The Responsibility of Flowers

The Responsibility of Flowers

“To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility —”
–Emily Dickinson, Bloom

Bulbs like hidden secrets wake
in yellow, purple, and pink, they celebrate
and wink, just so

the prideful robin sings
a-wing with red-breasted élan
to make Ceres smile
and nod from her abiding place–she knows
mutability is a constant, time fast or slow

circles around, blood-moon nourished,
mothers and daughters
with planted wombs or fallow,
carry on carrying on
waiting for a sprout, a sprig,
a blink of life to flow—they sow–

death reaps.

Now a brave woman curses soldiers with seeds—
never shirking their responsibility,
on your graves sunflowers will thrive and grow!

^{Dalton Farm sunflowers (Summer 2021)}

Tomorrow is the start of poetry month. I’ve signed up for NaPoWriMo, but I will probably not post the poems I write to those prompts because I’m also participating in Paul Brookes’ April Ekphrastic Challenge again, and I will be posting those poems each day.

Today there is an early-bird prompt for NaPoWriMo to use inspiration from Emily Dickinson. I had already used one of the suggested lines recently for a Monday Morning Musings post, so I’ve taken a bit of that post and revised it to share, though still rough, for NaPoWriMo and dVerse Open Link Night.

Flowers and Secrets

Monday Morning Musings:

“To be a Flower, is profound
Responsibility —”
–Emily Dickinson, Bloom

^Crocuses

Northwest wind whisks away
the heron-grey, spins thread from cast-off eggshells
the blue of hope, the color of tranquility
blankets the sky, reflected in rivers and sea,

^{Feathery Clouds Swept Away by the Wind}

while frosted leaves formed in midnight chill
by feathered flap of snow goose flight
melt in the rising glow of honeyed light
pouring from above–

^Reflections

now mothers seek their daughters,
mourn their fathers and their sons
as bulbs like hidden secrets wake
to bloom in yellow, purple, and white, a robin sings

Sunrise

to make Ceres smile from a transitory space–
mutability is a constant, death follows life–
a brave woman curses soldiers with seeds,*
sunflowers will grow on your graves,

and blood-moon nourished,
mothers and daughters with wombs both planted and fallow
carry on, waiting for a sprout of yellow green
to waken in the sun.

Dalton Farm sunflowers (Summer 2021)

*”A Ukrainian woman offers seeds to Russian soldiers so ‘sunflowers grow when they die.'” Sunflowers are the symbol of Ukraine.

The weather has been so changeable—freezing cold winds, then warmer days. The crocuses are sprouting. It’s been difficult though to think of anything except the Russian invasion of Ukraine. I’ve been having lots of dreams about mothers and daughters, some anxious, some funny, some filled with love and tenderness.

We watched the new movie Parallel Mothers (rental from Amazon—it may be coming to Netflix at some point). It is director Pedro Almodóvar’s most recent film, starring Penelope Cruz, who frequently stars in his films. It’s about two single mothers, one near 40, the other much younger, who meet in a hospital while they’re both in labor. They bond and later meet again. Cruz’s character is seeking help from a forensic anthropologist to uncover the mass grave where her great-grandfather and other men in her town were killed by fascist soldiers early in Franco’s rule. As well as mothers (a frequent Almodóvar theme), It seems to me that one theme of the movie is secrets, and how too many are willing to ignore and sweep the ugliness and tragedies away. It seems very pertinent right now.

We also watched a horror show on Netflix, Archive 81, that we both liked very much. It’s about a film restorer who is hired to take care of some old films that a grad student made about residents in a NYC apartment building. He uncovers—hmmm—more secrets! It’s very well done, and it definitely kept our interest! Tonight, we’re going to catch up on Mrs. Maizel—a Monday Maizel. I made knishes!

