Hope – via Emily Dickinson

‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers -
'Hope' is the thing with feathers —
That perches in the soul —
And sings the tune without the words —
And never stops — at all —
And sweetest — in the Gale — is heard —
And sore must be the storm —
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm —
I’ve heard it in the chillest land —
And on the strangest Sea —
Yet, never, in Extremity,
It asked a crumb — of Me.
Emily Dickinson (1830 – 1886)

Well, this is the first day of the new year and we all hope for better times in the days ahead. This poem is a definition of hope in terms of a metaphoric internal bird. A nice idea to equate hope to flight. Especially for those in dire circumstances who wish to be elsewhere. And that little bird is there despite the ravages of weather. And hope is without demand; the bird not needing feeding. It just needs to be recognised.

And here is another bird showing hope … this time external … a thrush … giving hope to Thomas Hardy in the poem ‘The Darkling Thrush’ … The Darkling Thrush – Thomas Hardy – Analysis | my word in your ear

The environment communicating … a case of stopping and listening … and maybe seeing hope?

Hoping you can see hope somewhere today!

Emily Dickinson on Wikipedia … Emily Dickinson – Wikipedia

‘Recovery Steps’ – blue sky ahead?

Many have died from the virus. However far more have recovered, all be it a painful process. And as we reach the end of a very demanding year I have a feeling the world is now coming out of the virus.

Wallflower and Bee
Recovery Steps
                        the courtyard warms in the winter sun
                        two disheveled cushions rest on the seat
                        the garden is at peace with itself
                        waiting,
                        confined to her room
                        she has been waiting patiently
                        for the day after yesterday
                        to be out of bed for the first time
                        there is an immensity in each measured movement
                        she shuffles slowly forward
                        steadies at the sliding door, grasps the handle
                        painfully the door starts to give
                        she has a clear determined focus
                        and is glad her nurse is not around
                        and there is no one else about
                        there is enough space now
                        and her dressing-gowned frail frame
                        takes the few steps needed
                        struggling she reaches the closest armrest
                        to slowly make her comfort known,
                        she recovers from her exertion
                        a sigh spreads relaxation through her body,
                        it is all fresh blue sky
                        her eyes still on the beauty of a bee
                        absorbing the late morning sunshine
                        all her being radiates her thanks
                        a deep internal thank you
                        her contentment slowly dissolves to a doze,
                        but before drifting into sleep
                        she is gently disturbed
                        the sliding doors click-shut
                        patient and nurse disappear,
                        the courtyard reclaims the empty seat
Richard Scutter

Context
Sylvia was in isolation for several weeks. She is a keen gardener and appreciated regaining mobility and access to the outside. I am happy to say she has fully recovered from the virus.

Easter Sunday Sunrise

Easter Sunday Sunrise

not just another day
another day of the same
of the no touch of distancing
of not being able to reach out in the community
of confinement to self
of being centered on the inside
not just another day
no!

this day is different
this day is the one day
the one day that opens into every day
the lifeline to eternal tomorrows
as our own tomorrow ending
is contemplated

Richard Scutter

Celebrate this special day with friends and family!

The Darkling Thrush – Thomas Hardy – Analysis

The Darkling Thrush

I leant upon a coppice gate
When Frost was spectre-grey,
And Winter’s dregs made desolate
The weakening eye of day.
The tangled bine-stems scored the sky
Like strings of broken lyres,
And all mankind that haunted nigh
Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be
The Century’s corpse outleant,
His crypt the cloudy canopy,
The wind his death-lament.
The ancient pulse of germ and birth
Was shrunken hard and dry,
And every spirit upon earth
Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among
The bleak twigs overhead
In a full-hearted evensong
Of joy illimited;
An aged thrush, frail, gaunt and small,
In blast-beruffled plume,
Had chosen thus to fling his soul
Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings
Of such ecstatic sound
Was written on terrestrial things
Afar or nigh around,
That I could think there trembled through
His happy good-night air
Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Thomas Hardy (1840 – 1928)

Darkling – meaning ‘in the dark’ has a certain musicality when spoken like the call of a bird.
Coppice – dense area of small trees
Spectre-grey – ghostly grey
Dregs – waste particles at the bottom of a liquid, last remaining particles
Lyre – plucked string instrument associated with ancient Greece

S1 … of course it is northern hemisphere winter… and it is a pretty dark dismal affaire … the ‘dregs’ of winter coupled with the weakening eye of pallid sunless days. Dregs conjures up many images of the winter landscape but the end of December is hardly the end of winter although the solstice has passed. Tree branches are tangled and broken against the winter sky like the strings of a broken musical instrument.

S2 … The landscape becomes likened to a dead body (corpse) with coffin not quite closed … and the pulse of germ and birth not heard … nice choice of germ for seed for it has negative connotations … the death life spirit matches the mood of the poet … a somewhat depressive mood. (fervourless = lacking in any energy)

S3 … But then the sound of a thrush is heard against the bleak winter gloom … a full-hearted evensong … with joy (illimited = unlimited) … from a bird aged, gaunt, frail and small … an evensong coming from the most unlikely of birds … not the greatest specimen – mirroring something of beauty coming from the bleak winter (be-ruffled = fluffing out)

S4 … There is nothing to be cheerful about … so little cause for carolling … it is near Christmas … but that is not the perspective from the bird’s point of view … perhaps the bird and nature know better … hope springs eternal.

The theme is the somewhat dark reflection on the closing century for it was written at the end of December 1900. It is certainly an appropriate poem for the end of this decade when it is easy to get hooked by dark happenings. And especially the havoc caused across the world by weather extremes.

However, there is hope … and in the bleakest of times there is always some element of contrast to give joy … some little ray of sunshine, or tiny spark … hopefully something to take you out of depression … to catch your attention away from your troubles … something to look forward to in the New Year, to give hope … in Australia we are taking more than a tiny spark into the New Year!

Happy New Year!

Thomas Hardy on Wikipedia

a related poem on the not-going-away environment concern

… relentless, unprecedented bushfires in Australia this summer, New Year fireworks have been cancelled in Canberra … and it is a very smoky capital today.