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rejectomorph

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Stormed [Nov. 2nd, 2008|06:36 pm]
rejectomorph
Late this afternoon, three small patches of blue sky drifted north amid tumbled clouds, like an ellipsis in the storm. They were nowhere near the sun, but later another opening let the light through, to make the drops of water still clinging to the leaves and lawns glitter brightly. Chattering woodpeckers gathered on the telephone pole and pecked the wet wood. An unseen hawk cried several times. The mountains remained unseen as well, buried by softer mountains of gray vapors. The western clouds soon closed again, but later, the southern clouds drew apart and admitted enough of the setting sun's light to robe themselves with luminous tatters of red and mauve. Nightfall brought no moon, but brief showers fell and filled the still air with a sound like someone thumbing through the pages of a book. There might be more heavy rain tonight, and maybe the clouds will descend to wreath the forest with a fog. I'll read that story.



Sunday Verse


The Mower, Against Gardens


by Andrew Marvell

Luxurious man, to bring his vice in use,
  Did after him the world seduce,
And from the fields the flowers and plants allure,
  Where Nature was most plain and pure.
He first inclosed within the gardens square
  A dead and standing pool of air,
And a more luscious earth for them did knead,
  Which stupefied them while it fed.
The pink grew then as double as his mind;
  The nutriment did change the kind.   
With strange perfumes he did the roses taint;
  And flowers themselves were taught to paint.
The tulip white did for complexion seek,
  And learned to interline its cheek;
Its onion root they then so high did hold,
  That one was for a meadow sold:
Another world was searched through oceans new,
  To find the marvel of Peru;
And yet these rarities might be allowed
  To man, that sovereign thing and proud, 
Had he not dealt between the bark and tree,
  Forbidden mixtures there to see.
No plant now knew the stock from which it came;
  He grafts upon the wild the tame,
That the uncertain and adulterate fruit
  Might put the palate in dispute.
His green seraglio has its eunuchs too,
  Lest any tyrant him outdo;
And in the cherry he does Nature vex,
  To procreate without a sex.                              
'Tis all enforced, the fountain and the grot,
  While the sweet fields do lie forgot,
Where willing Nature does to all dispense
  A wild and fragrant innocence;
And fauns and fairies do the meadows till
  More by their presence than their skill.
Their statues polished by some ancient hand,
  May to adorn the gardens stand;
But, howsoe'er the figures do excel,
  The Gods themselves with us do dwell.

And here is a different view of gardens by the same poet (plus a repeat of this one.)
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: daisydumont
2008-11-03 12:57 pm (UTC)
i'm often struck by the Tu Fu-ness of your nature writing, as i've probably already told you. it can give me that sense of time and place dissolving, into a sort of eternal now. uhm, that's purple prose, i think. apologies. seriously, i need to stop reading my friends list when i first get up. *g*

with shame, i admit that i can't read the marvell -- too many couplets in a row. maybe it's just as well i failed to make it as an english major!
(Reply) (Thread)
[User Picture]From: flying_blind
2008-11-04 06:52 am (UTC)
Thanks.
(Reply) (Parent) (Thread)