Knishes

Vision

Monday Morning Musings:

“Best Things dwell out of Sight
The Pearl—the Just—Our Thought.”
--Emily Dickinson

The snow comes, goes
flows in feathered drifts
and shifts to icy pellets, then gifts
us with cold beauty. Shadows

fall long, as the sun lifts his sleepy head
and cloud-haze shuffles, to turn sky blue
and light sparkles on water, colors and hue
of winter wonder—but tread

Sparkling Water Spirit on the Delaware River at Red Bank Battlefield. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

• 

  Sparkles on the Delaware ©️Merril D. Smith

• 

  Sparkles on the Delaware ©️Merril D. Smith

lightly on the surface ice
atop the snow–and yet the river rolls
with junk and dreams, holding souls
with visions—look twice–

• 

  Crow

• 

  Crow

• 

  Crow

• 

  Hawk

• 

  Hawk

• 

  Hawk

is it ghost or bird?
What lies beneath?
Is it a boat? Does it have teeth?
What are your dreams? What is the word

Melting snow puddle reflection. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

that describes what you see?
What is the world that you feel deep
within? Begin to tell, or keep
it in. What is free? What do you want to be?

There are people with visions,
and people with sight—
not the same thing—they may fight
for light, but make wrong decisions

And yet, even hidden, a pearl will glow.
And who is to say, sight is better than feel?
Maybe we don’t need to heal
what is not broken, but let it be, to go,

to find beauty, falling in the snow.

• 

  A snowy day in the neighborhood. ©️Merril D. Smith, 2021

We’re making up for having no snow at all last year, it seems. We had a lingering snowstorm last early last week, and then another one yesterday–though here just south of Philadelphia, we tend to get rain and sleet, which lowers the snow totals. But, since it’s pandemic, we’re not going anywhere, so it doesn’t matter. I saw the hawk from my kitchen window while washing dishes, and ran outside to try to see it closer. The crows were super-noisy and busy at the river the other day. I baked a cake for younger daughter’s birthday, and we dropped a present, and other things at her house, and we stood outside, masked and in the cold and talked for a little while. Yesterday while it was snowing, I decided to bake a second cake for us.

^{Lemon Cornmeal Cake}

Merril’s Movie/Theater Club: Along with most everyone, it seems, we watched The Dig (Netflix) this week. We both enjoyed it. It’s about the 1939 excavation of Sutton Hoo. It’s a lovely movie, with fine performances and beautiful cinematography. The dig becomes quite exciting, even though this is definitely not an action movie. The movie is based on a novel, and both are based on actual events. We also streamed the Lantern Theater Company’s production of Molly Sweeney, a play by Brian Friel. It’s available to stream until Feb. 14. It’s based on an essay by Oliver Sachs, but it’s transposed to Ireland. It’s a moving story of a woman who has been blind since she was a baby, but is content with her world of touch, smell, and sound. She leads a full life, but her husband wants her to have an operation to give her sight. The play is set up as monologues—Molly, her husband Frank, and the doctor who performs the surgery. We both enjoyed the play and the excellent acting done by actors who never move from their positions on the stage. Oh, and we finished Season 5 of The Expanse, and now I want Season 6!

I’m hosting Quadrille Monday on dVerse, so I’ll be back later this afternoon! Hmm. . .I guess I need to write a poem for that soon. 😏

Mystery

Monday Morning Afternoon Musings:

“Art evokes the mystery without which the world would not exist.”

–Rene Magritte

“Tell all the truth, but tell it slant—”

—Emily Dickinson

A portal beneath the water’s surface?

What lies beneath the surface–

the secrets and mysteries we carry within

our hearts and minds,

many layered labyrinths

we follow the breadcrumbs

 

(when we’re able)

 

or, wander aimlessly–

well, it can be a pleasant journey–

but what will happen?

Every story has a mystery—

truth and fiction both.

 

Between the beats of morning’s song

a small red bird is illuminated

against charcoal clouds it journeys on

then it disappears into the green canopy

gone to me,

but I am just a bit player,

in his story,

and he is the same in mine,

a chance encounter with flyby beauty,

remembered for a time

 

as I ponder the mystery

of beating hearts

and those at rest,

listen for the harmony

that is no longer there—or is it

all of a part?– life and love–

and the stardust drifting from space

to course through our veins.

