When we look at a rose what do we see? A flower dressed in red, or maybe it’s in light of the sun with yellow petals but the poet Emily Dickinson see’s this differently through her eyes as to where I would be more inspired by the tropical floral Hai-duong. And here is what she wrote of the rose:
T0IGMY seraphs gone astray,
Velvet people from Vevay, Belles from some lost summer day, Bee’s exclusive cote-rie. Paris could not lay the fold Belted down with emerald; Venice could not show a cheek of a tint so lustrous meek. – Never such an ambuscade Ad of brier and leaf displayed For my little damask maid. I had rather wear her grace Than an earl’s distinguished face; I had rather dwell like her Than be Duke of Exeter Royalty enough for me To subdue the bumble-bee!”
A rose to most means love so I can give this one to her but Emily Dickinson found something in a lowly mushroom:
“The mushroom is the elf of plants,
At evening it is not; At morning in a truffled hut it stops upon a spot
As if it tarried always, And yet it’s whole career Is shorter than a snake’s delay, And fleeter than a tare.
‘T is vegetation’s juggler, The germ of alibi; Doth like a bubble antedate, And like a bubble hie. “
We pass through our doors every day and Robert Frost found more than a door when he penned this one:
The Lockless Door by Robert Frost
It went many years, But at last came a knock, And I though of the door With no lock to lock.
I blew out the light, I tip-toed the floor, And raised both hands In prayer to the door.
But the knock came again. My window was wide; I climbed on the sill And descended outside.
Back over the sill I bade a ‘Come in’ To whatever the knock At the door may have been.
So at a knock I emptied my cage To hide in the world And alter with age.
There are days that I kill time because it’s gone by too slow and then I’ve been excited to plan a destination before but have I taken the time like Walt Whitman did here:
Walt Whitman’s LOCATIONS and times—what is it in me that meets them all, whenever and wherever, and makes me at home? Forms, colors, densities, odors—what is it in me that corresponds with them?
Most of us toss pennies into jars, let them fall where ever they may but William Butler Keats got a notion for a very ordinary coin the penny. Then again in it I can hear him tossing his penny thinking like a child plucking petals off of a daisy – Does she love me? Does she not? Maybe I’m just being silly does anyone else picture him doing this? …
Brown Penny by William Butler Yeats
I whispered, ‘I am too young,’ And then, ‘I am old enough’; Wherefore I threw a penny To find out if I might love. ‘Go and love, go and love, young man, If the lady be young and fair.’ Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing, There is nobody wise enough To find out all that is in it, For he would be thinking of love Till the stars had run away And the shadows eaten the moon. Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny, One cannot begin it too soon.
A sonnet by Elizabeth Barrett Browning on a lock of hair, hair that is dismissed the moment ‘s it’s cut and she had not dismissed the mundane lock when she wrote:
Sonnet 18 – I never gave a lock of hair away by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I never gave a lock of hair away To a man, Dearest, except this to thee, Which now upon my fingers thoughtfully, I ring out to the full brown length and say ‘Take it.’ My day of youth went yesterday; My hair no longer bounds to my foot’s glee, Nor plant I it from rose or myrtle-tree, As girls do, any more: it only may Now shade on two pale cheeks the mark of tears, Taught drooping from the head that hangs aside Through sorrow’s trick. I thought the funeral-shears Would take this first, but Love is justified,— Take it thou,—finding pure, from all those years, The kiss my mother left here when she died.
I wanted more from my life, it’s so mundane and ordinary that leaves me with very little to speak about and look what Emily, Walt, Robert , William and Elizabeth have done just with a rose, a mushroom, a door, time and destination that doesn’t even take up tangible space, a simple penny and a lock of hair and you haven’t read what Pablo Neruda has done to a chestnut that has fallen on to the floor you should!
Mundane to meaningful is a matter of not being afraid of noticing small details that life brings to your table and for me though my life has no apparent and obvious purpose, will live in hope understanding what is to be learned from the Lord as I wait to be moved on to my meaningful next lesson.
Poems found on :http://www.famouspoetsandpoems.com
Emily Dickinson was in Poems Emily Dickinson Second Series made aviable by the Internet Archive
Tropical flower-Hai duong www.flowerpictures.net