The Poet And His Flowers

Poem By Daniel Brick

In his loneliness
the poet began to envision
the whole world
as a field of flowers
native to his region.

It consoled him,
it gave him hope
that he could grasp
a beauty commensurate
to his dream of happiness.

A walk through
his field of wild flowers
early or late, himself bright
or blue - No! his mood counted
for nothing among wild things silent

and growing more lovely. They
are creatures of sun and rain
like himself. All things bow
to sun and rain in their turn,
scorching heat gentled by fresh water.

It was his good habit
to rise from his desk, littered
with papers, covered in scribbles
and corrections, and leaving behind
the poems he was writing simultaneously,

and carrying nothing, his mind as empty
as his hands, leave his house
and enter the flower field, there
to live through sensations for a while
until he was fully restored. He saw

two stalks of Wild Rye
bending away from each other,
like an index finger and middle finger
shaping a victory sign. From within
the rye, a lordly Sideoats Gamma

arched over, with tiny petals
hanging downwards, like a row of bells
too shy to ring in the silence
of growth. Thimble Weed shoots
rose up straight without restraint.

A patch of Stiff Goldenrod made
a stand as sturdy as the nearby
Sumac Bush. Surrounding the sumac,
Black-Eyed Susan, abundant and thriving,
displayed their bold energy.

Bergamot and Yellow Cone Flowers
vied with each other in height,
useless to say which is the taller.
And Bergamot's swirling scent made
the air heavy with sweetness.

Blazing Stare should have a stanza
to itself because it displayed
a different kind of light, glowing
from within and growing brighter -
it is an angelic apparition among flowers!

His walk come full circle, the poet cast
one last look over the flower fields.
'Someday, ' he shut his eyes, 'I will see
Ophelia gathering flowers and won't
hesitate to speak to her. Until then,

'I will settle for the visitation
of angels.' His eyes wide open, he smiled
and sighed at the same time. He returned
to his writing desk and the four
poems in progress... The night flowed on.

Comments about The Poet And His Flowers

The poet in this poem reminds me, Daniel, of my poem Imagine Me, written in the first person. One view might be that we seek sensation simply to escape the other things that face us- inner demons or whatever. But then I think, what we focus or dwell on is always a choice, and why not dwell on the beautiful? Paul, inspired as I believe, by the Spirit encourages us to do this in his letter to the Philippians- Whatever is true, whatever is honest, whatever is noble... And it's certainly true that what we choose to dwell on shapes our perspective. Which is why, as I understand it, Jesus deals with this in the Sermon on the Mount in the passage that begins, The eye is the lamp of the body... For the beautiful, the good... Glen
The poet's room is littered with papers. The scorching heat is gentled by the fresh water. The swirling scent made the air heavy with sweetness. The poet creates new kinds of images and expressions. Do we smell the Keatsonian aroma in these lines?
There are not so many flowers here in North Russia - that' s why the poem about flowers seems fantastic even even it is based on reality!
Let me exclaim with Marie Shine.... Wow! I am lost in this paradise of flowers! Their exotic beauty and scent is an inspiration to any poet! I am reminded of Wordsworth's Daffodiles. For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood, They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bliss of solitude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. I am sure your excursion to the flower field has gifted you with such an experience!
Oh the ever effervescence beauty of nature, that no man can ever reproduce even though thru Art and Literature we try. But as a very good poet you have certainly tried with this poem, not without success.

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Other poems of BRICK

After The Poet's Death

His poems refuse
to mourn his passing, they
detach themselves from
books, magazines, wall hangings

Four Taoist Poems


Scattered rocks lie
beneath the moss-covered boulder.

The Abandoned Poem

I wrote a long poem
for you this morning
in the pure light
of an untouched day.

A Walk In Early April

Against the sun-wall of air
the birds disguise themselves
as their own shadows,
before settling invisibly among the leaves.

Walking Through Autumn


Powerlines along my path bristled
with electric fire, scorching

The Other Daniel

He has better luck with women. He doesn't
obsess over them, walks next to them
with an easy gait, much like his unforced
conversation. His smile is spontaneous,