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This Poem was Submitted By: carole j mennie On Date: 2003-09-19 15:07:55 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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Translation

The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets in a green-leafed sanctuary. I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with unravelling brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language. Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the polished wood a golden glow. I put boot to shovel, wrapping in warm burlap a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. From beneath distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp, blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; to me, a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. "But tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers."

This Poem was Critiqued By: Thomas H. Smihula On Date: 2003-10-07 23:24:12
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.46154
Carole this was outstanding and I can not tell you how much I enjoyed the roses you created. This is my second to last poem and what a feast I had reading it. Your mother was special for she shared with you her special moments around the garden. Well done no suggestion here. Tom

This Poem was Critiqued By: Jane A Day On Date: 2003-10-01 10:37:43
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.40000
Dear Carole, Having lost my mother and having turned to poetry to think through the complex emotion such a deather brings, I am always moved by poems that explore these questions with a care and attention to language. You have many lovely touches in the poem--Tiffany wings.green-leafed sanctuary. perfumed language, machine-clipped lawn. At times there is a ghost meter in the poem. I always like to play with my work. It might be interesting to put the in meter or in syllabics and see what new doors are opened. The title tells us how to read the poem. But who is translating who? Thanks so much for sharing, Jane

This Poem was Critiqued By: Claire H. Currier On Date: 2003-09-25 14:37:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.51923
The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. lovely setting to open this poem my friend........one can see the flowers planted by your mother as they reach for the sky following the sun......beauty in motion.... Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets in a green-leafed sanctuary. your visuals are so lovely....butterflies circle on Tiffany wings, tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, how your mom must have loved to work in these gardens with her whole heart for it certainly is reflected within and your words dear poet bring it all to life over and over again......and indeed, though mom is now gone her treasures remain forever for the world to enjoy... I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. I just love this line poet......to know your mom so very well swells my own heart with love.....to inhale a memory, a faint scent of her......well placed..... over and over this piece is filled with your mom and your love for her....what a lovely tribute. Thank you for sharing this with us.......be safe, God Bless, Claire I bet mom's smiling down upon you from her heavenly garden.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Rachel F. Spinoza On Date: 2003-09-25 10:27:57
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.93333
Hi, Carole, Sometimes things are lost in the translation, but not here. Profound and beautiful piece. The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. Wonderful opening Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. [lovely image – nature imitating art imitating nature!!” Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets [really fine scene of whispering cloistered birds!} in a green-leafed sanctuary. I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with {unraveling} brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language.[much like this poem with its luscious “perfumed languge" I suspect! Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. [wonderful colors!] Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the polished wood a golden glow. [ah…lovely] I put boot to shovel – [wrap] in warm burlap [fantastic assonance] a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. [moving beyond words!] From beneath distant, machine-clipped[,] lawn [wonderfully atomic} flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp, blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; [-to me], a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. a “loamy litany” indeed! How glorious a legacy! "But[,] tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers." And there will – you know there will. Profound poem on a lot of levels – beautifully constructive and moving. Thank you.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Duane J Jackson On Date: 2003-09-19 22:21:33
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.53846
Hi Carole! I'm thrilled to have found this in the morning when the touch of nature is always welcome and at its blossoming best. I haven't had the privelege of experiencing a garden of my own, here in Calcutta, but this is something I will be coming back ot time and time again. It does such a good job at re -creating the most beautiful of gardens and to add to that, this was a garden sowed on the seeds of love (by your mother). This is a festival of color and perfumes and you maintain this rich use of imagery consistently throughout the poem. I wouldn't be able to segregate a favorite image from this rich store, but the image of your mother stroking 'petaled faces' does leave a larger mark. Not only is it good use of imagery; it picturises this loving and caring person (your mother), whom the poem is centered on. It was also interesting that you mentioned a 'faint scent of her'. It symbolises her immortal memory lingering in the this heavenly sanctuary, but more importantly, in your heart. The poem's ending would have to be the more pwerful part of this piece and reflects, in general, the hope and continuity that mothers instill in us. So, from the multi-colored tulips to the scarlet roses, from the pale pink granite to the yellow pollen, I now exit the green - leafed sanctuary. Do leave the gate open. Beautiful job Carole. Of course, I will not leave without a suggestion. You have mentioned the birds (vital to any garden) but to give the piece audio, you could make a reference to their chirping or singing. it would add to the celebration of this garden of love. Just a suggesdtion, though. Duane.

