It's Spring!

 

It's (kiss me now) Spring! ~ ee cummings

Oh how I love Spring! I love it, I love it, I love it! Even the word itself is so zingy and trampoline-like and green and full of energy and verve!

I could rhapsodize in oohs and ahhs for ages of how much I love the season. Maybe it's because I'm a Spring baby and love to see everything bloom and grown again after the winter, the 'greening of the earth', the yellow sunshine of daffodils, when 'faces called flowers floating out of the ground' and big blue skies beckon, or maybe it's more because of its heady symbolism: renewal, remaking, transformation, the light coming back - in a word - Hope.

There's an energy and zest to Spring that none of the other seasons have, not even summer. It's alive. It's about new beginnings more than anything, as today the Equinox, 21 March also marks the beginning of the astrological new year with the sun in Aries, the symbolic newborn of the starsigns. Maybe that's what puts the pep into our step at this time of year when everyone feels reborn.

I am not the only one in love with Spring it seems, from famous writers to artists to all kinds of commentators. So I will let their words enthrall you to the season's intoxicating meanings. Feel them ping and zing in your soul!

Happy Spring!

~Siobhán 

Spring has returned. The earth is like a child who knows poems. ~ Rilke

Every spring is the only spring - a perpetual astonishment.  ~Ellis Peters

April prepares her green light and the word thinks Go. ~ Christopher Morley

April has put a spirit of youth in everything. ~ William Shakespeare

The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring ~ Ben Williams 

It's Spring fever. That is what the name of it is. And when you've got it, you want - oh, you don't quite know what it is you do want, but it just fairly makes your heart ache, you want it so! ~ Mark Twain

No winter lasts forever; no spring skips its turn.  ~Hal Borland 
 

 








Spring shows what God can do with a drab and dirty world.  ~Virgil A. Kraft


Springtime is the land awakening, the March winds are the morning yawn ~ Lewis Carroll

Everything is blooming most recklessly; if it were voices instead of colors, there would be an unbelievable shrieking into the heart of the night.   ~ Rilke

Spring is when life comes alive in everything ~ Christina Rosetti

'in spring... the earth laughs in flowers' ~ ee cummings

Now every field is clothes with grass, and every tree with leaves; now the woods put forth their blossoms, and the year assumes its gay attire ~ Virgil

In spring time, love is carried on the breeze. Watch out for flying passion or kisses whizzing by your head.~ Emma Racine deFleu

Out with the cold, in with the woo.  ~E. Marshall

 

An optimist is the human personification of Spring ~ Susan J. Bissonette

Spring is when you feel like whistling even with a shoe full of slush.~Doug Larson

'because it's Spring, things dare to do people' ~ ee cummings

And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Yes, and the last word goes to ee cummings, as no one can articulate the zeal of Spring like him! (*You can read more of his Spring sentiments and poems here: O Sweet Spontaneous Earth)  

 

now winging selves sing sweetly 

now winging selves sing sweetly,while ghosts(there
and here)of snow cringe;dazed an earth shakes sleep
out of her brightening mind:now everywhere
space tastes of the amazement which is hope

gone are those hugest hours of dark and cold
when blood and flesh to inexistence bow
(all that was doubtful's certain,timid's bold;
old's youthful and reluctant's eager now)

anywhere upward somethings yearn and stir
piercing a tangled wrack of wishless known;
nothing is like this keen(who breathes us)air
immortal with the fragrance of begin

winter is over - now(for me and you,
darling!)life's star prances the blinding blue  

It's April (yes, april; my darling)

"it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!" ~ ee cummings

April hath put a spirit of youth in everything. ~ William Shakespeare

April prepares her green traffic light and the whole world thinks Go. ~ Christopher Morley

Whatever TS Eliot said, April is not the cruellest month - au contraire! Everyone loves April. It swishes in, all yellowed in sunshine and ribbons of Easter gifts. 

Did you know that April's birth stone is the diamond, the worthiest of all the jewels? Or that it has a full moon called a pink moon? (I hear Nick Drake chords... ) And legend has it that its name could have come from the Roman goddess of love, Aphrodite. Or also the Latin word 'aperire', which means 'to open,' a reference to all the budding and blooming of the time.

