A Midsummer Day's Dream (2nd Edit)

[Jonathan Morey Weiss-Namaste47]

The breeze wraps itself around my neck life a soft woolen scarf
here, in this open field. A butterfly dances over dandelions,
pausing briefly during its minuet, awaiting a partner.

It is mid-July, and though fall is two months away,
I experience subtle changes, different from those visible
in the myrtle, its leaves beginning to darken.

Senses turned inward, I meditate on my unison with the seasons;
withdrawing when icicles cling to barren branches,
emerging when the sun arcs in the eastern sky,
life force rising in my veins.

Later in summer, I will come into full bloom,
flourishing, deepening, until leaves depart,
and today's breeze becomes a winter's gale.

[Marion Poirier]

Lovely poem, Jon. I thought you were talking
about the feelings of the N being one with nature
until the last stanza, realize you are using
personification. I wonder why the N cannot
feel through the tree, yet remain separate from
the tree. I would keep the poem in the present
as 'in the moment' (except project in last stanza); stay with
the comparison rather than becoming the tree itself.
Here are a few suggestions; as always to T or Leave.
Very good nature poem.
M

The breeze wraps itself around my neck like a soft woolen scarf.
In this open field, a butterfly dances over golden dandelions,
pausing briefly during its minuet, almost as if awaiting a partner.

I witness subtle changes within, different from those visible
in the myrtle, its leaves barely beginning to darken.
With senses aglow, I feel myself a part of the seasons.

When the sun is more consistent, I begin to bud;
later in summer, I come into full bloom, flourishing,
deepening, until today's breeze becomes a winter's gale.

[Jonathan Morey Weiss-Namaste47]

Thinking on your changes Marion..........don"t think I want to omit the 3rd verse. Thank you for your time and effort.......

[mfwilkie]

To my ear, it's trying to do too much all at once, Jon.

The man for all seasons should come first, and his belief in that description of himself should be explained more clearly.

Maggie

[Jonathan Morey Weiss-Namaste47]

A change in seasons.

[Marion Poirier]

Jon, I like this second revision very much.
Now it is clear to me that you are in zinc
with each season. Lovely work!

Best,
Marion

[mfwilkie]

Better, Jon, but not quite there.

What withdraws and what emerges, and what exactly rises in your veins?

Life is a given, so what rises has to be something else, something more definable.

Senses turned inward, I meditate on my unison with the
seasons; withdrawing when icicles cling to barren branches,
emerging when the sun arcs in the eastern sky, life force rising in my veins.

Look at these two lines, Jon.

It is mid-July, and though fall is two months away,
and
Later in summer, I will come into full bloom,

in NEWS OF THE UNIVERSE poems of twofold conciousnes,
a 1980 anthology for the Sierra Club Books, Bly quotes Novalis on
the two stages of an artist's life which he believed existed:
"Self expression is the source of all abasement, just as,
contrawise, it is the basis for all true elevaton. The first step is
introspection—exchisive contemplation of the self. But whoever
stops there goes only half way. The second step must be
genuine observation outward—spontaneous, sober observation
of the external world"

Bly goes on with "...If a poet remains stuck in the first stage, the
introspective, narcissistic stage, he or she is essentislly a sun
surrounded by dead planets, to borrow Novalis' concept "Man is a
sun, and his senses are the planets."

This idea later carried Rilke "... farther into his own body, and farther out into the world."

I think you'd like this book, Jon.

Novalis wrote six hyms to the night. Here's the first:

"Hymn to the Night:1

Before all the wondrous shows of the widespread space around him, what living, sentient thing loves not the all-joyous light -- with its colors, its rays and undulations, its gentle omnipresence in the form of the wakening Day? The giant-world of the unresting constellations inhales it as the innermost soul of life, and floats dancing in its blue flood -- the sparkling, ever-tranquil stone, the thoughtful, imbibing plant, and the wild, burning multiform beast inhales it -- but more than all, the lordly stranger with the sense-filled eyes, the swaying walk, and the sweetly closed, melodious lips. Like a king over earthly nature, it rouses every force to countless transformations, binds and unbinds innumerable alliances, hangs its heavenly form around every earthly substance. -- Its presence alone reveals the marvelous splendor of the kingdoms of the world.

Aside I turn to the holy, unspeakable, mysterious Night. Afar lies the world -- sunk in a deep grave -- waste and lonely is its place. In the chords of the bosom blows a deep sadness. I am ready to sink away in drops of dew, and mingle with the ashes. -- The distances of memory, the wishes of youth, the dreams of childhood, the brief joys and vain hopes of a whole long life, arise in gray garments, like an evening vapor after the sunset. In other regions the light has pitched its joyous tents. What if it should never return to its children, who wait for it with the faith of innocence?

What springs up all at once so sweetly boding in my heart, and stills the soft air of sadness? Dost thou also take a pleasure in us, dark Night? What holdest thou under thy mantle, that with hidden power affects my soul? Precious balm drips from thy hand out of its bundle of poppies. Thou upliftest the heavy-laden wings of the soul. Darkly and inexpressibly are we moved -- joy-startled, I see a grave face that, tender and worshipful, inclines toward me, and, amid manifold entangled locks, reveals the youthful loveliness of the Mother. How poor and childish a thing seems to me now the Light -- how joyous and welcome the departure of the day -- because the Night turns away from thee thy servants, you now strew in the gulfs of space those flashing globes, to proclaim thy omnipotence -- thy return -- in seasons of thy absence. More heavenly than those glittering stars we hold the eternal eyes which the Night hath opened within us. Farther they see than the palest of those countless hosts -- needing no aid from the light, they penetrate the depths of a loving soul -- that fills a loftier region with bliss ineffable. Glory to the queen of the world, to the great prophet of the holier worlds, to the guardian of blissful love -- she sends thee to me -- thou tenderly beloved -- the gracious sun of the Night, -- now am I awake -- for now am I thine and mine -- thou hast made me know the Night -- made of me a man -- consume with spirit-fire my body, that I, turned to finer air, may mingle more closely with thee, and then our bridal night endure forever."

Novalis


Mags

[Jonathan Morey Weiss-Namaste47]

Thank you for the ideas to ponder Maggie. You are right about me enjoying the poem by Novalis. Much to think about.....