The universe is full of secrets

that may devour you–

 

or surround you with magic—

either way, it remains a mystery

we don’t know what will happen

until it does—

and then we move on–

 

or we don’t,

perhaps wondering,

what happens next?

New masks

 

Today is Memorial Day here in the U.S. This holiday honors the memory of those who died in our various wars. Yesterday, the New York Times posted a frontpage memorial to those who have died in the current pandemic here in the U.S.—nearly 100,000 lost and counting. Among them, my mother, as well as the loved ones of some of you reading this. Here’s the interactive link.

Merril’s Movie Club: We watched four movies this week, and it struck me that idea that every story has a mystery (not a unique or profound thought, I know, but you work with you have, right?).  Frantz and The Half of It were the best of the four.

Our movie-watching buddy.

Frantz (2016) is such a Merril movie, that I wonder how we missed it. I’ve seen both the leads in other movies since, and they are excellent, especially Paula Beer, who plays a young German woman whose fiancé was killed in battle during WWI. A French veteran appears in her town, where she lives with her fiancé’s parents. She sees him laying flowers on the grave. Eventually, they meet, and he explains he was her fiancé’s friend from when he studied in Paris. The movie is a low-key anti-war film. It’s mostly in black and white, but with some color scenes, and it’s in French and German. It’s on Amazon.

The Half of It (2020) is a new Netflix film. It’s a spin of Cyrano, with an Asian-American female self-described high school nerd in the Cyrano role. So, it’s also a coming of age story with a lesbian subtext. It’s sweet and funny, with some philosophical musings by the main character. I enjoyed it much more than I thought I would.

Sweetheart (2019) is also on Netflix. It also is a take on a familiar trope—the person shipwrecked and stranded on a deserted island. In this case, the shipwrecked person is a woman, and the island is not exactly deserted—because there’s a monster. Kiersey Clemons is excellent, and the movie was enjoyable, though I wouldn’t say it was great.

Photograph (2019). On Amazon. We watched while we ate my homemade naan and chana masala. I had high hopes for this one because we enjoyed the director’s previous film, The Lunchbox, but this one was only OK. It’s like they had an idea for a movie, but then didn’t know what to do with it. A street photographer in Mumbai is being pressured by his grandmother back in their village to get married. He sends her a photograph he took, and then convinces the woman in the photo to pretend to be his girlfriend.

Homemade Naan

 

 

 

 

Life’s Labor

Monday Morning Musings:

“It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.

The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,

The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.”

From Gwendolyn Brooks, “A Sunset in the City” 

 

“Therefore—we do life’s labor—

Though life’s Reward—be done—

With scrupulous exactness—

To hold our Senses—on—”

—Emily Dickinson 

Dawn comes with a song colored in a blush of dusty pink

whispering secrets

I am light

glowing honey gold

through rose-tinged clouds.

I am sound,

the buzzing drone

of a cicada,

the eager chirping of a sparrow

looking for love.

Look–

Listen–

soon come the shadows

black in the moonlight–

soon comes the silence,

save the skittering of night creatures

over dry brown leaves.

***

It is a week of reflection

abjection and affection

 

glowering grey

and love that stays

true in hue

though the world’s askew.

 

Hurricanes and guns,

the loss daughters and sons

 

to senseless violence

and no defenses

 

do we have for either wind

or fury underpinned

 

by those in power—

but here in a bower

 

a garden of flowers

we sit for hours.

We spent a lot of time in this garden.

My mother naps

as the sparrow flaps

 

his wings to no avail–

though he chirps and flails

 

the lady sparrow ignores him

as he follows from limb to limb

 

and along the concrete wall

calling, calling to all

 

“I am here,

my beauty, appear!”

 

On this Labor Day weekend

we labor and bend

 

to the inevitable end

of summer and life, we send

 

thoughts outward with the breeze

we tease

 

joy for moments when we can

flowers, family, pets, wine—and

I remember how my mother worked

and didn’t shirk

 

her duty to home or even nation

bucking rivets, no vacation

 

I’m sure, she tells me of a woman there

who stands up for her—the righteous everywhere—

 

when the haters hate

six million dead does not set them straight.

