Here’s the latest poem from our occasional contributor, Molly Rosenberg.
Humming birds hover Incessant flutter of wings Frequent sips of nectar sweetness Vital for the life they lead But I just want to be. Life mapped out Months in black and white No room for diversion Another concert Dinner Party Event On and on Like waves pounding The soft silvery sand
A line drawn On the beach In my head Call a halt Shout STOP I want to retreat Need to retreat To save me.
Calm, tranquility drips Like honey From the Humming bird She returns to her nest To rest and just be Like me.
It’s that time of the year again. Clocks have gone back, the temperature is beginning to drop and we are all bracing ourselves for winter. The landscape is unrecognisable from the bright summer days, yet every season has its magic and its mood. Autumn, a sensitive time for nostalgia, for poring over memories by an open fire, for meditation; a season which John Keats has indelibly marked forever as a time for poetry. And so we are pleased today to present a new poem by our dear friend, Molly Rosenberg.
Through gold Through ruby red Burnt orange Amber glow
Like us the magnificence of beauty reaches its crescendo, as the array of colours overwhelms the Ravensbourne Valley. It takes my breath away. So short a time like our youth so fleeting.
Fluttering Drifting Crunching underfoot
Beauty turned to nuisance now like us when our purpose is served, all will be swept away.
The sharpness of the air pricks my cheeks. I wrap myself in the softness of cashmere. Relish the feeling of summer feet now clad in suede as I tread lightly through these golden autumn days.
This week I have been revising a book of poetry that has been 18 months in the writing. Sections of the poem have been read by a very good friend of mine, Paul Taylor. I asked him as he was reading to mark the text wherever he found the lines confusing or simply dull. I am now working my way through the pages, sometimes rewriting passages he has marked as uninteresting or simply cutting them out if they no longer seem relevant to me.
It is always useful to have an editor, someone who can be trusted and whose judgment is based on wide reading and long years of experience. On this page I would like to express my gratitude to Paul for the task he undertook with great enthusiasm and completed with great professionalism. The lines below, written over a year ago, nevertheless echo a poem submitted to the blog mid-August by Molly Rosenberg. According to Paul Taylor, my short poem is actually a metaphor for love. Who knows?
Wild blackberry canes
heavy with fruit
thrive on the steep banks
of the railway cutting
goodness that grows
out of the soil :
but easy access to them is barred
by dense patches of nettles
so the berries gather dust
ripen and then fall back
into the undergrowth
to be eaten by birds
and by the large colonies of fox families
that have pitched their tents
at various stations
along the line
I have chosen David Hockney’s painting, A Bigger Splash (1967) from the Tate Britain collection, to accompany a new poem by Molly Rosenberg. The connection is perhaps rather tenuous, but both the poem and the painting deal with absence.
In Molly’s sensitive poem, a personal loss is registered and there is a tense equilibrium between the absence of one life and the presence of another. Hockney’s composition, however, captures the sad, dreary perfection of a Californian day by the pool. Here the pastel colours are deliberately drained of life, and the hard geometrical edges of the draughtsmanship are used to highlight the lifelessness of the scene. What is missing from this painting is the richness of life, there is no hint of a body anywhere. The splash that occurs is tantamount to an attack on the vapid soullessness of the scene, an act not of vandalism but of defiance and rebellion, a yearning for life.
Glint of shining Aqua At times almost blinding. A boy figure stands At the edge of the pool. Elongated limbs that will stretch With the promise of years to come. The grandchild he so longed for, yet never saw. Impatient, he left before age could claim him.
Corn-coloured hair ruffled beneath the surface Drifts like weeds on the riverbed. Honeyed limbs, silky smooth Bejewelled with crystal drops. He’d have held your small soft hand in his. Delighted as you tightly clasped your arms around his neck.