This Poem was Critiqued By: Terrye Godown On Date: 2003-09-19 20:54:01
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.62500
Carole this is a very touching ode to someone obviously very special and influencial in your life.. imagine a world without the touch of mother's? Though you write with such sensory flair and your words strive to paint a portrait of warmth, beauty and joy, there is this haunting notion right from the start that your theme harbors some aura of melancholy which is of course realized in the next to the last stanza. "From beneath the distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp, blown leaves..." It is not hard to realize the figurative inspiration here. From such lofty perspective, you subtly land the reader into the harsh reality of an ending... a cemetary, and a proclamation engraved thereon.. "her loamy litany" speaking from amongst the flowers conveys a final epitaph on cold stone. I like the way you lifted us up in the last two lines though... a happy ending and the faithful promise of more flowers. The notion of expectation prevails here, evoking feelings of hope and assurance of afterlife. You have written this with very captivating expression Carole. This is superb. Except for the spelling of "unraveling" and being curious as to why you capped the "T" in tiffany up there, I have no suggestions that could possibly improve this one! Cheerz, T

This Poem was Critiqued By: Joanne M Uppendahl On Date: 2003-09-19 20:45:54
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 9.88889
Carole: Your poem brings me delight and soft tears. You remind me of author Walter Anderson's words about "true hope." This poem offers "true hope" for the person who can believe that truly, "there will be more flowers." If this is all I take from the reading, then I am deeply, richly rewarded. But there is so much more - The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. The description of a house where those flowers still turn "joyous heads skyward" sets the scene and mood of this piece. The indelible mark which your mother has left on the world, on her daughter, is one of 'looking skyward' - of looking up towards a higher source of hope and being. That flowers heads do literally follow the sun speaks to her character, that she placed her values on what is 'good, is true, is beautiful' - to think on these things. That the house is on a 'side street' speaks to her humility and simplicity. As a reader, I feel deep comfort in this poem, beginning immediately with the first stanza. In the person of the speaker's (your) mother. Her nurturance continues through the inspiration of this poem - she reaches out from within you to us. Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets -- exquisite imagery in a green-leafed sanctuary. Again, the feeling of safety and sanctity, along with beauty, pervades. The frailest of beings, "tiny brown birds" are safely nest "in low foliage" and most evocatively, "guarding speckled secrets." The delicacy and gentleness which permeates this writing gives voice to the spirit of the woman who inspired it. I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with unravelling brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language. This is when the soft tears began - it was the "unravelling brim" which undid me. We don't often encounter such tenderness in the everyday world. As a reader, on a personal note, I am reminded of my grandmother, who always wore a hat, tended her flowers and spoke to them, "in perfumed language." Life was never too busy for her to stop and admire a rose. A photograph I have of her is particularly dear to me - she is wearing her hat and a warm coat, and it's a misty morning in spring. She leans close to a rose bush, and brings one bloom close to her face with careful, gloved fingers. My father snapped the picture. This attitude of gentleness and reverence pervaded all that she did. I feel very similar emotions while reading your poem as I do when I looked at this treasured picture of my grandmother. Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the polished wood a golden glow. This stanza above is sublime. It is luminous with the kind of beauty that your mother cherished. The colors are vivid, the imagery in this poem gives me as a reader the sensation that I am seeing and smelling those flowers, and brushing my fingertips lightly over the pollen on the polished wood. Your poems always have this quality of making an experience seem real to readers. Lovely alliteration and assonance, as for example, in "yellow/pollen/polished" and "golden/glow" enhance the mood of this piece. I put boot to shovel, wrapping in warm burlap a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. The elements and actions of "boot to shovel" are a kind of foretelling of the burial of the subject of this poem, but also an action of remembrance of her and renewal of the growing life within her "favorite rose bush." There is hope here, for her daughter wraps the rosebush in "warm burlap" as if to offer comfort to both her mother and herself in the symbolic form of the plant. Words like "boot/shovel/ brittle/brown/fumbling/faint" imbue this poem with a mournful quality. A memory - after all, and not the person longed for. . .the scent is "faint." From beneath distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp, blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; to me, a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. Certain words in the stanza above are harsh-feeling - "distant/machine-clipped/granite/blown" - but in spite of the seemingly impenetrable distance to be covered to reunite with her - she reaches out from within memory to proclaim, with a "litany" which speaks of the sacred and seems to symbolize, at least for this reader, hope of reuniting in the life to come -- "But tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers." It seems almost an intrusion to comment after the final couplet. These are her words through you and from you. I hold them as sacred. Deeply touching poem which goes straight to my heart -- brava! Magnificently done. All my best, Joanne

