Friday, September 06, 2013

The Red Geranium

I love the touches of bright pink in this flower in bright light. This is the plant that started my porch flower extravaganza this year. It has a name : Viva Big Red" and according to the tag, a true red geranium long served as a holy grail among breeders, because all the red geraniums were polluted with orange. Not this baby!

S is just reading this weeks blog posts and found several typos, mostly in the poems. I have corrected them now. Apologies.

I was reading again tonight in Next-to-Last Things by Stanley Kunitz. [Used copies of the paperback if Next-to-Last Things fall apart in your hand because the glue has failed; just put a rubber band around it and keep on reading! "My Mother's Story is riveting!] In the included Paris Review Interview (DID YOU KNOW THAT ALL THE PARIS REVIEW INTERVIEWS ARE AVAILABLE FOR FREE ON THE INTERNET??? IT IS A FEAST!) he discusses the composition of his poem "King of the River" so I went in search of that poem, which first appeared in the Atlantic Monthly in the July, 1970 issue. It's a spectacular poem! Try reading it aloud!

King of the River

If the water were clear enough,
if the water were still,
but the water is not clear,
the water is not still,
you would see yourself,
slipped out of your skin,
nosing upstream,
slapping, thrashing,
over the rocks
till you paint them
with your belly's blood:
Finned Ego,
yard of muscle that coils,

If the knowledge were given you,
but it is not given,
for the membrane is clouded
with self-deceptions
and the iridescent image swims
through a mirror that flows,
you would surprise yourself
in that other flesh
heavy with milt,
bruised, battering toward the dam
that lips the orgiastic pool.

Come. Bathe in these waters.
Increase and die.

If the power were granted you
to break out of your cells,
but the imagination fails
and the doors of the senses close
on the child within,
you would dare to be changed,
as you are changing now,
into the shape you dread
beyond the merely human.
A dry fire eats you.
Fat drips from your bones.
The flutes of your gills discolor.
You have become a ship for parasites.
The great clock of your life
is slowing down,
and the small clocks run wild.
For this you were born.
You have cried to the wind
and heard the wind's reply:
"I did not choose the way,
the way chose me."
You have tasted the fire on your tongue
till it is swollen black
with a prophetic joy:
"Burn with me!
The only music is time,
the only dance is love."

If the heart were pure enough,
but it is not pure,
you would admit
That nothing compels you
any more, nothing
at all abides,
but nostalgia and desire,
the two-way ladder
between heaven and hell.
On the threshold
of the last mystery,
at the brute absolute hour,
you have looked into the eyes
of your creature self,
which are glazed with madness,
and you say
he is not broken but endures,
limber and firm
in the state of his shining,
forever inheriting his salt kingdom,
from which he is banished

---Stanley Kunitz

No comments:

Post a Comment