Poetry . Public Library . Tales from the Public Library
The Florist Wears Knee Breeches
On April 24, 2016 by Speranza
My flowers are reflected
In your mind
As you are reflected in your glass.
When you look at them,
There is nothing in your mind
Except the reflections
Of my flowers.
But when I look at them
I see only the reflections
In your mind,
And not my flowers.
It is my desire
To bring roses,
And place them before you
In a white dish.
Gardening . Nature . The General
Skunk-A-Rama!
On April 18, 2016 by Speranza
Today I got up especially early, almost dawn, poured myself a cup of steaming coffee and went outside to do some serious gardening; just picking up sticks and clearing away leaves and winter debris, (what my British father used to call “pottering”) but it’s very meditative, mind clearing, solitary work.
And I look forward to doing it.
I’ve never had good luck with Columbine planting although I try each year (I especially love the deep black ones and in this regard, my good friend Jinny is my dealer, since each spring she cheerfully provides me with a few more, judgement-free, from her own pristine garden).
I’m also not the most skilled at remembering exactly where I planted them either but last year I made a special effort to make a Columbine ‘grove’ near my back deck which would be hard to miss.
Cooking . Gardening . My Mother . Nostalgia . Spring
Rhubarb Crowns!
On April 15, 2016 by Speranza
Finally! There is hope for spring! Today the air was soft and warm again and I scampered outside to assess the progress of my garden before work and noticed that all the rhubarb crowns (I love calling them this) are pushing through the frozen ground, stretching up their tiny garnet arms and tightly compressed buds for anyone who cares to see them. (I always think of ‘Little Shop of Horrors’ and Audrey II when I first see these …)
But this is the first genuine sign of spring and I am greatly heartened.
I understand (well actually, I don’t really understand ) but I hear, that there are those who are completely indifferent to rhubarb but to me, it’s a delicious taste that is easily overlooked and available for such a short season; and the colour alone! That clear, deep, jeweled pink unlike no other, is so beautiful, particularly when combined with strawberries.
And, speaking of strawberries, I have seen many confirmed rhubarb-haters change their minds rather quickly over a piece of lattice-topped rhubarb-strawberry pie with a scoop of ginger infused ice-cream or some English custard. (Or both, let’s be honest here!)
Cats . Spring . The General . Travel
Time’s Actually Not on my Side
On April 11, 2016 by Speranza
It’s nearly the middle of April and I am desperate, desperate for spring. I pace around the house looking at projects I want to get going on, corners I would like to scrub out with a toothbrush (yes, it’s come to this!) and the Pantry-of-Shame which is overflowing with partially full boxes of crackers, raisins from seven years ago and an unattractive waterfall of plastic bags. Every time I open the door I am ashamed and antsy to tackle it but when the weekend unfurls and time presents itself, I become strangely busy with other things and cannot bear the thought of committing an entire day to those little screws of paper with three pieces of macaroni in each one, gack …
I’m also watching the same pattern of promising myself, really hard, oath-taking promises here to do something (exercise; eat better; clean out the effing pantry) and then I watch myself not following-up.
This is not like me to procrastinate like this (or, is it) and I’ve become extremely frustrated with myself.
Being A Girl . My Mother . Nostalgia . Poetry
Piano – D.H.Lawrence
On April 10, 2016 by Speranza
As the snows swirls sideways across my window, I re-read this poem and fall in love with D.H.Lawrence all over again. I feel as though his poetry is not celebrated as much as his so-called “dirty books” but to me, the poems are heady scraps of wisdom and depth, showing what a sensitive, insightful and thoughtful person he really was.
This poem is especially poignant to me because as a very young child, I remember crouching at the top of the stairs, hours after I had been sent to bed and straining my ears to catch what my parents and their friends (probably slightly tipsy) were singing as my mother played our stylin’, state-of-the-art Sixties organ and everyone sang along.