The bees have come alive here this week - they are everywhere, buzzing by day and doing whatever it is that carpenter bees do in between layers of wood at night. All I know is you can *hear* it.
Serendipitously, while writing yesterday, I happened to reach a scene in my novel-in-progress referencing William Butler Yeats' poem, the Lake Isle of Innisfree. What wonderful words for these days, here in the bee-loud glade.
I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean rows will I have there, a hive for the honey bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements gray,
I hear it in the deep heart's core.
billie hinton’s camera-obscura:
life and lessons on November Hill Farm
5 comments:
And live alone in the bee-loud glade....
This poem wonderfully shows how much company you can have when living alone. :)
Billie! How wonderful to click your links at Backspace and discover your wonderful blog and website. I can't wait to get to know you better and read your work.
Someday I'll tell you about my one and only experience with carpenter bees.
Jason, you're right about the poem. Standing out behind the barn in this season, even if the rest of the world is far away, the impression is like living in NYC!
Carolyn, thanks for visiting - I am loving the Backspace community and spend a little time each day clicking on links and discovering more about the members.
Would LOVE to hear your carpenter bee story! Feel free to share it right here. :)
The bee-loud glade. What a great way to say it! Such imagery with that. Thanks!
Joni, bee-loud glade is my favorite in the poem, closely followed by the evening full of linnets' wings, and the deep heart's core.
Poetry at its best is potent stuff, and this one is, for me, a fine example.
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