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Posey Post 9/12/20

Flowers in the crannied wall

Flowers in the crannied wall

I pluck you out of the crannies

I hold your here, root and all, in my hand

Little flower— but if I could understand

What you are, root and all, and all in all

I should know what God and man is.

Alfred tennyson 1809-1892

Published in A Victorian Posey

I can dig a verse like this for its imagery and elemental possession.

“I pluck you out of the crannies”

A mysterious act of benign destruction. Beautiful, sensual, sublime. I’ve read the beats, and i’ve dug the myths and scriptures, the sutras and mantras, apocrypha and Midrash, but there is something about a little thing like this Flowers in the crannied wall that sparks a bolt of timelessness, the vital life of poetry. It flutters memories out from their roosts, conjuring unforgiving masonry textures and soft organisms in jeopardy of expiring, even as they are contrasted by existence. A thing to be plucked, to be possessed, or to be relinquished or given. The wondrous design of a hand as subtext to the doom of all growing things.