Post birthday gloom
Non Resurgam
That tree is the first to surrender to winter's touch.
I watched it when, at the bidding of the sun,
it began its long and leafy apotheosis,
by thrusting through the skeleton of its branches
a light green halo, that deepened day by day
till in its time it was whitely flecked throughout
with beeswax textured flowers, interwoven candles.
They too soon burned away and now the brightness of the green
has mellowed into a leafy aureole of gold.
Against the darker fronds of the nearby palms
its canopy will flame until that gold will also dull and fall.
The smaller evergreens around it cluster like children,
their colours fresh, their contrast vivid, strong.
On the patio table my coffee remains untouched
while I ponder on this final glory of its progress
from spring fulfilment once more to winter bareness.
Next season it will resurrect, but I can do no more
than wait for that long and final wintertime.
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Written by Phil (6951 comments posted) 13th April 2008 |
A very personal piece - and so pretty hard to respond to.
Just had my birthday too, Brian. Odd, but I tend to have similar thoughts in spring, not autumn. It's the reminder of new life springing from old that makes me wonder how many more seasons I've got in me. Perhaps the difference is due to when our birthdays fall - yours in autumn, mine spring. Whatever - 'that long and final wintertime' is only a piece of bad luck away for us all.
Knowing the writer makes this a pretty powerful piece - but even written by a stranger, the words would still move. It developed well. There's lots that I really like in the detail and especially how it all relates to the final verse. In many ways - a very simple piece of verse - but there's often beauty in simplicity.
Here's wishing you many more winters.
I hope this means what I think it means
Persevero exspecto, amicus. Illic ero plures.
Take care.
Phil |
Written by Josie (2844 comments posted) 13th April 2008 |
| I loved your description of the tree Brian. Here things are going the other way. I have a cherry tree out in pale pink blossom, in the convent grounds beyond our garden, and, at the moment its reflection is in the clear waters of the little lake, as are all the other trees, still leafless, on the other side. They will be golden in the autumn, but they will blossom again. The world of nature is ongoing and wonderful. It is up to every one of us to care for our lovely world. You'd better come on over here and have summer again. Lovedly imagery in your poem, but your thoughts are so sad at the end. I'm afraid that death comes to us all when we least expect it, young or old. |
Written by mia_ms_kim (1057 comments posted) 13th April 2008 |
I thought this was beautiful. What power of observation and perception. I thought the use of the word "apotheosis" was poignant, glorification, deification. (I had to look it up.) I almost felt I was part of the tree as it slowly morphed from skeleton to green life under the "divine" sun light, then to ripe gold beauty of maturity. And what a way to compare the tree to palms (young adults) and evergreens (children), a community of their own. (Maybe they do communicate to each other in their own way, too.)
I'm not grey-haired yet, so I look at my backyard (it's a jungle) and I do marvel, albeit not quite as deeply, as the vegetation morphs with the change of season, and I look forward to the new life Spring will bring. Even the cactus bear orangeish fruit in the summer. And I often drink my coffee or herbal tea outside when it's not too cold.
But I wonder how I will look at them when I'm 70+, assuming I will get there and humans have not nuked our planet by then. And I wonder how my Dad feels. But life and death is not first-come-first-go. And even the trees die after hundreds of years. Are there any lifeforms on earth that we haven't discovered, that do not decay and die, I wonder.
So, perhaps people who have the ability to milk each moment of here and now has the most meaningful life. And I think you have that, pj. And you have the ability to share that moment with the rest of us. What a gift.
And I think we need to be reminded of our mortality once in a while. Maybe it will help us to live in the here and now more meaningfully. Birthdays do that for me, too.
Thank you for the beautiful poem.
Mia  |
thanks all ...
Written by patterjack (1429 comments posted) 13th April 2008 |
... for reviews both here and emailed etc.
They are much appreciated .
No idea what kind of a tree it is , but it is spectacular.
patterjack |
Written by Veronica_Milvus (746 comments posted) 14th April 2008 |
Hi patterjack.
The last line was somewhat pessimistic. If that's how you feel, I guess that is what you should say.
It's that time of year in Australia, no doubt things will seem more positive in the spring. I liked the evergreens clustered around it like children. What type of tree is it?
oh, and the title? Reflects the last line, I suppose.
A very pretty piece of nature poetry. Now I think you have promised us something more gutsy and life affirming. Dare I say, even, raunchy? That seems to be the mood of GW poests at the moment.
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Written by Merioneth (79 comments posted) 16th April 2008 |
| A lovely poem about life, youth, aging and death. |
Extraordinarily . . .
Written by Katanga (1497 comments posted) 2nd September 2008 |
. . . good poem! I dug this up from before a forgettable summer - because you mentioned it in 'A bird, a tree, and I . . . '
As before, I agree with all above, but I just want to say again how much I love your poem . . .
Bloody brilliant Brian!
Cheers!
John X |
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