Wednesday, 30 July 2014

Tiger, Tiger, Burning Bright

'Tyger! Tyger! burning bright...'

Did you know that yesterday was Global Tiger Day? A day designated as of a few years ago to raise awareness for tiger conservation. Sadly, their numbers are dwindling and they are close to the verge of extinction.

Tigers are magnificent animals aren't they? The most admired of all the big cats, they hold a mesmeric fascination for many people, myself included. There's something so mysterious about them, beautiful, intense, and fearsome. They are animals of myth, of metaphor, of meaning, animals of life and death, of great beauty and simultaneously, great terror. 
 
And where can we experience these animals in more detail? Why, literature of course. Nature documentaries tell us the facts about tigers; literature, the myths. Tigers often feature in fiction, majestic in their metaphorical appeal. From Shere Khan in Kipling's classic 'The Jungle Book', to modern day Richard Parker, the shipwrecked tiger in 'Life of Pi', tigers are an intriguing addition to narratives. What I want to do here is mention a few books and poems that I found particularly memorable.

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Tigers in Red Weather - Ruth Padel 
"Whatever artist dreamed up the tiger face exaggerated the eyes. White butterfly patches wing up like higher, bigger eyes above surprisingly small real ones of ochre. Black hierogliphics in these patches vary from tiger to tiger. Over his right eye is a blurry black triangle with three crescent moons above. Over the left a worm of black flame."
 
First off, it's poet's Ruth Padel's brilliant part travelogue, part poetic reflection on notes from her journey/quest to Asia to understand more about tigers. The book chronicles the history of tigers in their diverse habitats, ranging from their symbolic importance to cultural influence.  This unique book offers a detailed analysis of the tiger, in its rapidly changing habitat, in culture, in literature and what is most arresting, in the author's own personal life. The chapters are interwoven with a personal narrative arc in which Padel explores her own fascination with tigers and the wild in the light of a bitter break-up. The book strives to answer - explore rather -  the question of why tigers fascinate us, and what this fascination means. It is a book like no other; genre-defying and filled with passion and poetry.  To read it is to delve into the world of tigers: to wade knee-deep in Asian forests, in staggering conservation facts and figures, in fantastic myths and legends (did you know that some Eastern religions revere the tiger as a god?), into the fecund poetry of the wild, and in the process, of the heart. 


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The Tiger's Wife - Tea Obreht

“In my earliest memory, my grandfather is bald as a stone and he takes me to see the tigers.” 
This book by debut young author Tea Obreht uses the symbol of a tiger in a most compelling manner.  The novel is set in a Balkan country of modern day, and the story is one about death, in a world marked by old legends and war wounds, love and loss. The tiger appears in the story as a sign of power, of strength, befriending the abused wife of a brutal butcher, the seeming key part in the complex riddle of the plot. It's up to us to interpret it, but what the tiger means is never obvious, it is always changing, like a mirage or a myth from the moment it appears in the novel - escaping from a bombed zoo to lurk in the background of the story, only to appear in crucial moments and hasten the climax of this confusing, yet affecting story. 
Life of Pi - Yann Martel  "Richard Parker rose unsteadily to his feet on the tarpaulin, eyes blazing as they met mine, ears laid tight to this head, all weapons drawn. His head was the size and colour of the lifebuoy, with teeth."Perhaps the most famous and favourite animal in fiction is Richard Parker, the 400lb Bengal tiger that ends up in a lifeboat with sole survivor Pi in this magical realist tale from Yann Martel. The book's original spark revolves on the presence of this character and unlike other fictions that feature tigers, this tiger is a mainstay in the story, not fleeting or lurking, but in the main stage of the lifeboat for two thirds of the novel, up front and scarily personal! Richard Parker is not just a plot device but a fierce frightening character that keeps the pages turning and the suspense wire-tight. If you want to experience a tiger in close-up quarters, read this. And if you want to read a swashbuckling adventure tale with a spiritual centre, read this. And if you want to read a really good book, read this!
 

