spring – Page 19 – don't confuse the narrator

on the edge of memory

A few days ago, I read a poem by a friend which reminded me of a short story. Sadly, I can’t remember who wrote it: it might have been Saki; perhaps it was Wilde; there’s a very slight chance it was Lovecraft. (I’m fairly sure it was unlike most of the other stories I know by the same author.)

I’m a long way from my own bookshelves, so after racking my brains unsuccessfully, I have had to resort to trying to find the story via the web.

I think the scene was a domestic drawing-room as the afternoon slips towards dusk.

I half remember beautiful scenery, or it might have been the view of a garden through French windows; it could even have been potted plants, I suppose, though I think they would have been perfumed, not simply aspidistras.

There was music; probably celestial, though it might have been a piano. There was a dreamer and a dream, perhaps of classical gods; a promise of immortality, or of life in a different dimension…
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snowdrops

It’s half a lifetime since I spent so long in the UK at this time of year, and I’m revelling in the early signs of spring.

(The real natural signs, that is, not forced daffodils that have been in the shops since before Christmas, nor the bargain strawberries imported from Spain, however fresh and sweet they are.)

Now the local daffs are promising and will soon be brightening all the gardens, motorway verges and railway embankments. (I imagine a great golden wave that starts in the south west and works its way slowly up to the far north of Scotland.)

For the moment, though, there are snowdrops; more, perhaps, than I have ever seen in my life. I’m currently learning to use a new camera, so there will probably be more snowdrop photos than ever before, too.

pause to regroup

Well I knew I wouldn’t be able to write a poem a day through April, and I didn’t promise even a daily blog post, but it was never my intention to go three weeks without writing anything.

I’ve noticed, though, that I get far more ideas for writing when I have other things I should be doing.

Recently one of the big projects I’ve been working on for the last few years came to a stop, which means that all of a sudden I am no longer obliged to sit in front of the computer for several hours every single day whether I want to or not.

Looked at positively, this should provide an opportunity to catch up with all my own writing projects, but that isn’t the way it’s turned out so far.
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weeds and words

April has brought the cuckoo and forced the lilacs into bloom. Now it’s even bringing a few showers. They don’t seem to be doing much to pierce the drought of March, though, as they barely dampen the surface of the ground and then evaporate with wind and the suddenly dazzle of sunshine.

Still, they are enough to have prompted a few more weeds to flourish and the photo has reminded me of an unfinished poem of frustrated love entitled I want. This is the third stanza:

I want daisies on the lawn in clumps
of seven to fit my footstep, a universe
of dandelion globes and the chance
a simple breath can make it
any time I like.

Down by the river the other day, it would have been easy enough to put your foot on seven daisies, but I haven’t seen any in my garden and I’m sure summer isn’t really here yet. Perhaps the river bank is as inaccurate a time keeper as dandelion clocks tend to be.

april

Laundry day

Spring blossoms scent the air;
the kitchen smells
of Marseilles soap and ironing.

April is not only the cruelest month, it’s also National Poetry Month. (Though I suppose that may depend on what nationality you are.)
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