| Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy|
|4 Mar 2005 @ 04:21, by swan|
Rose, oh pure contradiction, joy
of being No-one's sleep, under so
-- Rainer Maria Rilke
"Roses climb his life as if he were their trellis. Turn the clock back twenty-four years to 1900. Rilke is a guest at Worpswede, an artists' colony near Bremen, and it is there he has made the acquaintance of the painter Paula Becker and his future wife, Clara Westhoff. One bright Sunday morning, in a romantic mood, Rilke brings his new friends a few flowers, and writes about the gesture in his diary:
I invented a new form of caress: placing a rose gently on a closed eye until its coolness can no longer be felt; only the gentle petal will continue to rest on the eyelid like sleep just before dawn. " William H. Gass
The rose is a distilling eye. It gathers light and filters it until the concentration is powerful and pure, until its stamens become erect. If the rose is not a poem, the poem is surely a rose. Rilke
4 Mar 2005 @ 06:35 by : Blessings
My mother's mother is Rosalija,
My mother is Matilda Rose,
My sister is Rosemary,
and my niece is Rosalea.
Thanks for these thoughts on the Rose,
my dear friend, Swan.
4 Mar 2005 @ 13:06 by swan : Your welcome, John
I love roses,
there is so much more to them than meets the eye.
You have a lot of roses to pick from in your family.
Other entries in Archives
21 May 2005 @ 04:52: Island
9 Mar 2005 @ 22:35: Suutras for 'Nothing'