April ~ The Cruelest Month?
Spring
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redness
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing,
An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs.
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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| Keukenhof May 2010 |
*****
I've long since quit trying to analyze poetry for a paper that must be written for a college course. Now, I try to enjoy poetry for its own sake without digging too deeply. Yet, I must ponder why this poem speaks to me as it does. Is it the whole of the poem, or just parts that reach the deepest parts of the sadness I have experienced this month?
I think the beginning two lines speak the loudest to me. Spring with its evidence of new life, re-birth, the cyclic nature of life has always been comforting to me. The first sight of my beloved favorite flower, the daffodil, has always filled me with joy.
Did I lose my innocence about life last spring? Do those happy, sunny jonquils now mock me rather than lift my spirits? Or, must I dig deeper in my soul to find comfort that no longer finds joy just by seeing the early blooming of those bulbs planted with such hope last fall?
The poet is right. Beauty is not enough. April, for what purpose have you returned again?
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| Julie In Ireland |
Your coming has brought new grief to a heart that was healing. It reminds me of how much I have lost. It reminds me of that sunny little girl who was born on a beautiful day in April. It reminds me that the last time I saw her was as year ago in April. I associate her with daffodils. They were blooming when she was born. I had them carved into her headstone.
Life brings its disappointments, its failures. Life brings grief, and for some, it brings unspeakable heartbreak.
The poet makes a statement, and then she asks a question:
It is apparent that there is no death.
What does that signify?
For me, the answer is: in this life, beauty is not enough. Faith is.