When I was young, I kept a notebook into which I copied poems and various other bits and pieces of literature.
Many of those poems and fragments of literature remain with me to this day, as indeed does the notebook, though I update it rarely. (Shame on me!)
Recently, for no apparent reason (although if I examined my conscious more thoroughly, I’m sure good reasons would emerge), I remembered some lines from a poem by an Australian poet called Leon Slade.
Since Mr Slade’s work is not exactly all over the blogosphere, I thought I would share one of his gems with you.
SLADE ON FUCHSIAS
My class distinction was to be the only one who failed at Art
Art for Art’s sake as a concept escaped my grasp. Writing and Maths,
Handcrafts and History, I had to share
Calculus is a stone best left unturned.
Flourishes of fresh flowering fuchsias
served daily as models for my unique ineptitude.
The complexity of flowers still startles me:
pencilled versions miss the point
I spend my grey days retiring to my garden
stretch what matters, strain Mendel’s maths.
Fuchsia’s frame the sheltered paths
Eschewing other fancier’s aims at yellow or at black,
my essay is simplification of line so that gratitude
of students of still life may serve as my memorial.