THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

I sang this song when I studied voice in high school. I thought it a bit sentimental then, and find it almost unbearable now, even though its author, Irish poet Thomas Moore was a friend of Shelley's and Byron;s,  and thus has good Romantic credentials. The thought of the group Celtic Woman singing it is enough to make me imagine slogging through treacle. Actually, they are the perfect vehicle for it. But I digress. The rose I prefer is the Rose of Sharon. Here's Moore's poem, followed by the concluding lines of mine. You'll have to go to Black Shawl to read all of it.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
'Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?

ROSE OF SHARON (conclusion) from BLACK SHAWL (LSU PRESS
Who will save me, I wonder,

as I pleat these white tissue

roses I gather for garlands

and bridal bouquets. (Now the nick

of a hat pin! Some blood

from my finger squeezed into each

center.) Whoever he is,

when he comes with his silver

axe swinging, his saw teeth

that grin through the laurel

hells, I will be Rose

Among Wild Roses. I will be Rose

Willing. I will be ready.

Now, that's the kind of Rose I like!

MY NEW CHAPBOOK HAS ARRIVED

Shortly after Inauguration Day, my friend Penelope Scambly Schott (Portland, Oregon) and I began a poetic collaboration about the event, thinking we could probably do better with inaugural poems than the official Inaugural Poet. After our initial poems linked pretty closely to the inauguration, we spiraled off in some interesting directions, circling back again at the end to President Obama and that memorable day. Here are some images from the chapbook, which by the way, was printed by Ash Creek Press in Portland and is hand-sewn by the poets. You may order directly from me: P.O. Box 489, Cullowhee, NC 28723. Cost is $10.00, with 2.00 for postage. Thanks!

END OF SUMMER

Yes, I know. The equinox hasn't happened yet. It's late summer, not the end of it. Still, on the first day of September, with our garden done for (only a handful of tomatoes this year) and the morning glories sagging, I am ready to bid summer adios and begin looking toward autumn.

 I said I'd start blogging again on the first of September, so I pick up my digital camera and walk out to the front porch.  Right here, where I am, I see summer departing.

What is the name of this bush? I ask every year around this time. The one with the pale to deep mauve plumes? Whatever it's named, I love it.




Light through leaves, unreachable

no-name light,

no-name fingers of blooming

beyond my holding on to them,

scattering their small blossoms

onto my hands,

cornmeal blooms,

but the color of rougepot

and my mother's favorite lipstick...

(Byron likes this bush, too. He poses for me, just long enough for me to capture what he knows will be a photo to add to my extensive Lord Byron collection.)

Does any image say summer's end as hauntingly as this one?





Or this one? All day outside my window I watch it. I think the wind is blowing hard till I realize it's the birds gobbling elderberries, whizzing around the bushes like electrons around the pulsing core.



Forget my poetic reveries. The students down below are cavorting and our dogs go chasing the sound. I call them back. Ace of Dogs stands by the goldenrod to watch their ascent. You can barely see Bro's white head and Byron's small black body in the shadows.



Here come Bro and Byron into view.



Well, what's a poetic-looking mauve plumed bush to a dog, anyway? Bro makes good use of it.