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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

joybragi84

Surviving July: A Short Lyric Poem with Some Pictures


Going back to the old way, the comments are after the poem--and so are a couple pictures of some flowers.


Surviving July


A trembling ball of deep red sun

Rises below the moon.

Its heat may once have warmed the soul,

But not since early June.


The birds who sang from wire and post

Hide in the thickest hedge.

The glossy fields of blue-green grass

Are prickled now with sedge.


The Queen Anne’s lace stands elbow high

And sneezeweed lines the trail

With yellow blooms on feathered stems

And a most bitter smell.


The spiders, too, have moved their webs

Down nearer to the ground,

And there they sparkle, wet with dew,

As if the weeds were crowned.


And, look, among those creeping vines,

A purple bellflower blows,

Sticking its tongue out at the world

And tickling its nose.


And here’s a blue coneflower bloom

Twitching in dawn’s damp breeze,

Baring a blue bright as the sky

And deeper than the sea’s.


Perhaps, we can survive July

And its oppressive heat

By turning our eyes from the sky

To see what’s at our feet.


Okay! According to the wonderful plant identifier at Pl@nt Identify (https://identify.plantnet.org/) the flower above is the American Bellflower (37.6% likely). It is a tiny, tiny flower that I found growing around the base of a rock covered with ivy at Mammoth Spring State Park. When I say tiny, I mean, this bloom was about the half the size of a standard shirt button. I am really zoomed in on it.


Pl@nt Identifier said the blue flower above was most likely a blue coneflower, but it could also have been chicory or something else. I think it is a blue cornflower based solely on the shape and length of the stem.


The "sneezeweed" referred to in the poem is also commonly called bitterweed. According to the Missouri Department of Conservation, it is called bitterweed because when it blooms in the summer dairy cows milk becomes bitter even though cows will eat very little of it. If you have ever had a milk cow, you know what they are talking about. I did not take a picture of bitterweed, otherwise known as sneezeweed, but if you live in Arkansas, you know what it looks like and smells like. Yep! That is the one.

Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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