In poetry, I suppose William Blake's 'The Tyger' (above) is the most well-known poem about tigers, the image of the animal with its 'fearful symmetry' 'burning bright' in the poem a suggestion of the fearful presence and allure of evil. But, I want to turn your attention to some other poems. (You can read  the typescript of 'The Tyger' on my Poem a Day blog today.)The first one by Ruth Padel, 'Tiger Drinking at Forest Pool' is the end result of  her tiger quest, and is found as a preface to 'Tigers in Red Weather'. It is both dramatic and beautiful, just like the animal itself, offering flitting glimpses of the tiger, and in these images, everything it represents. The poem fittingly captures the essence of the tiger as described in her book: mysterious, majestic, mythic.   Tiger Drinking at Forest Pool - Ruth Padel Water,moonlight, danger, dream.                                                                                                      Bronze urn angled on a tree root: one Slash of light, then gone. A red moon Seen through clouds, or almost seen. Treasure found but lost, flitting betweenThe worlds of lost and found. An unjust lawRepealed, a wish come true, a lifelongSadness healed. Haven, in the mindTo anyone hurt by littleness. A prayerFor the moment, saved; treachery forgiven.Flame of the crackle-glaze tangle, amberReflected in grey milk-jade. An old songRemembered, long debt paid. A painting on silk, which may fade.    The second is a metaphysical classic from South American poet Borges, where the tiger begins as a symbol, but then is interrupted by the realisation of its real self, the 'deadly jewel' that stalks the forests in Bengal and Sumatra, as being superior to the one of thought. The poem presents a conflict between the imagiantion and reality, the mind's pursuits as opposed to the physical world, essentially the tension involved in writing - can we writers ever note down life as it truly is? It ends cryptically with the poet talking of the need to find a 'third' tiger, one that is neither symbolic or real, an elusive creature no doubt.  The Other Tiger - Jorge Luis Borges A tiger comes to mind. The twilight hereExalts the vast and busy Library
And seems to set the bookshelves back in gloom;
Innocent, ruthless, bloodstained, sleek
It wanders through its forest and its day
Printing a track along the muddy banks
Of sluggish streams whose names it does not know
(In its world there are no names or past
Or time to come, only the vivid now)
And makes its way across wild distances
Sniffing the braided labyrinth of smells
And in the wind picking the smell of dawn
And tantalizing scent of grazing deer;
Among the bamboo's slanting stripes I glimpse
The tiger's stripes and sense the bony frame
Under the splendid, quivering cover of skin.
Curving oceans and the planet's wastes keep us
Apart in vain; from here in a house far off
In South America I dream of you,
Track you, O tiger of the Ganges' banks.
It strikes me now as evening fills my soul
That the tiger addressed in my poem
Is a shadowy beast, a tiger of symbols
And scraps picked up at random out of books,
A string of labored tropes that have no life,
And not the fated tiger, the deadly jewel
That under sun or stars or changing moon
Goes on in Bengal or Sumatra fulfilling
Its rounds of love and indolence and death.
To the tiger of symbols I hold opposed
The one that's real, the one whose blood runs hot
As it cuts down a herd of buffaloes,
And that today, this August third, nineteen
Fifty-nine, throws its shadow on the grass;
But by the act of giving it a name,
By trying to fix the limits of its world,
It becomes a fiction not a living beast,
Not a tiger out roaming the wilds of earth.