 

Still, she worked all her life

in stores, as mother and wife

 

and after. An aunt worked sewing

and I wonder, not knowing

 

what the factory was like,

and if they ever went on strike,

 

but my mother got to borrow her clothes

and so, it goes

 

she met my father who lives in her dreams–

he lives on in seams

 

stitched with invisible thread

in memories real and false, but we tread

 

lightly because what else can we do–

as we sit under a sky of September blue

 

knowing that autumn is coming,

but the moon will keep humming,

 

and we will labor, love, and play

life beyond us will go on, each day

 

green or barren, this earth

laboring, revolving, giving birth

to new possibilities, hopes, and fears

in endless cycles over thousands of years.

 

 

Today is Labor Day here in the U.S.  The Mormon Temple near where my mom lives has a lovely little garden square that is open to the public.  We enjoyed wine and cheese at Tria, where on Sunday’s they offer specials that they call “Sunday School.”  My mom recently told me that a woman defended her when a man or men uttered anti-Semitic slurs at her–while she was working as a “bucker” for riveters during WWII.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Flowers and Bombs, NaPoWriMo

Monday Morning Musings:

“Forever—is composed of Nows—”

–Emily Dickinson,  Full Poem here. 

“N. A. Sumanapala, a shopkeeper near St. Anthony’s Shrine who said he had run inside to help, said: “It was a river of blood. Ash was falling like snow.” New York Times, April 21, 2019.

A week of explosions

flowers, storms, shots, and lies

bombs belie the façade

of Easter calm and Passover why

(is this night different from all other nights?)

 

Rivers of blood

with no miracle to part

falling of ash

unresurrected, fighting stops, starts–

A plague upon both your houses

 

Of indecision and more lies

as the First Citizen cries

in confusion,

“No collusion!”

 

His followers cheer

not caring, or unclear

that he would destroy

all that they hold dear,

so they support and worship

their false idol. Rejoice

in the new normal, hate

the latest whipping boy.

 

I cook, wrapping myself

in almonds, dates, and honey.

The house is sunny,

scented with cinnamon

like the cat, who slumbers sun-sided

Passover Almond Cake

The pink moon rises

we drink the first glass of wine, recline.

We are free, but refugees detained

chained, their children abused–

and we all lose–

Let all who are hungry come

 

We watch movies of

women hiding secrets

sometimes in plain sight

in poetry and stories,

sometimes driving in the night

to obligations, demands

and longing

for uncharted territories.

 

Certain women

holding together

waiting, still in a man’s world.

often unrecognized–

we place

an orange on the Seder plate,

to recognize, no longer erased.

 

We talk,

walk through city streets,

footsteps, heartbeats,

statues and stories,

petrichor replaced

with the scent of blooms

filling the air with their perfume, a trace

lingers in my mind.

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A week of explosions

flowers, storms, shots, and lies—

all the endless ifs and whys–

and yet, my heart thrills

at the sight of the spring tide

with waves of flowers,

creating bowers

while the robin’s trills—

and we remember

forever is composed of nows.

Red Bank Battlefield Park, April 2019

 

Day 22, NaPoWriMo  challenges us “to write a poem that engages with another art form.” My Monday musings always engage with the world around me through photos, and often movies or shows we’ve seen–so to an extent–I’ve met the challenge.

We watched the movie Certain Women on Netflix. We watched Becoming Astrid (about Swedish author Astrid Lindgren, the author of Pippi Longstocking and other books) on Amazon Prime, once I figured out how to turn on the subtitles. We saw the new movie, Wild Nights with Emily about Emily Dickinson in the theater. I liked all three movies.

 

 

 

 

Dollhouses and Doors

Monday Morning Musings:

“We do on stage things that supposed to happen off. Which is a kind of integrity, if you look on every exit as being an entrance somewhere else.”

–Tom Stoppard, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are Dead

 “The Heart

has many Doors.”