And because it's my birth month, I especially favour it. (And lots of other birthdays too - I know around 20 friends and family whose birthday occurs in April, making it a real 'birthday' month in every sense of the word! - May explain the newborn picture I have...)

But it seems I'm not that biased; hell, even old Willy himself praised it. (maybe it was because he was an April baby too; the 23rd). EE Cummings was a big fan too - 'the sky a silver/dissonance by the correct/fingers of April.' In the poem posted below, he really captures the playful, flighty, free, feel-good spirit of the month, 'and breathing is wishing and wishing is having...and wishing is having and having is giving...and having is giving and giving is living...'

Shakespeare is right too. It does put a spirit of youth in everything. A spring in your step. The earth coming back to life and beaming in blooms. A real new beginning (even if it's not your birthday, it is the astrological New Year...) 

And the  universe with its green light of Go beckoning everywhere. How can you resist its charm?

Happy April! 


~ Siobhán.

when faces called flowers float out of the ground - ee cummings

when faces called flowers float out of the ground
and breathing is wishing and wishing is having-
but keeping is downward and doubting and never
-it's april(yes,april;my darling)it's spring!
yes the pretty birds frolic as spry as can fly
yes the little fish gambol as glad as can be
(yes the mountains are dancing together)

when every leaf opens without any sound
and wishing is having and having is giving-
but keeping is doting and nothing and nonsense
-alive;we're alive,dear:it's(kiss me now)spring!
now the pretty birds hover so she and so he
now the little fish quiver so you and so i
now the mountains are dancing, the mountains)

when more than was lost has been found has been found
and having is giving and giving is living-
but keeping is darkness and winter and cringing
-it's spring(all our night becomes day)o,it's spring!
all the pretty birds dive to the heart of the sky
all the little fish climb through the mind of the sea
all the mountains are dancing;are dancing)

Poems for a Sunny Day: Mary Oliver

What a beautiful day! A beautiful day to lounge in the sun, relax, soak up the light. One of those beautiful days you just want to sit and look at it all day, let it seep into your soul. 

And what better poet to read than Mary Oliver on such a day? Her poems really exhibit and explore how beautiful a day it really is, or can be, if we stop to take account of it all,  be attentive and appreciative, really look - 'Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around as though with your arms open.' 

So since reading her today, that's what I've been trying to do. Sitting still in the sunny golden afternoon, looking and marvelling with my arms open.  I saw six pigeons frolick and splash about in the neighbourhood fountain, watched the blue sky haze with heat, lay on the grass, admired the flowers that have sprung up everywhere, got sunburned and listened to the birds singing and the green greening and the clouds drifting and came to the conclusion that yes, this really is a precious life. 

Mary Oliver's luminous sentiments are everywhere to behold, even in the chants of passers-bys' 'beautiful day!' greetings. The simple lyrics of these poems describe something so simple it  sometimes eludes us: to enjoy life.  So don't forget it. And sunny days remind us everytime.

Enjoying the sun, 

Siobhán.

 

Such Singing in the Wild Branches - Mary Oliver

It was spring
and finally I heard him
among the first leaves—
then I saw him clutching the limb

in an island of shade
with his red-brown feathers
all trim and neat for the new year.
First, I stood still

and thought of nothing.
Then I began to listen.
Then I was filled with gladness—
and that's when it happened,

when I seemed to float,
to be, myself, a wing or a tree—
and I began to understand
what the bird was saying,

and the sands in the glass
stopped
for a pure white moment
while gravity sprinkled upward

like rain, rising,
and in fact
it became difficult to tell just what it was that was singing—
it was the thrush for sure, but it seemed

not a single thrush, but himself, and all his brothers,
and also the trees around them,
as well as the gliding, long-tailed clouds
in the perfectly blue sky— all, all of them

were singing.
And, of course, yes, so it seemed,
so was I.
Such soft and solemn and perfect music doesn't last

for more than a few moments.
It's one of those magical places wise people
like to talk about.
One of the things they say about it, that is true,

is that, once you've been there,
you're there forever.
Listen, everyone has a chance.
Is it spring, is it morning?

