I especially savor the sense of wonder that comes when a part of a poem or other work of art affects me in a deeply personal way, all the more so when it evokes something the author probably never even consciously intended. For me, the first quatrain in verse III immediately called to mind a favorite part of my favorite work of literature, “Tale of Genji” by Lady Murasaki. That is to say, the chapter Sir Arthur Waley titled "Yugao" or “Evening Faces” in his classic English translation. Although "Yugao" in Japanese refers to a different flower than the lilac, the color purple figures prominently in “Tale of Genji”, and "murasaki" in fact means purple. Moreover, David’s “thousand flowery faces” reminded me of the myriad blooms of the award-winning roses my grandfather grew when I was a boy. Thank you, David. I almost feel guilty knowing your duties as editor necessarily draw you away from your own acts of composition. Spring Lilacs was such a joy to read and to have read, and I could hear you reciting it in my mind as I read it.
"Moreover, David’s 'thousand flowery faces' reminded me of the myriad blooms of the award-winning roses my grandfather grew when I was a boy."
My grandmother, whose garden I was thinking of when I wrote the poem, also won many awards for her African Violets, which she was in the habit of crossbreeding.
Feeling impelled to comment again, I think the poem conveys an uncommon sensitivity, what I like to call affective depth. A sensitivity to life's cruelty. I am acutely aware of its cruelty myself, so the shared feeling is welcome to me.
As to its style, it has a rather natural flow, natural and simple, which also appeals to me. Only calyx and sepals depart a bit from the overall simplicity of the language.
It employs synecdoche, using a part to represent the whole. And this is made explicit toward the poem's end.
I've heard a sensitivity in your voice when you've recited particular poems, a less controlled sound, as accompanies the welling up of emotion. A particular word or phrase gives rise to it, makes your heart react.
I like your use of "cold" to describe your response to cruel fate. What to call my own I'm wondering. Well, I can only expose the thing's character. But as a quite solid thinker observed, "Intelligence will remain invisible to the man who has none."
I believe death is an invitation to Philosophy i.e. the love of wisdom.
We're all going to die. Individual lives are mortal and transient. But Philosophy deals with those things which are enduring and unchanging. It deals with eternal truths, which despite our brief and mortal lives, may be pursued whole-heartedly.
However, to get there, we first need some acknowledgement of the mystery, I believe. Some experiences are better suited for that than others. The right kind of Beauty goes a long way, the haunting kind. I don't think being haunted necessarily means being scared. It's a reminder that the mysteries aren't going anywhere.
The problem with today's education is that this natural hunger for mystery and wonder isn't cultivated or fed. We're offered a pill or popsicle, or something else, instead.
Philosophy invites us to ponder these things in their purest form; poetry invites us to wonder about the same, through Beauty.
Me, I confine my attention to strict fact, which is all I can know, or, as a favorite thinker put it, just as I often have myself, to the "what" not the "why." I should add that one can draw conclusions based on the what about the nature of the why. Some metaphysicians have done this, reaching somewhat different ones. In my own case, I am content identifying the apparent driving mechanism, and judging it by its effects, as one judges a man by his deeds.
This poem illustrates how to convey an intensely personal experience successfully without delving into solipsism. All of us can see what you saw in the lilacs.
This is you at your best, David. I can feel the impossibly soft breeze and the fragrance of the lilacs speaks of a sweet death which produces the ultimate and eternal life.
Spring Lilacs is a metaphysical and romantic reflection which, in lyrical four beat lines, and in it's evocation of an Aeolian Harp, calls up the ghost of Coleridge and his lines in pentameter, inspired by another Eolian Harp of imagination and spirit. David's sustained image of lilacs evoked for me Mallarme's observation of poetry as a purification of the dialect of the tribe. David's lilacs stand in communion with the myrtle, jasmine and other blooms sacred to poetry and the poet's vocation.. David's Aeolian Harp harmonizes with that of Coleridge, and his lilacs speak with the sweetness of myrtle and the other flowers of our poetic tradition:
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown
With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such would Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
Well done. As I related to you before, it's a poem that illustrates clearly your talent.
