From “Blooming,” excerpts from Sleeping Beauty

by on April 29, 2020 :: 0 comments

photo "Arrested Rest" by Tyler Malone

My oh so bloomy garden auteurist domain, where savored I wholesale poetic license, was far more fantastic than the famed hanging wonder of the world terraced in antiquity for a melancholy missus by her kingly spouse.

Still and all I wanted the whole blooming world as my garden my luring organa garden my fata morgana garden brimming in the brightest blooms berry bury the lady writing in the holey smithy of my soul minus nimbus, absent bereavement.

In order to thrive and stay alive, the lotus must choose the muddy ooze.  Call my Rosamond rubric hubristic or fatuous, I was what I was when I was who I was where I was…… in that bravura extravaganza of beingness.

Here I could rollick adventures vicarious, relish my microcosmic realm, daedal-dee-dee dee-dee, daedal dee-dee the day away.

Citharizat cantico dulcis Philomena;

Flore rident vario prata iam serena;

Turba salit avium silve per amena;

Chorus promit virginum iam gaudia millena.

This sylvan sanctuary was altogether teeming with arboreal inhabitants— bevies of diverse and divers-toned birds— blithe-spirited skylarks pouring forth “profuse strains of unpremeditated art” lithe migrant swallows ‘swallow swallow little swallow’ light-winged immortal nightingales passerines boasting the superb lyrebird oscine mockers foster-bred cuckoos of course no croaking ravenous raven then or there the perchers atilt and songbirds such as jays of stellar pretensions sparrows blackbirds as well as bluebirds… yes fairies… of finches linnets buntings chewinking towhees tu-whit tu-whoo tu-wit tu-who taupe yellow gold cardinal raspberry robin redbreasts trick-or-treat orioles blackish-white-crescented ouzels vociferous whippoorwills nocturnal nightjars flying with the kinglets Regulus Sylviidae ceaseless warblers whistlers babblers and thrushes that each rivaled one another to twitter tweet trill twirp chirrup chatter cheep peep or pipe out their unique melodies all the phoenix day and night long.

To cite chatterly D. H. Lawrence, who avowedly wrote story after story of Sleeping Beauty in some guise or other, “For man, as for flower and beast and bird, the supreme triumph is to be most vividly, most perfectly alive.”

High-born maiden-girl in perennially palisaded palace tower I recall my cascading childhood teal-river-ribbon-unfurling in sunhoney merry-merry-quite-contrary leapfrog-frolicking antemeridian days whinnying into whooping-imp wax-and-wane long lacquered afternoons with meadowlilting leaf-fringed lilac-and-dazzling-fairy-primrose dusks burnished in the golden lightning of the sunken sun tripping pale purple into lotus-taled seagoing nights blooming jasmine whose milkywayed skies might be Perseid showered with radiant wishupon stars that splashed out synesthetic dreams as the moon rained quicksilver balneal beams.

The wide winding white marble corridors streaked with jasper and chrysolite and numberless mysterious crystal-columned halls with thrones of pearl and gold enduring panoramic parapets with scenes of ampler majesty under the varying diamond dome of heaven’s dominion— O universal lights most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year along the sky— and twining meltingmaze mandrel-bowers with sprightly aerial-hued bedewed morning dells of opalescent garlands on the twinkling grass of the goblin-grottoed green and golden gardens in this goodly pleasure-palace playground were my mise en scène scumbled scapes of most amazing dancing water singing apple speaking bird ballets… in trompe l’oeil dioramas…… till trebling hide-and–seek wildly wanton whimsies… scorched in the garish sun… deepened densified darkened… into whispering shadow firefigures… wooed by the wayward wind… kissed by the flighty moon… specters sparking… cavorting… disporting… whose snickering dickering bickering flickering… swelled into uberty puberty pangs… of furious torchred flame…

Ah barefaced nature, have you no shame?!

Fear takes many forms.

My wary mother and father had prohibited every sort of spindle apparatus and all spinning wheels had long since disappeared from the kingdom.  Indeed generations hereafter will still shiver at the recounting of the terrors even a mere mention of a spindle could kindle!  And yet and yet how there came to be one in a garret of a tiptop tower, turreted for me alone to encounter in a timeless instant, no one would ever know.  Nor could anyone intuit langsyne that I in mine own blooming was slated to undertake an exploration over every inch of the edifice and its strata of intriguing multi-stories that were my whereabouts way back in those whilom onceupons.

For despite the willing wishes of my ever loving parent–children, regardless how much, however outlandishly they strove to shelter their willful child-me from the dreaded disaster that had been foretold, the Weird Sisters, or spinning Norns as they are also known, had still to weave their own wyrd vagaries into the fabric of my unfledged résumé, whose tossings turnings twistings were to propel me through yonder yarns via grim tales and carry me on psychical cruises in blue beyonds awash with crises.

Yea bulwarked from the world by my guardians as was I-Rosamond, all who seek to know know no battlement barbican or ballast will shield from sooner or later sour-sweet destiny.

How futile are our bastions against the prying fingers of Fate!

editors note:

“They f@ck you up, your mum and dad./ They may not mean to, but they do.”  ~ Philip Larkin, “This Be the Verse”

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