Are there trees near you,
and does your own soul need comforting?
Quick, then— open the door and fly on your heavy feet; the song
may already be drifting away.

Peonies - Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
   to break my heart
     as the sun rises,
        as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open--
   pools of lace,
      white and pink--
       and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
    into the curls,
      craving the sweet sap,
        taking it away

to their dark, underground cities--
   and all day
      under the shifty wind,
       as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
   and tip their fragrance to the air,
     and rise,
       their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
    gladly and lightly,
      and there it is again--
        beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
    Do you love this world?
      Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
       Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
   and softly,
      and exclaiming of their dearness,
       fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
    their eagerness
      to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
        nothing, forever? 

The Summer Day - Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life? 

O Sweet Spontaneous Earth: EE Cummings & Spring

Here we are, almost in 'official' Spring. Blue skies, green days, birds singing. I love Spring!  My favourite season. I love its get-up-and-go energy. I love seeing the sun again after so long. I love the 'spring' in everyone's step. I love the blue skies full of potential. I love the feeling of things coming back to life again: trees, flowers, birds, people, dreams. Hibernation over. All the budding and blooming  of possibilities, as Spring 'like a perhaps hand' spreads its seeds of curiousity, what ifs and miraculous maybes, across the land, to take root in and reawaken sleepy spirits. 

And maybe someone who loved Spring as much as I do: EE Cummings. Once again, I  dedicate this post (toast) to him. Maybe to every creative, Spring represents a time of inspiration after a fallow season. It certainly inspires me! And to explain that inspiration, I'm handing over to EE, because it's difficult to word-ify.

No one can describe Spring like this poet. Forget Wordsworth and his dull verses about daffodils! This is a time when our 'winging selves sing' and a time when 'everywhere space tastes of the amazement which is hope.' It is a time when our spirits soar, because 'all that was doubtful's certain, timid's bold; old's youthful and reluctant's eager now.' Youth and certainty and boldness, yes! And how do  you explain that skip in the step? Why it's when 'life's star prances the blinding blue' of course! Nothing, as he notes, is this 'keen' as Spring is.

EE Cummings is the only poet in my opinion who can capture the zest and essence of the season in words. His poems on Spring are such a joy to read. I dare you to read 'sweet spring is your' and try not to singsong along! Indeed, love is in the air when Spring is, 'for springtime is lovetime.' The birds and the bees and all that yes, but who would have thought it's because everyone breathes 'quite so many kinds of yes.' That pulsing of possibility, that pounding of passion, that high of hope. A time when we forget 'if' and remember 'yes.' Yes is what it's all about. 

I love what this poet can do with words, how he transforms them into energy, makes them  grand gramophones of emotion - that intangible, tangled mess of endorphins and adrenaline and thoughts and aches - into actual typeface. Incredible.

Included below are a few Spring-themed poems of his (there are many more!) that I particularly love. As I said before of EE Cummings' poems, I love the energy in them, the greening lyrics, the flowering sentiment, the 'zing' as they penetrate the heart via the mind and lodge themselves there, little green volts, sounding a chorus of heartsong. Read and enjoy and feel the budding and blooming of your mood as you do.

Happy Spring!

~ Siobhán.  

Spring is like a perhaps hand 

 Spring is like a perhaps hand

(which comes carefully 

out of Nowhere)arranging 

a window,into which people look(while 

people stare

arranging and changing placing 

carefully there a strange 

thing and a known thing here)and

changing everything carefully

spring is like a perhaps 

Hand in a window 

(carefully to 

and fro moving New and 

Old things,while 

people stare carefully 

moving a perhaps 

fraction of flower here placing 

an inch of air there)and

without breaking anything

 








now winging selves sing sweetly
now winging selves sing sweetly,while ghosts(there
and here)of snow cringe;dazed an earth shakes sleep
out of her brightening mind:now everywhere
space tastes of the amazement which is hope

gone are those hugest hours of dark and cold
when blood and flesh to inexistence bow
(all that was doubtful's certain,timid's bold;
old's youthful and reluctant's eager now)