We'll hunt for a third tiger now, but like
The others this one too will be a form
Of what I dream, a structure of words, and not
The flesh and one tiger that beyond all myths
Paces the earth. I know these things quite well,
Yet nonetheless some force keeps driving me
In this vague, unreasonable, and ancient quest,
And I go on pursuing through the hours
Another tiger, the beast not found in verse.  My last choice comes from Wallace Stevens, 'Disillusionment of Ten O' Clock.' In it is the phrase that became the title of Padel's book - 'tigers in red weather.' The association, from a mere mention, is of tigers with the wilder side of life. In the poem they seem to be motifs of the go-getting ambition and passion that lies within us all - that flip side of life that we all hunger after.  Disillusionment of Ten O' Clock - Wallace Stevens The houses are haunted
By white night-gowns.
None are green,
Or purple with green rings,
Or green with yellow rings,
Or yellow with blue rings.
None of them are strange,
With socks of lace
And beaded ceintures.
People are not going
To dream of baboons and periwinkles.
Only, here and there, an old sailor,
Drunk and asleep in his boots,
Catches Tigers
In red weather.   It's clear that the tiger is an animal that appeals to all and yet can mean so many different things. What do tigers represent to you? To me it's a fierce kind of freedom, a fearlessness, a wild ultimatum to live, a vibrancy of being alive, a certainty of spirit, a ferocious resolve.  In Life of Pi at one point, with the seas and skies swirling around him, everything in monocolour, Pi notes how his eye and resolve is drawn to the colour of Richard Parker - the same colour as the lifeboat, a vibrant colour of life, of survival, of wanting and fighting to live. There's also that 'fearful symmetry' to tigers that Blake talked of. Padel describes in her book a moment of looking at a tiger's face up close - how excruciatingly terrifying it is, like looking at a 'death mask.' Tigers are intriguingly both beautiful and terrible, a thing of vibrant life and violent death, powerful, yet now, in our modern world, vulnerable. But their power is such that they can mean many things - metaphors, motifs, symbols, allegories.  Do you have the 'eye of the tiger'? Can you unleash the 'tiger inside'? Modern life is filled with such references. As is literature. But sadly, the forests of the world are emptying with tigers.  The 'painting on silk' which Padel's describesis beginning to fade. You can read more on tigers plight here: WWF Tiger Day.  ~Siobhán 

Sunday, 6 July 2014

Sunday Morning Musing: In Love With Language


 'A poet is, before anything else, a person who is passionately in love with language.' 
~  WH Auden

Agree! So in love with language that words stop and start you, that a phrase can stun you and keep you in reverie for days, that the learning and using of language is a privilege, a magic trick, that language is a kind of love, words stars in the blank page of existence. 

In keeping with Auden's point, below are the acclaimed 100 most beautiful words from the English language - to fall passionately in love with. Give or take a few (we all have our own personal favourites) I agree with the list. (But there are so many more that could be added!)
I definitely swoon over all those 'e' words anyway: 'ebullience,' 'effervescent' (actually sounds like it's bubbling doesn't it?!), 'ephemeral' (ahhh), 'evanescent'. (I'd add to those 'elusive'.) Oh and 'gossamer'! 'Halcyon'! 'Mellifluous' (sigh). Just look at those lovely 'l' words, lithe and languorous on the lips. Not to mention 'quintessential'. And the sparkle of 'serendipity'.  But why not end it with 'zenith' or 'zany'? Not to forget 'xylophone'! Ah so many words! I think there could be many more hundreds of words to add to this to make the ultimate list. Not to mention other languages. (French is one that every single word is a singsong delight.) 

Is your favourite word here? If not, do share - fling a word, a star of brightness, into the cyber void! I'd love to hear something ping in this silence of the blogosphere, in which I have many followers, but so few commentators.

Dedicated to all of us in love with language - poets, writers, logophiles, lovers, linguists, readers, raconteurs.

 
~ Siobhán

The most beautiful words in the English language.

Tuesday, 24 June 2014

Love Liberates: Maya Angelou RIP

angeloubooksigning103008 4 300x250 Maya Angelous Legacy: Inspiring Quotes for Writers

'No sun outlasts its sunset but will rise again and bring the dawn.' ~ Maya Angelou

Maya Angelou died last month. Poet, writer, human rights campaigner, compassionate crusader. The epitaphs attributed to her have taken measure of all of these. And such an outpouring there has been. 

I first heard of Maya Angelou when I came across her famous poem 'Still I Rise' in a library book once. The words pounded off the page, each a feisty declaration, a defiance of negativity through positivity, a reckoning, a literal rising. It was akin to a sword being pulled from a stone, something to put 'starch' in your backbone alright and make you stand up straight:


'Still I Rise' by Maya Angelou

Her poems are simple, straight-forward, brave, and honest, confessions, declarations and intimations. Exactly as she advised she had accomplished, to write so that it 'slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.' 