This Poem was Critiqued By: Mell W. Morris On Date: 2003-09-19 16:25:46
Critiquer Rating During Critique: 10.00000
Carole: I haven't reviewed one of your poems in a long time due to limited time for TPL but I'm quite happy to have seen this one: a savory feast for the senses. Your title is perfect once the poem is read and a wondrous tribute to your mother with your continuing her tradition with her garden, armed with her outlook. "The house sits on a side street where flowers, planted by my mother, turn joyous heads skyward, following the sun. Here, butterflies circle on Tiffany wings. Tiny brown birds nest in low foliage, guarding speckled secrets in a green-leafed sanctuary." Ah, where to begin? Your imagery is marvelous, delineating a scene with linguistic magic. S1 sets the scene of your mother's house with line 1 allits: sits/side/street and eleven sibilant words which make this seem like a whispering of scents through the air. The observation of the flowers with their heads joyously turned to the sun is grand. A butterfly with Tiffany wings is one of the more delectable metaphors I've seen and speckled/secrets/ sanctuary is music for my ears. You give us another metaphor with birds as guards of speckled secrets in the sanctuary. "I have seen her here mornings, in floppy straw hat with unravelling brim, caressing petaled faces, whispering endearments in perfumed language. Her garden always overflowed into the house, with multi-colored tulips, scarlet roses, and purple hydrangea. Yellow pollen dusted her tables, giving the wood a golden glow." I am there with the riot of colors in her flowers which "overflowed into the house". I can easily see her and the detail of "floppy straw hat with unravelling brim" lends a jouissance to the entire poem. Sometimes it's the tiny things that bring a poem to life but your poem has been pulsing from the 1st line. I have a friend who caresses her plants and flowers and talks to them the way you deftly limn in S3. "perfumed language" is a winner as is pollen dusting her tables, giving a golden glow. Just simply exquisite descriptors, Carole. "I put boot to shovel, wrapping in warm burlap .....wrap/lap.... a brittle brown shape, her favorite rose bush. .....brittle brown... Fumbling with the latch at the gate, I inhale a memory, a faint scent of her. ....beautiful.... From beneath distant, machine-clipped lawn flowered in pale pink granite, among crisp. blown leaves, came her proclamation, to root and bulb; to me: a loamy litany carried on aromatic bursts. ...loamy litany..... "But tomorrow," she promised, "there will be more flowers." There you are...transplanting her favorite rose bush...strolling down memory lane of times with your mother, her love of flower gardening...all comes back to you, including the best philosophy she could pass on. Your mother promises you that another day brings more flowers...the most optimistic take on life, an outlook that must warm your soul during life's most trying tribulations. This is a lush, flowering poem with such marvelous imagery and at the close, the wisdom passed from mother to daughter. I am at a loss for anything else to rave about....it's that good! Kudos on having penned such a delicious poem which has left me with the warmest, most serene feeling. Thanks! Best wishes, Mell

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