A rose,
So unposed.
It’s petals,
Naturally spread,
And settled
In it’s bed.
A flash
Of bright light,
As the photographer composes,
Cash,
Out of roses,
For the connoisseur’s delight.
A rose,
So unposed.
It’s petals,
Naturally spread,
And settled
In it’s bed.
A flash
Of bright light,
As the photographer composes,
Cash,
Out of roses,
For the connoisseur’s delight.
In springtime
Lovers lose themselves amongst wild roses,
While the poet composes
A rhyme
About lovers who, in springtime
Lose themselves amongst roses wild
I have been aware, for some considerable time now, that there is emerging a wholly new kind of book. I am not speaking here of ebooks for these are now “old hat”. Rather I am referring to the Sensation Book.
So what is the Sensation Book I hear you ask?
I was recently contacted by Sensation Books International with a request that I take a look at their forthcoming book, “The Traditional English Garden”. Being a lover of gardens and, in particular scented flowers I, of course jumped at the opportunity.
My experience of this book is rather painful! On turning to the first chapter “The Rose in the English Garden” I was blown away by the scent of the many roses which wafted up from the paper (the scent is, I understand kept fresh and ever changing by a series of tiny chips in the paper which keep the pages constantly refreshed with scents deriving from the Cloud, a kind of virtual reality). My pleasure was, however soon curtailed by a most painful sensation, that of being stung on the nose by an extremely large bumble bee.
The dratted thing was concealed smack bang in the middle of a gorgeous red rose which I had, until that moment been savouring.
Needless to say I closed the book immediately and have written a strong letter of complaint to the Director of Sensation Books International, one Ms J Ker expressing, in the strongest possible terms my dissatisfaction with the company’s offering.
In conclusion the idea of connecting books to the cloud and the utilisation of virtual reality to enhance the experience of the reader is, in theory a wonderful concept. However such projects should be handled with great care as my poor nose can testify!
The bee
Full of lustfull glee,
The budding flower,
Aches to probe.
She holds him in her power,
Disrobes
And does expose
The tender mysteries of the rose.
He takes
And her passion wakes,
Until winter gaunt
Puts an end to flaunt
Of bee
And rosetree.
On the supermarket shelf you shonne.
But now are gone.
A stick in a pot
That liveth not.
O why did I buy
A thing sure to die?
Now that I have reached the Autumn of my years
and the grey has chased the brown away
shall I forget the undiscovered rose
whose perfume
hangs in the air
on a spring night
replete with pure delight?
Should I wear sensible shoes
And lose
The joy of walking
Barefoot on grass?
Shall I seek the fairies dancing
Or insist
They do not exist?
I must persist
In my search for bliss
For to be alive
Is to strive
for something more
Than to achieve the title “saloon bar bore”.
I am not a bee in a hive
A mere part of the whole
Lacking a soul.
Joy is my goal!
Oft he sought the perfect rose,
Enjoyed the flower where it grows.
Soon he found the blooms did pall,,
His dalliances they turn to gall.
Still he after pleasure strove,
Clutched noisome blossoms to his nose.
Thorns they speared him through the heart,
Still his desire did not depart.
They found him lying on a bed cold,
In his hand a fading rose.
The below poem by the American poet, Emily Dickinson is deceptive in it’s simplicity. The final 2 lines arrest the attention of the reader,
“Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!”.
Nobody Knows This Little Rose By Emily Dickinson
Nobody knows this little Rose —
It might a pilgrim be
Did I not take it from the ways
And lift it up to thee.
Only a Bee will miss it —
Only a Butterfly,
Hastening from far journey —
On its breast to lie —
Only a Bird will wonder —
Only a Breeze will sigh —
Ah Little Rose — how easy
For such as thee to die!
Beautiful red rose your petals barely opened. Your scent overpowers me, I am giddy with desire. Softly I stretch out my fingers gently caressing your petals. A thing so lovely and delicate so easily destroyed. Oh to possess you rose, to pick and make you mine. Once picked your splendour fades you are a thing no longer desired, onto the compost heap you go your sweetness forgotten forever.