Maya Angelou is best known perhaps for her autobiography 'I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings', a narrative of Black History in the 1930s, the first volume out of five that have all been bestsellers: 'I write about being a Black American woman, however, I am always talking about what it's like to be a human being. This is how we are, what makes us laugh, and this is how we fall and how we somehow, amazingly, stand up again'. She overcomes all hardships to become a writer, a bestselling author, a campaigner for the Civil Rights movement on close terms with Malcolm X and Martin Luther King, and most importantly, an ambassador for compassion.  In 1993, she was the first female poet to read at a presidential inauguration for Bill Clinton.

I've been meaning to get around to posting this dedication to her. Her words have wisdom that will live on forever. Of all the articles posted since her death, this wealth of wisdom shines forth whether in short quotes or interviews. Posted below are some of her thoughts on writing; invaluable of course to any budding writers. And also an interview that has been trending ever since news of her death broke, that I feel expresses exactly the warmth of her personality, the innate love and compassion she was so well known and liked for. Watch it and smile in response. You can also read some of her poems here: A Poem A Day/Maya Angelou. 

Another great voice of our time gone, but never to be forgotten. Like the sun that has set, but 'will rise again to bring the dawn.'  RIP Maya Angelou. Our hearts salute you for a service well done. 


~ Siobhán  



                                                    


~  'The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.'

~ 'You can’t use up creativity. The more you use, the more you have.'

~ 'When I look back, I am so impressed again with the life-giving power of literature. If I were a young person today, trying to gain a sense of myself in the world, I would do that again by reading, just as I did when I was young.'

~ 'The desire to reach for the stars is ambitious. The desire to reach hearts is wise.'

~ 'Words are things… Some day we’ll be able to measure the power of words. I think they are things. They get on the walls. They get in your wallpaper. They get in your rugs, in your upholstery, and your clothes, and finally in to you.'

~ 'Poetry puts starch in your backbone so you can stand, so you can compose your life.'

~ 'When I am writing, I am trying to find out who I am, who we are, what we’re capable of, how we feel, how we lose and stand up, and go on from darkness into darkness. I’m trying for that. But I’m also trying for the language. I’m trying to see how it can really sound. I really love language. I love it for what it does for us, how it allows us to explain the pain and the glory, the nuances and delicacies of our existence. And then it allows us to laugh, allows us to show wit. Real wit is shown in language. We need language.'


 Love Liberates:

Sunday, 25 May 2014

Sunday Morning Musing: The Creative Mind


Yes, this is exactly what it feels like! 

Especially when inspiration strikes and all kinds of ideas are let loose in the mind and there you are reeling, rapturously trying to take stock of them all. Phew. 

(This could also explain why I always have about 8 different tabs open while I'm on the computer and constantly flicking back and forth between them. I couldn't do it any other way. It's not sore on my CPU, so my thinking is that it couldn't possibly be sore on my computer's...) 

So many ideas, so little time! We creatives are always being goaded by stimuli, so much so that our own CPUs are I imagine, awash with colour all of the time, flashing and flickering with the promise and possibility of new ventures and where they might lead. Sensory overload happens at times (just try getting to sleep when it does, a few nights I felt like my head would physically burst!), but as long as it is vented, expressed, manifested, head explosions won't happen. Heart ones though, metaphorical, are most likely.  And when they happen, honestly, there's no better feeling.

Creative minds everywhere, I salute you. Here's to unending colour and vitality!


~ Siobhán  



Interesting Further Reading on the Creative Mind:



Tuesday, 20 May 2014

On Poetry: Hesitation, Definition & Celebration


I came across these meditations on poetry recently and just have to share them here for their wisdom and reeling truth value.

The first is a poem by Billy Collins which proves that even poets get the non-writing blues. 

We always hear of writers having writer's block, but not so much poets. So it's refreshing and comforting to know that they experience block from time to time! The poem, true to Collins' characteristic style, is witty, acerbic and entertaining, from the sombre start 'no act of writing has been committed this morning', 'and there on the couch am I, exploring/the vast continent of the ceiling' to the hilarious line about the verbs 'flying around the room in tights like a circus act.' How gleefully brilliant! 