–Emily Dickinson

Full poem here.

“our home has been nothing but a playroom. I have been your doll-wife, just as at home I was father’s doll-child; and her the children have been my dolls.”

–Henrik Ibsen, A Doll’s House

 

 

The heart I’m told has four chambers,

but every chamber must have a door

and so,

blood flows,

love comes, it goes,

the doors of the heart beat open, then close. . .

 

We go to the theater,

drink coffee before closed doors–

they soon open,

A Doll’s House, Arden Theatre, Philadelphia

taking us to a nineteenth-century

that seems contemporary–

how shocking the play must have been then,

it’s hints of sexuality, as well as the dissolution of a marriage.

We are caught up in others’ lives,

the doorbell rings,

people enter and exit,

the audience gasps at Torvald’s remarks,

feels Nora’s awakening

pauses, then exhales

with “the door slam heard round the world.”

We applaud, then exit, too,

down the stairs

and out into the cold.

Winter folds its icy heart around the city.

 

We walk and talk

past the ghosts of Christ Church

through another door

to drink more coffee.

I think of doll houses and dolls. . .

 

Our daughters used to play with dolls and doll houses,

tip-tapping the small figures round tiny chairs and tables

and in and out of rooms

without real doors to open or shut–

but who’s to say it wasn’t real,

a man-doll named John,

a piece of a wooden chair named Pumpernickel,

(we never knew why)

the mini American Girl dolls

they were all real,

weren’t they? At least for a time?

A door opened, unfastened hearts and minds,

as I remember . . .

 

a doll has no heart,

except for that which is given by love,

or perhaps they create their own hearts

and perhaps they make ours grow

as they enter our lives and exit,

leaving the door ajar for others find their way in.

 

We open doors,

we close doors

sometimes we perch upon them

never noticing how precarious it can be,

life, opening and closing–

sometimes we carry our hearts right through a doorway,

and keep on going.

 

I’m told that people can die from broken hearts,

like Debbie Reynolds after Carrie Fisher died,

the heart no longer beats,

the four chambers, silent.

The doors of the heart open and close—

until they open and close no more—

Exits and entrances.

Another dollhouse.

Another doll.

 

 

There was also this.

For those outside of the U.S., yesterday was Super Bowl Sunday. My local team, the Philadelphia Eagles won. It was a big deal, and even family members and friends who are not particular sports fans were excited. I made my husband goodies to eat, and sat with him for about half an hour, but I then went upstairs to watch other shows and read.

 

 

 

Winter Changes

Monday Morning Musings:

“No Notice gave She, but a Change—

No Message, but a Sigh—

For Whom, the Time did not suffice

That She should specify.”

–Emily Dickinson, from “No Notice gave She, but a Change”

 

“The things that never can come back are several—“

–Emily Dickinson*

 

“But now they only block the sun

They rain and snow on everyone. . .”

–Joni Mitchell, “Both Sides Now”

 

We see movies about women who experience life changes

change that ranges

through ages, horrors, and time

one mother with a daughter murdered and raped

shaping the rest of her life

(ignoring her son)

she puts up billboards and rages,

feels guilt and regret in stages

for what was said and done, she can’t forget

and yet,

there are people who care

and I like that we’re made aware

that most people are not simply bad or good,

but a mixture, often misunderstood,

complex and confused

the movie is anger-charged, yet funny, too

showing how people might change–

or perhaps we see them differently—

that could be,

they might exchange their views

(or sometimes not)

though they may sigh

and may not specify,

what it is they desire or want

though the things that never can come back are several.

 

The other movie is about a daughter who is coming of age

she and her mother who love each other

but argue persistently and consistently

as the daughter experiences first love and heartbreak

(Remember that age when so much seems at stake?)

in family life and strategies

we see life’s comedies and tragedies

as the young woman tries to break free

while realizing there is so much she didn’t see

or comprehend–

the value of a friend–

and a home that she will see anew, perhaps long for

someday, again.

 

(Bonus here, the high school theater scenes

where so much goes on in-between–

from auditions to production

and a director’s hilarious instruction.)

