Friday, August 30, 2013

Summer winding down

Yesterday, I was walking the high road between blossoming hedgerows to the incessant hum of bees. The first line of a poem of Emily Dickinson came to mind:
The murmuring of bees has ceased…
Well, the murmuring of bees here in Kerry hasn't ceased, not quite yet –- the hedgerows are still in bloom, the blossoms full of nectar -– but I couldn't shake the line from my head.

The murmuring of bees has ceased…

Six words. Six perfect words. They glide like honey off the tongue.

"Murmuring," a word that murmurs, onomatopoeic, the sound I hear in the hedgerows. "The murmuring of bees…" The flight of the "s" from blossom to blossom. Then, the repeated "ee" sound that prepares us for the abrupt "d" of "ceased." A soft tremor of the lips interrupted by a hard click of tongue against palette. And a season comes to an end.

All the way home the line buzzed in my skull. Six words. The power of poetry.
The Revelations of the book
Whose Genesis is June.