I bumped into these roses yesterday. I had to walk to a nearby bench to collect my senses. The most wonderful rose fragrance ever. I didn't have my notebook so I dreamt about them until I returned.
"... a bouquet of rose so exquisite, you remember forgotten things." What a wonderful description of this rose's fragrance, and how loving and respectful that the narrator's immediate response is not to pick the rose but serve it by rebuilding its trellis. Really lovely, Weston.
Hello Sisters. My Mother would have called you, "My wild rose.s" We, my brothers and I were taught not to pick them, bt to enjoy them where they grew. They were not like the Roses that grew on stems in the front of the house, they were tucked in the back near the garage, where the wild kids played. My childhood Sister Roses were fashioned somehow, to a white fence made just for them. I think your Carpenter is a wise man. I know he will care for you, and you will bring him joy.
I looked at the little town on Google. It is enchanting, looks to be a feast of small treasures. So much has happened in the last few years, so much loss. Time feels elongated to me.
I agree, elongated, compressed, distorted by so much suffering and isolation. A global trauma. For those of us who are basically introverts, it was not so awful but for the highly social creatures like my wife, it was very hard.
That little town is about 1,000 feet across. It's nicknamed the Venice of Provence with the Sorgue river running completely around it and canals running through it. I have several poems about the town. Here they are, and of course, feel free to ignore all this as ALL poets are incorrigible.
Yeah, there is a real void of humanity in general. Very hard to keep overall spirits up. The baleful influence of the orange menace is everywhere. God, I hope he is convicted and has to serve years behind bars. But those roses are right down the street and I go see them everyday. I also smooch them.
If there ever was an Ode to Spring, this is it! Well done, my friend.
thank you.
"... a bouquet of rose so exquisite, you remember forgotten things." What a wonderful description of this rose's fragrance, and how loving and respectful that the narrator's immediate response is not to pick the rose but serve it by rebuilding its trellis. Really lovely, Weston.
Elizabeth, I happened by this post again and can't believe I didn't respond to your comment. Thank you.
Hello Sisters. My Mother would have called you, "My wild rose.s" We, my brothers and I were taught not to pick them, bt to enjoy them where they grew. They were not like the Roses that grew on stems in the front of the house, they were tucked in the back near the garage, where the wild kids played. My childhood Sister Roses were fashioned somehow, to a white fence made just for them. I think your Carpenter is a wise man. I know he will care for you, and you will bring him joy.
Every carpenter has a boss. Only beach roses in Maine have a comparable smell.
Is it the wood that is the carpenter's boss?
The wood and I always worked together for whomever paid the bills. And now I am retired so we work together to make some pretty things and toys.
ah, I was thinking poet, when I should have been thinking Carpenter. Thank you.
Mom's wild roses had a pleasant smell, but I was a little girl and have no memory of where they originated. Your poem was lovely.
Thanks Bliss. It's what I call a smoochy poem.
Ah, the infinite so beautifully wrapped in verse... infinitely
Thanks Harvey, I just stopped by an hour ago to have my daily sniff & smooch.
"my daily sniff & smooch." Love this. My first laugh of the day.
Bliss, did you notice when it was written? We were in L'Isle sur la Sorgue then, a little town east of Avignon. Seems so long ago.
I looked at the little town on Google. It is enchanting, looks to be a feast of small treasures. So much has happened in the last few years, so much loss. Time feels elongated to me.
if all incorrigibles are poets then I may be a late bloomer. I look forward to reading the poems you have posted here. I wrote two poems today, keeping your essay in mind. I'm not used to such a weight loss, it feesIs, ...not a pretty as yours. will post links. I have learned that inspiration feels good, even if the poetry turns out poorly. https://open.substack.com/pub/blissgrey/p/elongated-time?r=1qi9ir&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web and https://open.substack.com/pub/blissgrey/p/sister?r=1qi9ir&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web
Inspiration does feel good and realizing the inspiration does lighten some kind of load- and as for pretty, well, pretty is as pretty does.
I agree, elongated, compressed, distorted by so much suffering and isolation. A global trauma. For those of us who are basically introverts, it was not so awful but for the highly social creatures like my wife, it was very hard.
That little town is about 1,000 feet across. It's nicknamed the Venice of Provence with the Sorgue river running completely around it and canals running through it. I have several poems about the town. Here they are, and of course, feel free to ignore all this as ALL poets are incorrigible.
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/the-light
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/a-view-of-beauty
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/a-waterfall
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/the-waterwheel
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/these-steps
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/a-balcony
https://westonpparker.substack.com/p/casting-my-shadow
You've got me longing for the roses!
Excellent! I visit them every day.
Lovely!
Such lovliness to fill a void.
Yeah, there is a real void of humanity in general. Very hard to keep overall spirits up. The baleful influence of the orange menace is everywhere. God, I hope he is convicted and has to serve years behind bars. But those roses are right down the street and I go see them everyday. I also smooch them.
Yeah, that is it for me.
A great poem!
Thanks Stan. You're up late.
Maybe just up early! Poetry is timeless!
oh, that's funny. thanks
Ahh, I can smell them, pale pink sisters! Lovely alliteration and rhyme throughout, the trellis as servant, good stuff.