Janet (j4) wrote,
Janet
j4

  • Mood:

They called me the hyacinth girl

This lunchtime I bought a pot of hyacinths for my desk at work.


— Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,

Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not

Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither

Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,

Looking into the heart of light, the silence.


I love the smell of hyacinths. It's a heavy smell: heavy with the buds and the burden of new life; heavy with the sweet and smothering shrouds of death. (I had seen birth and death, / But had thought they were different.)

A couple of years ago I took some photos of the hyacinth garden at Anglesey Abbey, intending to use them somewhere in my planned hypertext version of The Waste Land. I still haven't done anything with them; maybe I'll get round to it this year. (When does "this year" start, or end? If the wheel keeps turning, where is the top of the wheel?)

There's so much that I keep meaning to do, so much that I keep starting and not finishing. (These fragments I have shored against my ruins.)

I wonder if anybody will ever call me the hyacinth girl. (I do not think that they will sing to me.)
Subscribe

  • Just like starting over

    Hello! Does anybody still read this? I am basically declaring LJ bankruptcy: I haven't read my friends feed for so long that there's just no way I…

  • Running for the wide open spaces

    So I tried to explain this to someone face-to-face, or at least side-by-side, but there are some things you can only say in the small hours of the…

  • My insect life

    Red wall, red chair Red chair. A boot. Still life or love in all its banality as how he sits, or she removes her shoes, or he crosses his ankles,…

  • Post a new comment

    Error

    Anonymous comments are disabled in this journal

    default userpic

    Your reply will be screened

    Your IP address will be recorded 

  • 4 comments