 

Changes come, with a feeling of sadness imbued

such as when the old garage was torn down,

and replaced now with the new

carried by truck through town

Through the window, I see the shed delivered.

set up quickly by the men,

and here it stands

still to be painted

for now, we’ll just get acquainted

as the weather alters to winter cold

the clouds move in to block the sun

and snow falls then on everyone

and gone for now is land and sky

as winter-white flutters and flies

Watching the snow

I catch a flake upon my hand

and wake to a winter wonderland

But now I prep for a colonoscopy

(SO many places I’d rather be

than here doing this)

 

though right now, I’m so literally not full of shit

unlike our leaders, who sleep, leap, and wallow in it

every day, trapping us deeper in the mud and crap

our nerves so frayed and ready to snap

changes from when people felt hope and optimism

now the monsters who before were hidden

roam openly, and they will not be forgiven

by history or time–

if we survive–

still as long as the dawn still rises

and cracks get filled with light

and there is poetry, movies, books to bring delight,

we won’t give up the fight

or take flight

or be numbed to evil that lurks

but find what works

to make the darkness go.

As Christmas lights shine brightly on the snow

and we light candles and decorate

hope the season of peace and love will penetrate

overtake the hate and fear

that seems to have swallowed the year

if only the scents of cinnamon and nutmeg–winter spices–

could bring forth niceness.

For now, winter snow blankets my world in white

and I, warm inside, can savor the sight–

noticing how it absorbs and reflects the light,

I stare,

wonder if it changes the air,

if hope can rise above despair.

 

We saw Three Billboards Outside of Ebbing, Missouri, trailer here.

And Lady Bird, trailer here.

Both were excellent movies, though I think my husband and I preferred Lady Bird. Frances McDormand (the part was written for her), Saoirse Ronan, Laurie Metcalf were all wonderful, as were the rest of both casts. Fun fact: Lucas Hedges, the young man in last year’s Manchester By the Sea, is in both movies.

 

*Emily Dickinson wrote this poem on the back of a recipe for coconut cake. This short article is about her and baking, and I plan to try some of her recipes soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

From the Ashes: A Month with Yeats, Day Nine

 This is for Jane Dougherty’s November Month with Yeats, Day Nine. The quotation is: 

“Troy passed away in one high funeral gleam,

And Usna’s children died.”

—W.B. Yeats

I was also inspired, or perhaps haunted, by this article that I saw last night about a girl’s pendant found at Sobihor.

 

Once she played and laughed upon a hill,

once there were families, hope, delight

before darkness came and all was still

in a nightmare world of constant night

monster-filled with hate and fear

and all that once was cherished and held dear

lost forever, or perhaps entombed

within the ruins, amidst the gloom.

 

Years passed in revolutions round the sun,

and grass sprouted in ashes cooled of fired hate

buried there, searchers found that she was one

in rubble raked beyond the gate

found there, a victim of the slaughter,

someone’s child, once a daughter,

found her broach, inscribed, a sign, a trace

that she existed once, now not entirely erased.

 

But does this finding some closure bring

to those who are left or suffering?

The ashes of the dead once rained like sordid snow

fertilizing now the ground where flowers grow

light’s restored, but mutable

and darkness still falls, indisputable,

hope the feather that softly flies

from wings of knowledge and wistful sighs.

 

 

 

 

 

Books and Dreams

“There is no Frigate like a Book

To take us Lands away”

–Emily Dickinson

 

On this October day, when the sun still holds sway

over winter’s dark dominion,

and light and shadow play

over golden leaves and feathered pinion

the pages of my book glow, too,

(or at least that’s my opinion)

as if the magic’s drifting through.

I’ll travel off into space

or to an unknown archipelago,

I’ll fly, gallop, or pace–

in prose today to Moscow–

there I’ll linger, dream, and smile

and perhaps stay there for awhile

on this October day

with a book, carried away.

 

I had posted the photo with the Dickinson quote on Instagram, but here’s the poem to go with it. This is for dVerse, Open Link Night.