There's a whole tone of cheekiness and light-heartedness to this poem, that seems to present block as a silly, maybe even over-hyped funny thing, and succeeds in taking the bite out of it. Well, I think so anyway. What comes across is Collins' innate love for words, which you can see in many other of his poems - I'm thinking of 'Thesaurus' and 'Winter Syntax'. A love for them as animated things, always mischievous and playful, and endlessly fascinating to him.



Paperwork ~ Billy Collins

Enough tea and cigarettes have been consumed here
but no act of writing has been committed this
   morning. 
No words have been hauled from the dictionary
like pails of saltwater brought up from the sea.  
The typewriter remains untouched on the table,
a strange, dark instrument whose secret purpose 
was buried long ago with its mad inventor. 

Outside, the high branches of winter trees
ban and clack together like canes in the wind,
and as usual, if you are quiet and listen hard,
you can hear the rhythm of human suffering
working steadily in the background. 

But indoors, things have come to a standstill. 
A thesaurus lies open by a curtainless window. 
Nearby is a vase of pens, a perfectly bound notebook,
and there on the couch am I, exploring
the vast continent of the ceiling, hands
behind head in the first position of idleness.

I am waiting for a sentence to appear,  
for a small thought to try on a jacket of language, 
for a syllable to step lightly onto my tongue. 
Until then I can only thumb through the Oxford
Anthology of Regrettable Verse or look something up
in the Cambridge Companion to Insincerity. 

Later, when the light softens into evening violet,
I may compose an experimental novel in my sleep, 
or have a vision of all the verbs in English 
flying around the room in tights like a circus act. 

Or I may dream again of encountering that ancient
   noun
who lives alone in a forest in the middle of a book.
My eyes will be wide with amazement as we sit down 
on a roadside bench and he begins to recount
his etymology - the long, sad, wondrous story of his
   life.  


Next up is something more excitable. After you've overcome your block you of course can't help but feel revel in the rapture of it all when the Muse is in and words are free-flowing and the world seems suffused in its golden glow, making all things effervescent and inspiration-full! 

How would you define poetry now?!

I've heard many lovely and eloquent definitions of what poetry is, penned by poets duly smitten. I've seen a few of Carl Sandburg's definitions of poetry before but never suspected they came from an entire excerpt. Every one of these following definitions is ingenious in its originality and startling in its accuracy. I think what Carl Sandburg manages to do in this declaration of definitons is not just capture poetry in all its mysterious wonder, but also in all its escapades of fun and capabilities for amazement. Delight and enlightenment. Pretty spectacular really.

I can hardly pick a favourite; each holds its own wow-that's-it-for-sure! factor. Though I do feel a special affinity for no.10: 'Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly in the air', but then can't resist poetry as a 'sequence of...moon wisps' and 'poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes,' not to mention the zany outrageousness of no. 19 and so  many others.  Electric, all of them. And you can't help but marvel at the mind that came up with them. Truly astounding. If you haven't read any of Sandburg's poems, I'd highly recommend them!  They're odes of delight and crazy, kooky, sentiments that prod at magic and wonder.



Definitions of Poetry - by Carl Sandburg:

1. Poetry is a projection across silence of cadences arranged to break that silence with definite intentions of echoes, syllables, wave lengths.

2. Poetry is an art practised with the terribly plastic material of human language.

3. Poetry is the report of a nuance between two moments, when people say, 'Listen!' and 'Did you see it' 'Did you hear it? What was it?'

4. Poetry is the tracing of the trajectories of a finite sound to the infinite points of its echoes.

5. Poetry is a sequence of dots and dashes, spelling depths, crypts, cross-lights, and moon wisps.

6. Poetry is a puppet-show, where riders of skyrockets and divers of sea fathoms gossip about the sixth sense and the fourth dimension.

7. Poetry is a plan for a slit in the face of a bronze fountain goat and the path of fresh drinking water.

8. Poetry is a slipknot tightened around a time-beat of one thought, two thoughts, and a last interweaving thought there is not yet a number for.