anywhere upward somethings yearn and stir
piercing a tangled wrack of wishless known;
nothing is like this keen(who breathes us)air
immortal with the fragrance of begin

winter is over--now(for me and you,
darling!)life's star prances the blinding blue

in time of daffodils  
in time of daffodils (who know
the goal of living is to grow)
forgetting why,remember how

in time of lilacs who proclaim
the aim of waking is to dream,
remember so(forgetting seem)

in time of roses (who amaze
our now and here with paradise)
forgetting if,remember yes

in time of all sweet things beyond
whatever mind may comprehend,
remember seek (forgetting find)

and in a mystery to be
(when time from time shall set us free)
forgetting me,remember me

sweet spring is your 

sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

(all the merry little birds are

flying in the floating in the

very spirits singing in

are winging in the blossoming)

lovers go and lovers come

awandering awondering

but any two are perfectly

alone there's nobody else alive

(such a sky and such a sun

i never knew and neither did you

and everybody never breathed

quite so many kinds of yes)

not a tree can count his leaves

each herself by opening

but shining who by thousands mean

only one amazing thing

(secretly adoring shyly

tiny winging darting floating

merry in the blossoming

always joyful selves are singing)

"sweet spring is your

time is my time is our

time for springtime is lovetime

and viva sweet love"

*For more ee cummings, click here 

February Fervour

'Spring has returned. The Earth is like a child that knows poems.' - Rilke

'The day the Lord created hope was probably the same day he created Spring'.  ~Bern Williams

Today is the first official day of Spring, yay! And to celebrate its energy (lots of green, blue, and sunny energy), I'm going to dedicate a post to it.

Today, here in Ireland it's St Brigid's day, one of our patron saints. It's also Imbolc, the first of the four Celtic celebrations of the year. Today is a day for celebrating the first signs of Spring and today there were many: golden sunshine, big blue sky, daffodil shoots appearing, and now, a beautiful amber-warm and blue-cool dusk. And of course, that buoyant fizzing energy of Spring ahead.

In T.S. Eliot's groundbreaking poem 'The Wasteland,' he begins with stating that 'April is the cruellest month/breeding lilacs out of the dead land', but somehow, I always think of February as a lilac-coloured month, before all the greening ahead. Like the colour of a bud before blooming. Or crocuses. It's also supposed to be the month for clearing out before the  growth of the months ahead. A breather if you like, between the darkness of winter and the fresh green hands of spring. 

And Spring arose on the garden fair,
Like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere;
And each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast
rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.
~Percy Bysshe Shelley

Roll on the greening!

~ Siobhán
 

And some Spring poems. The first by American poet Carl Sandburg, whose dreamy mystical renditions of nature sing through his poems. (To read more on him, click  here)
And Irish poet, Paula Meehan, whose homage to the transformation of Spring in 'Seed', both within and without, is lyrically and profoundly affecting. (To read more on her, click here)

'The Wind Sings Welcome in Early Spring' ~ Carl Sandburg

The grip of the ice is gone now.
The silvers chase purple.
The purples tag silver.
They let out their runners

Here where summer says to the lilies:
“Wish and be wistful,
Circle this wind-hunted, wind-sung water.”

Come along always, come along now.
You for me, kiss me, pull me by the ear.
Push me along with the wind push.
Sing like the whinnying wind.
Sing like the hustling obstreperous wind.

Have you ever seen deeper purple …
this in my wild wind fingers?
Could you have more fun with a pony or a goat?
Have you seen such flicking heels before,
Silver jig heels on the purple sky rim?
Come along always, come along now.

 Seed ~ Paula Meehan

The first warm day of spring
and I step out into the garden from the gloom
of a house where hope had died
to tally the storm damage, to seek what may
have survived. And finding some forgotten
lupins I'd sown from seed last autumn
holding in their fingers a raindrop each
like a peace offering, or a promise,
I am suddenly grateful and would
offer a prayer if I believed in God.
But not believing, I bless the power of seed,
its casual, useless persistence,
and bless the power of sun,
its conspiracy with the underground,
and thank my stars the winter's ended.