I especially savor the sense of wonder that comes when a part of a poem or other work of art affects me in a deeply personal way, all the more so when it evokes something the author probably never even consciously intended. For me, the first quatrain in verse III immediately called to mind a favorite part of my favorite work of literature, “Tale of Genji” by Lady Murasaki. That is to say, the chapter Sir Arthur Waley titled "Yugao" or “Evening Faces” in his classic English translation. Although "Yugao" in Japanese refers to a different flower than the lilac, the color purple figures prominently in “Tale of Genji”, and "murasaki" in fact means purple. Moreover, David’s “thousand flowery faces” reminded me of the myriad blooms of the award-winning roses my grandfather grew when I was a boy. Thank you, David. I almost feel guilty knowing your duties as editor necessarily draw you away from your own acts of composition. Spring Lilacs was such a joy to read and to have read, and I could hear you reciting it in my mind as I read it.
Thanks Stewart!
"Moreover, David’s 'thousand flowery faces' reminded me of the myriad blooms of the award-winning roses my grandfather grew when I was a boy."
My grandmother, whose garden I was thinking of when I wrote the poem, also won many awards for her African Violets, which she was in the habit of crossbreeding.
Feeling impelled to comment again, I think the poem conveys an uncommon sensitivity, what I like to call affective depth. A sensitivity to life's cruelty. I am acutely aware of its cruelty myself, so the shared feeling is welcome to me.
As to its style, it has a rather natural flow, natural and simple, which also appeals to me. Only calyx and sepals depart a bit from the overall simplicity of the language.
It employs synecdoche, using a part to represent the whole. And this is made explicit toward the poem's end.
I've heard a sensitivity in your voice when you've recited particular poems, a less controlled sound, as accompanies the welling up of emotion. A particular word or phrase gives rise to it, makes your heart react.
I like your use of "cold" to describe your response to cruel fate. What to call my own I'm wondering. Well, I can only expose the thing's character. But as a quite solid thinker observed, "Intelligence will remain invisible to the man who has none."
I believe death is an invitation to Philosophy i.e. the love of wisdom.
We're all going to die. Individual lives are mortal and transient. But Philosophy deals with those things which are enduring and unchanging. It deals with eternal truths, which despite our brief and mortal lives, may be pursued whole-heartedly.
However, to get there, we first need some acknowledgement of the mystery, I believe. Some experiences are better suited for that than others. The right kind of Beauty goes a long way, the haunting kind. I don't think being haunted necessarily means being scared. It's a reminder that the mysteries aren't going anywhere.
The problem with today's education is that this natural hunger for mystery and wonder isn't cultivated or fed. We're offered a pill or popsicle, or something else, instead.
Philosophy invites us to ponder these things in their purest form; poetry invites us to wonder about the same, through Beauty.
Something like that.
Me, I confine my attention to strict fact, which is all I can know, or, as a favorite thinker put it, just as I often have myself, to the "what" not the "why." I should add that one can draw conclusions based on the what about the nature of the why. Some metaphysicians have done this, reaching somewhat different ones. In my own case, I am content identifying the apparent driving mechanism, and judging it by its effects, as one judges a man by his deeds.
This poem illustrates how to convey an intensely personal experience successfully without delving into solipsism. All of us can see what you saw in the lilacs.
This is you at your best, David. I can feel the impossibly soft breeze and the fragrance of the lilacs speaks of a sweet death which produces the ultimate and eternal life.
Thanks Bobby!
Spring Lilacs is a metaphysical and romantic reflection which, in lyrical four beat lines, and in it's evocation of an Aeolian Harp, calls up the ghost of Coleridge and his lines in pentameter, inspired by another Eolian Harp of imagination and spirit. David's sustained image of lilacs evoked for me Mallarme's observation of poetry as a purification of the dialect of the tribe. David's lilacs stand in communion with the myrtle, jasmine and other blooms sacred to poetry and the poet's vocation.. David's Aeolian Harp harmonizes with that of Coleridge, and his lilacs speak with the sweetness of myrtle and the other flowers of our poetic tradition:
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown
With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such would Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!
(Coleridge, The Eolian Harp)
I think so. Loss can even be deranging when the sweetest are taken down. The poem for me has an allegoric dimension.
I think "Spring Lilacs" is one of your best poems, perhaps THT best, at least that I've read.
I remember publishing what I take to be an earlier version of the poem. If you email me the new version, I'll be glad to publish it.
Thanks. I combined two of my favourite themes: spring and death.
It's my favorite so far, of the poems I've read.