Amy Lowell - Astigmatism

[mousey1]

The Poet took his walking-stick
Of fine and polished ebony.
Set in the close-grained wood
Were quaint devices;
Patterns in ambers,
And in the clouded green of jades.
The top was smooth, yellow ivory,
And a tassel of tarnished gold
Hung by a faded cord from a hole
Pierced in the hard wood,
Circled with silver.
For years the Poet had wrought upon this cane.
His wealth had gone to enrich it,
His experiences to pattern it,
His labour to fashion and burnish it.
To him it was perfect,
A work of art and a weapon,
A delight and a defence.
The Poet took his walking-stick
And walked abroad.

Peace be with you, Brother.

The Poet came to a meadow.
Sifted through the grass were daisies,
Open-mouthed, wondering, they gazed at the sun.
The Poet struck them with his cane.
The little heads flew off, and they lay
Dying, open-mouthed and wondering,
On the hard ground.
"They are useless. They are not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. Go your ways.

The Poet came to a stream.
Purple and blue flags waded in the water;
In among them hopped the speckled frogs;
The wind slid through them, rustling.
The Poet lifted his cane,
And the iris heads fell into the water.
They floated away, torn and drowning.
"Wretched flowers," said the Poet,
"They are not roses."

Peace be with you, Brother. It is your affair.

The Poet came to a garden.
Dahlias ripened against a wall,
Gillyflowers stood up bravely for all their short stature,
And a trumpet-vine covered an arbour
With the red and gold of its blossoms.
Red and gold like the brass notes of trumpets.
The Poet knocked off the stiff heads of the dahlias,
And his cane lopped the gillyflowers at the ground.
Then he severed the trumpet-blossoms from their stems.
Red and gold they lay scattered,
Red and gold, as on a battle field;
Red and gold, prone and dying.
"They were not roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother.
But behind you is destruction, and waste places.

The Poet came home at evening,
And in the candle-light
He wiped and polished his cane.
The orange candle flame leaped in the yellow ambers,
And made the jades undulate like green pools.
It played along the bright ebony,
And glowed in the top of cream-coloured ivory.
But these things were dead,
Only the candle-light made them seem to move.
"It is a pity there were no roses," said the Poet.

Peace be with you, Brother. You have chosen your part.

[mousey1]

To me this poem is more than just about one poet, one man
It's about all of us
Our tendency to view life with a skewed eye
To look at people and cast them aside
Because they are not roses
To see our small accomplishments as wasted time
Because they are not roses
To discard, belittle, bemoan our lives
Because they are not roses
If it does not fit our plans, our dreams, our grand scheme of things
It is worthless
By doing so we miss out
We pass by and trample wondrous treasures
Wittingly or unwittingly we make of no account those things priceless, beautiful
Valuable in their own way
And why....
To pursue the rose
The walking stick is manufactured hopes that we polish and shine
That make us blind
We walk through this life with our eyes on some prize
But it's not really about the search
It's the journey itself and the surprises along the way

Keep your eyes wide for the surprises
They may turn out to be the rose
Maybe even a field of them




Amy's poem is a rose.

[stilltrucking]

I tell ya mousey that is a dam good post for me to read right now.

roses, meadow, daisies, grass, the sun, a stream,
waded in the water, speckled frogs, Dahlias, Gillyflowers, a trumpet-vine, red and gold blossoms,

like a to do list for Haiku

I got a good copy on you sister

[mousey1]

Awwwww still, I'm glad.

This poem, Amy's poem, is a gem.

I am stupefied that other's don't find it as amazing as I!

But, each to his own, as always.

Thanks for your kind reply.

I was determined to keep bumping this thread till it caught someone's eye. Don't know why it mattered to me.