9. Poetry is an echo asking a shadow dancer to be a partner.

10. Poetry is the journal of a sea animal living on land, wanting to fly the air.

11. Poetry is a series of explanations of life, fading off into horizons too swift for explanations.

12. Poetry is a fossil rock-print of a fin and a wing, with an illegible oath between.

13. Poetry is an exhibit of one pendulum connecting with other and unseen pendulums inside and outside the one seen.

14. Poetry is a sky dark with a wild-duck migration.

15. Poetry is a search for syllables to shoot at the barriers of the unknown and the unknowable.

16. Poetry is any page from a sketchbook of outlines of a doorknob with thumb-prints of dust, blood, dreams.

17. Poetry is a type-font design for an alphabet of fun, hate, love, death.

18. Poetry is the cipher key to the five mystic wishes packed in a hollow silver bullet fed to a flying fish.

19. Poetry is a theorem of a yellow-silk handkerchief knotted with riddles, sealed in a balloon tied to the tail of a kite flying in a white wind against a blue sky in spring.

20. Poetry is a dance music measuring buck-and-wing follies along with the gravest and stateliest dead-marches.

21. Poetry is a sliver of the moon lost in the belly of a golden frog.

22. Poetry is a mock of a cry at finding a million dollars and a mock of a laugh at losing it.

23. Poetry is the silence and speech between a wet struggling root of a flower and a sunlit blossom of that flower.

24. Poetry is the harnessing of the paradox of earth cradling life and then entombing it.

25. Poetry is the opening and closing of a door, leaving those who look through to guess about what is seen during a moment.

26. Poetry is a fresh morning spider-web telling a story of moonlit hours of weaving and waiting during a night.

27. Poetry is a statement of a series of equations, with numbers and symbols changing like the changes of mirrors, pools, skies, the only never-changing sign being the sign of infinity.

28. Poetry is a packsack of invisible keepsakes.

29. Poetry is a section of river-fog and moving boat-lights, delivered between bridges and whistles, so one says, "Oh!" and another, "How?"

30. Poetry is a kinetic arrangement of static syllables.

31. Poetry is the arithmetic of the easiest way and the primrose path, matched up with foam-flanked horses, bloody knuckles, and bones, on the hard ways to the stars.

32. Poetry is a shuffling of boxes of illusions buckled with a strap of facts.

33. Poetry is an enumeration of birds, bees, babies, butterflies, bugs, bambinos, babayagas, and bipeds, beating their way up bewildering bastions.

34. Poetry is a phantom script telling how rainbows are made and why they go away.

35. Poetry is the establishment of a metaphorical link between white butterfly-wings and the scraps of torn-up love-letters.

36. Poetry is the achievement of the synthesis of hyacinths and biscuits.

37. Poetry is a mystic, sensuous mathematic of fire, smoke-stacks, waffles, pansies, people, and purple sunsets.

38. Poetry is the capture of a picture, a song, or a flair, in a deliberate prism of words.

A hard act to follow these delightful darings, but  I'll end now with a poem I've posted here before, but cannot reiterate enough for its flare of feeling. 

Pablo Neruda's simply titled 'Poetry' is a reeling celebration of what poetry meant to him. I have a copy of this stuck into one of my notebooks but resolve now to read it as often as I can. For it's proof of the magic that  lies within poetry.  A true testament to its power and ability to transform - 'drunk with the great starry void...I wheeled with the stars/my heart broke loose on the wind.'  Yes.




Poetry ~ Pablo Neruda

And it was at that age ... Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names,
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire,
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind. 


There!  I hope these thoughts will inspire you as they have me. Poetry is a marvellous magic thing, the highest mode of appreciation and realisation of the world, a means of celebration, an initiation into wonder. 

For those of you it has touched, you know what I mean. And for those it hasn't, well, it will yet, in some way, if you want it to,  if you give it the chance. As Flaubert said, "There is not a particle of life which does not bear poetry within it”. There isn't. Watch and see.

For now,
 
~ Siobhán

 

Monday, 5 May 2014

May Day Bouquet: Flowers in Words

 

Well it's May already, official flowering month! May of course comes from the word 'Maia', the name of an ancient Roman goddess of flowers and growth. 

