I’ve come to the imaginary garden again, hoping for pointers and a whiff of inspiration- the scents after all are so sublime. Or should that be ambrosial, aromatic or even redolent?
“Just say what you mean” said the Muse in a voice resembling Hemingway’s gravelly tones: “I’m not a bloody thesaurus”
“No but one is always searching for a bon mot that just fits the metre”
“Prose is architecture, not interior decoration, and the Baroque is over”.
After a considered pause what else was there to say:
“Well the advice of course is quite appreciated. I take your point but a man of bulls and fire-power is not my kind of stimulation”
“Madame, all stories, if continued far enough, end in death, and he is no true-story teller who would keep that from you”.
“Ah now I see the confusion for that is where poet and writer diverge. We’ve no need for stories that begin with a head and finish with a tail if you’ll forgive the pun – those somewhere starts that end elsewhere. That genre belongs to Old Norse and the hypergraphic epics of seagulls and doom”.
I walk away downhill, to the dry lowland garden and wonder how much Ernest was beset with the bold and resolute weight of his Christening. Evidently out of touch now. Past post modern, poetry has been freed from dramatic narrative. It is sweet and fitting now to say everything in a symbolic stream of consciousness unfettered as free verse. Sort of nonsense poetry with sophistication. Dylan showed the way; Bob even more so than the Welsh bard:
“The kings of Taurus with their convict list
Are waiting in line for their geranium kiss”*
Ah! I perceive the half-rhyme of-course and their kiss is by the way. But adjective is prompt and turning to its noun, the poet steps into a Spanish garden and sees:
a chorus of crisp, creased skirts
spread low as the dance troupe’s final bow
dusky dust bathers in dry heat
slapping on sun-seeping oils
pine, apple, apricot and mint
fruit flavoured pastels in aromatic shades
even attar of rose pink mimickers
tender as the night
and long after the flower show
tiny long-beaked birds
flock to fragrant foliage
Pelargonium/geranium from Greek meaning Stork/Crane in reference to shape of seed heads. Hence cranesbill.
Emboldened quotes from Hemingway
* From ‘Sad eyed lady of the lowlands‘