She went round the pub, slim blonde swedish woman wearing glasses, touchy feely.
She mentioned her ex-boyfriend. The 'ex' was like a password that opens a door. Did I have the code? I didn't think so.
I borrowed the singer's guitar for a moment, to play the one bob dylan song I've learned. She was surprised to see me playing.
What could I do? Jump off my stool and follow her to the land of roses. She left with a smile, leaving me with just a rose-tinted memory. I handed back my empty wine glass at the bar and wondered if Johanna would be back in tomorrow night at this Gullsmarsplan bar bistro where James Dean, Marlyn Monroe and Humphrey Bogart share a table in a make-believe poster. Play it again, Sam!
A stunning poetic triumph - simply extraordinary ... Bravos & Kudos on this one!!
Robert
WOW--passion burns throughout this write--vividly depicted and brought to life--this poem SOARS! BRAVA!!!!!!! *i'm just sorry i missed it the first time 'round*
saving it so that won't happen again LOL
(((HUGS))) and love, karla.
so intense in this poem it was palpable to me!
Write on Kate and bless us all!
Carmen :-)
Write on, Poetess!
spiritual insight...absolutely glorious renditon Kate....that spills from your essence..
peter
life, womanhood, love, birth, passion, strength.....all seen in this glorious flower, I have never thought of it this way.......you have an incredible sense of interpertation......maybe its more a sense of feeling......being? Hope I am on the right track here......maybe I should reread......ok......i will but my observations stand...lol....maybe i am a prick! lol.......Anita :)