Because I love flowers so, and like Monet, must have them, 'always and always!  my  Poem a Day blog this month will host many poems on flowers in keeping with the general theme of May.  And here I thought I'll follow suit seeing as it is May Day and present you with a bouquet of words to describe the beauty of flowers from famous fans, among them artists, writers, poets and general commentators. 

I often think of Iris Murdoch's quote about how people from another planet would wonder at flowers and why we are not 'mad with joy' at the sight of them all the time. Everytime I think of it, it just ups my flower euphoria another few gradients. Isn't it so spectacularly true???! Imagine spending time in a bleak desert terrain and then being transposed to a park in spring?! Not an oasis, but paradise itself! And of course Buddha's remark resonates with this - if only we could see a single flower most clearly, the whole world would change and we would reel in its wonder. Maybe if we could just sit and contemplate a flower for a moment, we could start.

Just being in the presence of flowers makes me happy. They lift the spirits like nothing else. They can brighten a room, but also a heart. They are so simple, yet so sublime at the same time. Not mere footnotes to our daily routines, but fanfares of delight, is we just be aware. There for the delighting. I love looking at them and I love to buy them. Not on special occasions, but on ordinary unmarked ones, indeed, to make them special. I think that there's no more tender or beautiful gesture in this materialistic world of ours than to give flowers to someone, not just on a romantic note (which has become sadly clichéd and tarnished), but any kind of note: a thank you, a get well, happy birthday, but most especially just a 'hi, how are you, have a nice day' thinking-of-you, heres-a-little-bit-of-beauty bouquet. If only it were a practice more ingrained in our society! Think how much happiness it would spread.  

If you're not a fan of flowers then maybe these words will persuade you otherwise and open your heart, like petals unfolding, to the beauty of them. And if you are a fan, you'll enjoy these immensely I'm sure. 

Here's to a flowering May!


~ Siobhán 



 'I perhaps owe having become a painter to flowers'.
'I must have flowers, always, and always.' ~ Claude Monet


 'If we could see the miracle of a single flower clearly, our whole world would change.' ~ Buddha

  'If you've never been thrilled to the very edges of your soul by a flower in spring bloom, maybe your soul has never been in bloom.' ~Terri Guillemets


 'Flowers... are a proud assertion that a ray of beauty outvalues all the utilities of the world.'  ~Ralph Waldo Emerson

  'The Earth laughs in flowers.' ~ Ralph Waldo Emerson


'The artist is the confidant of nature, flowers carry on dialogues with him through the graceful bending of their stems and the harmoniously tinted nuances of their blossoms. Every flower has a cordial word which nature directs towards him.' ~Auguste Rodin


 
 'When you have only two pennies left in the world, buy a loaf of bread with one, and a lily with the other.' ~ Chinese Proverb


'The temple bell stops but I still hear the sound coming out of the flowers.' 
 ~Basho

     
'People from a planet without flowers would think we must be mad with joy the whole time to have such things about us.' ~Iris Murdoch
'since the thing perhaps is
to eat flowers and not to be afraid'

  ~ E.E. Cummings 


 'I would rather have roses on my table than diamonds on my neck.' ~ Anais Nin 


 'It is by believing in roses that one brings them to bloom.' ~ French Proverb


What this old world needs is more bouquets handed around to folks when they are alive and kicking. Flowers don't do a dead one much good.
ROBERT ELLIOTT GONZALE

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/f/flowers_quotes.html#LZgkLjlkHPt6K6oX.99
What this old world needs is more bouquets handed around to folks when they are alive and kicking. Flowers don't do a dead one much good.
ROBERT ELLIOTT GONZALE

Read more at http://www.notable-quotes.com/f/flowers_quotes.html#LZgkLjlkHPt6K6oX.99
'What this old world needs is more bouquets handed around to folks when they are alive and kicking. Flowers don't do a dead one much good.' ~ Robert Elliott Gonzales


 'There are always flowers for those who want to see them.' - Henri Matisse


  'Where flowers bloom so does hope'. - Lady Bird Johnson

'Flowers are love's truest language.' ~Park Benjamin
 

 
 'Flowers always make people better, happier, and more helpful; they are sunshine, food and medicine to the mind.'
  ~ Luther Burbank