THE SEA LYS
"We should not pick the sea lilies"
These are my words, fallen from the lips of a man who, on his balcony, watching me back a raid on the coastal dune.
- and I know I have a bad conscience. Is to study it.
- This is already done.
- Yes, but not a poet. "
(I've seen in the saying, how ridiculous my answer.)
botanist might have named this variety : lily emaciated. From a long narrow buds, open six fingers almost threadlike, white to pale green dorsal, which s'écarquillent around a corolla taffeta, welded horn, each petal fabric that incorporates the net of the stamen .
The flower, graceful, racy, is supported by a thick stem, resulting from a jet of sand, as are the leaves into long, flexible strips, known to undergo huge balls down from the wind. With its semi-folds Paw waterfowl, say it is, remotely, lacerated, but its cohesion trumps conducted the tormentor.
I broke the law to revive my memory of sheaves of lilies laid at the altar of my country church in the month of Mary. If thin, fleeting, that is the smell of sea lilies, she restores the one spreading the flowers picked from the garden of the rectory. A smell both heady and "unhealthy", which imposed, I may have a refined form of torture, it is too tied to a time of submission to dogma and hence of guilt diffuse, persistent, affecting flesh that you darkened. To believe that by this scent that might seem emanated girls' school sisterhood that we stare at the back door, on their benches similar to ours, across the aisle, we have wanted to warn us that pleasure was sad.
I said the smell "sickly." That it calls for other images: those of the grandmother who, before a scratch of the child, pulled a bottle of a petal lily macerated in eau-de-vie. And here I visited, in an inspiration, and the dark room air Senior inert bed curtain, and the grunting of the cabinet door comes to beetles, and short burn compress that followed the ritual admonition to have been turbulent.
I think I can reassure him who gave me a lesson of respect for creation: never again will I pluck sea lily
ó
The Immortal
is not liable to the same criticism to pluck a few blades of immortal: a fixed dune radiates its slender clumps and provided; she laced blood - glomeruli - a yellow past, which sometimes hatch on intangible stamens, sometimes remain in their original state-of-pocket balls of scales or bracts.
Worn by short stems lined with single sheets, cramped, cloth covers with gold patina and sand, warm to the eye as the parchment of the Books of Hours.
A fragrant gold. In an open area along with beads of immortal flower, we slow down the pace, suddenly topped with a sweet mellow cordial to the point of believing we hailed a threshold of cottage to a halt. Through the open door, we hear a brass cookware. The hostess had to omit some closing cabinet filled with old records connected, grimoires, stacks of popular novels, unplugged from having been read.
We decline the invitation, but still in the casting of air - sea? Scots? - Defending extent uninhabitable, we humerons this sun of autumn, volatile, speaks in gusts of sand still warm, and more for a room at the polished floor, in bed with velvet curtains, where to find also the ease, beginning with the "fine amor.
The flowers will brown but do not will undo. Years after their collection, a long draw inspiration from them, but weakened unaltered flavor forever linked to a smiling disuse. Accordingly, hearts that have tasted richly lived.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Whispers ...
The love
To you who never cease to seek, among words, the keys that open up, which would make me read, I you book it, for those days when I am waiting, closed, sealed, vacant and collected: lagoon.
The lover
You exist: a beautiful cloud of tenderness travel through space.
Grave and sunny, heavy flavor without weighing too much love to claim woman, I see no better name for you than companion. That which you hide the original exile and desert where everyone lives. One with whom time is like those rivers Peaceful loaded barges.
François Solesmes The Murmurs of love , Ink Navy.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
0 comments:
Post a Comment