Feb 10
"O, HOW SHALL SUMMER'S HONEY BREATH HOLD OUT""
each hive
a tiny planet
inhabited by bees
the beekeeper
looking for all the world
like a medieval astronaut
"God..." think the bees
coming in a puff of smoke
they fall silent
God takes off his face
throws down his gauntlets
becomes our father
"Good.." grins God
our father
"...that should do the trick!"
we watch the honeycomb
floating in its jar
fantastic as an alien being
the comb hangs above me
most of it drizzles into my mouth
the rest in eyes and hair
when father isn't looking
I put the cage on my face
pretend I'm a fencer
far away in a field
a bee
chatting up a flower
the bees and we all asleep
God's hand and face
a still life on the table
*
I wanted to get it from all perspectives...this simple job of work...from the bee's point of view to the kids to the dad and then the scene when all are tucked up in their beds...even God.
The title of course is stolen from Shakes's Sonnet 65
And of course...the bees...the dad..the kids...this particular summer whose "whose action is no stronger than a flower?" are saved from the might of time by....
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Alas I am not a beekeeper...this was told to me by a friend remembering growing up with her beekeeper dad as we flicked through her photo album after he was gone...the poem is a bric a brac hodge podge of the things she told me...the things I could see...you might have notice that one of God's hands is missing in the final verse...but that's another story. They were playing boats with the gauntlets in the river by the house and one of God's gloves just got...carried away! Daddy didn't know 'til the next day that one of his beekeeper gloves had gone to heaven and boy there was hell to pay!
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Sonnet 65:
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
each hive
a tiny planet
inhabited by bees
the beekeeper
looking for all the world
like a medieval astronaut
"God..." think the bees
coming in a puff of smoke
they fall silent
God takes off his face
throws down his gauntlets
becomes our father
"Good.." grins God
our father
"...that should do the trick!"
we watch the honeycomb
floating in its jar
fantastic as an alien being
the comb hangs above me
most of it drizzles into my mouth
the rest in eyes and hair
when father isn't looking
I put the cage on my face
pretend I'm a fencer
far away in a field
a bee
chatting up a flower
the bees and we all asleep
God's hand and face
a still life on the table
*
I wanted to get it from all perspectives...this simple job of work...from the bee's point of view to the kids to the dad and then the scene when all are tucked up in their beds...even God.
The title of course is stolen from Shakes's Sonnet 65
And of course...the bees...the dad..the kids...this particular summer whose "whose action is no stronger than a flower?" are saved from the might of time by....
O! none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Alas I am not a beekeeper...this was told to me by a friend remembering growing up with her beekeeper dad as we flicked through her photo album after he was gone...the poem is a bric a brac hodge podge of the things she told me...the things I could see...you might have notice that one of God's hands is missing in the final verse...but that's another story. They were playing boats with the gauntlets in the river by the house and one of God's gloves just got...carried away! Daddy didn't know 'til the next day that one of his beekeeper gloves had gone to heaven and boy there was hell to pay!
Since brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea
But sad mortality o’er-sways their power,
How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,
Whose action is no stronger than a flower?
O, how shall summer’s honey breath hold out
Against the wrackful siege of batt’ring days,
When rocks impregnable are not so stout,
Nor gates of steel so strong, but time decays?
O fearful meditation! where, alack,
Shall time’s best jewel from time’s chest lie hid?
Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back?
Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?
O, none, unless this miracle have might,
That in black ink my love may still shine bright.
Sonnet 65:
BY WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE
