Spring Poetry by Ellery Littleton
“April is the cruelest month.” So wrote T.S. Eliot almost 100 years ago. In a way, he was right. April can be a very cruel experience to people who imagined that the arrival of spring would wash away all their woes – the ones they carried through the winter like a pack of stones. But for most people, the true blush of early spring arrives like a gust of good news, refreshing and invigorating.
I have chosen a few poems from my book Riverwalk: A Poem a Day for a Year which say something about spring (plus one recent one from my ongoing series of new poems from the I Ching) in an effort to create a little verbal tapestry of the season. I want to share these poems because it’s spring and because that’s one of the things poets do, isn’t it? Try to capture something of the season in the moment.
Ellery Littleton’s next Spirit Journal program will be October 14-16, 2016. His books of poetry – including his most recent – Travelling Light: Haven Haiku – are available in the Haven store.
March 27
early spring rain
pretty girl
yawning
in the coffee shop
April 5
a mysterious shift
in the visual plane …
suddenly sunshine
April 7
New moon poised
like a golden blade
above the horizon.
New season pouring
cold and sharp
like ice wine.
After enlightenment
the moon is just
the moon, and spring
is spring again.
April 12
sunny day …
full circle
another spring
swings by
she is tentative
at first, then
bold and bright
a gangly young
goddess with
spiky hair
pale skin
and long legs
wearing yellow
and pink and green.
I am father to this
dazzling daughter
of the earth.
April 19
Out of sorts
I return from town.
Then, in the garden,
the cherry tree.
May 12
I wash my cup.
I dry my hands.
I walk outside
into the cool starlight
of a spring night.
My grown children are asleep
in their own beds, far away,
breathing deep and slow, I know.
The air is sweet with flower scent
drifting from the park.
Somewhere a dog barks,
a door slams, a yellow lamp
spills light like molten butter
through the dark.
Thin white clouds float
across the new moon
and I can feel the slow motion
of the globe rolling round
the hidden midnight sun.
May is the month of
of shooting stars this year …
three seconds of silver fire
and they’re dead.
I burn more slowly
than the stones that fall
from space. I love the light
my moving life creates.
May 13
Finally, I give myself the gift
of a few minutes outside on this
warm and fragrant afternoon
in the oasis of the back yard
to sit under the oak on my
favourite bench and write
myself a poem.
May 17
My green friend is pale,
sickly-hued and jealous,
yes.
Unripe, young and tender,
not dried, seasoned or tanned,
true.
Immature? Naturally.
Also undeveloped,
inexperienced and gullible,
fresh and not healed.
Loves unripe cheeses,
Turtle fat (esteemed by epicures),
the plums of Sir William Gage,
the apples of Granny Smith,
the woodlands in the summer
and the outlaw life.
Builds little glass houses
for his garden of moss,
peas and shamrocks.
Collects feldspar,
hornblende and jade.
Takes tea
at the gaming table,
plays billiards and croquet,
bowls, putts and punts
on the grassy public plain.
Wears an emerald in his navel
and a glove on the thumb
of his green right hand.
My green friend …
how he grows on me!
May 31
beautiful May
luscious May
hard to let her go …
if I could persuade her
to stick around forever
I would too
I know.
June 20
Sister solstice arrived today
without a fanfare or a fuss,
a passenger on the mid-day
bus from Gemini to Cancer.
A tourist from the south
in a Polynesian skirt,
she sashayed off toward
the bay, and on the way
she kissed me on the mouth.
March 29, 2016
#68 – JOY – Moment Over Moment
Joy grows from the inside, like a flower.
Not a rose, necessarily, or an azalea …
or a dahlia … perhaps a sweet pea.
Yes … a sweet pea, with the natural
scent of heaven … an impossibly light
champagne cocktail of gossamer molecules,
invisible to the naked nose, conjuring
memories both poignant and exquisitely
sweet … and bittersweet for being so brief.
Today joy has chosen me; I am not looking
ahead or looking back; I am just at home
with my feet on the earth, in this moment …
watering the sweet peas.
