sweet singing child

[Benjamin]

sweet singing child of innocence

your fresh green dance an echoed round

of harp-strung trees-- with notes that sweep

down from a cloud-hung castle keep

in pennants of the morning sun

our resurrected permanence

 

a truth-- a measure or pretence

that all your days number but one

that dappled seasons shift and creep

with worldly tides of spring and neap

and you remain forever young

where nothing matters or makes sense

[fdelano]

Gives value to memories of innocence and carefree days of games. What different views of life we have through our 'numbered' days--'but one.' I can feel the ground under bare feet, and the rhythm of impatience in maturing. Strange that as we age our thoughts so often turn back to childhood. I think we all, your readers, will each take away different thoughts. Thank you for a sweet-sad moment. fdh

[dcmarti1]

I have only read a few poems by G. M. Hopkins, but this line is so evocative like his:

 

that dappled seasons shift and creep

with worldly tides of spring and neap

 

(Yeah, I admit I had to look up "neap".) For me, the "but one" time was not so much childhood as a certain period where I lived, the friends I had, and the job I had as well. THAT memory was surfaced after reading this. And I also loved your style and form here. They enhance the message. I liked this very much.

[Benjamin]

This originated from a sonnet I wrote on the murder of a small child in 1976 that affected me deeply. I've thought so much recently about the wonder of life and the inevitability of death. Of things that we experience from our birth: the joy of spring, the passing of seasons, memories, our little death of sleep, to the lotteries of love and circumstances of our brevity (or longevity). Of seeking answers and reasons for things that perhaps we are not meant to have... and will never know.

[Tinker]

Hi Geoff, Thanks for sharing this poignant piece. And I too had to look up "neap", you'd think having lived my whole life minutes away from the Pacific Ocean's shore that I would have heard or seen it at least once. Cool word. Your form iambic tetrameter lines in 2 sixains with rhyme scheme abccde abccde was subtle and impressive.

 

~~Tink

[Benjamin]

Franklin dcmarti and Tink thanks for your responses.

In the bustling river port town of my childhood the ships were a spectacle that people came from miles around to see. We were always aware of the tides: high, low, spring, ebb, neap, for many relied on the shipping and canal trade for their living. Sadly those days are now just memories of a distant past.

[Gatekeeper]

A justification of the myth-dream, perhaps. Fitting.

 

(Arising from mid-continent, far from any tides, I did not have to look up "neap". Go figure.)

[dr_con]

A remarkable poem. I absolutely love this.

 

 

a truth-- a measure or pretence

that all your days number but one

that dappled seasons shift and creep

with worldly tides of spring and neap

and you remain forever young

where nothing matters or makes sense

 

To me is very reflective of the Long Now of all our lives. We are forever young and all our days number but one- The one right now. Really fine, fine work!

 

Many many thanks,

 

Juris

[Benjamin]

Many thanks badge Gatekeepter and Juris for leaving comments which are much appreciated.

[David W. Parsley]

It is said that Jews of the Diaspora hung their harps on the willow trees by the river of Babylon, to weep their lost heritage. Here the tree-hung harps sing in the recaptured innocence of childhood. Lovely work, Geoff.

 

Thank You,

- Dave

[Benjamin]

Your rich comments are welcome as a poem Dave. Thank you.