Painting by Cathy Dalton
by Elizabeth Spence
In my research for my article on the crocus, I found this astoundingly beautiful poem about the flower by Scottish poet, Marion McCready. The imagery is out of this world!
I think the most effective way to read the poem is to read one sentence at a time slowly and then close your eyes and wait a while before going on to the next one. That way the images seem to have time to embed themselves in your imagination.
Try reciting the lines out loud so that you are involving sound and the sense of hearing as well. This intensifies the flow, rhythm and intent of the poem.
All poetry used to be sung or recited, and I think “Look to the Crocus” is a wonderful candidate for being set to music!
I contacted Marion who graciously permitted us to share this magnificent work with everyone.
Thank you so much, Marion.
by Marion McCready
Eyelids are the final petals closing on this life.
When I die, place crocuses on my eyes—they will guide me.
I kneel down next to the crocuses, touch them gingerly as if they were puppies
with pin teeth jumping excitedly in the firth breeze.
At last the snow has left us, cleaned the earth for crocuses
luxurious as silky hair or oiled skin.
Don’t be fooled—crocuses are as wild as a fairground wheel
spinning out of control. The crocuses were coughed up out of the ground;
they are scattered around tree trunks like residue from a terrible accident.
They are purple tears hand-sewn to the earth.
We are all survivors in this life, but none more so than the crocus
embedded in the grass like a microchip gathering the history of the world.
Crocuses are submarines moving silently though green waves.
The crocuses seem to be melting among snowdrops like ice cream
with the wet look of a frog; their orange tongue-pistils barely visible.
Crocuses are satellites in the grass watching us, they know us
better than we know ourselves. Look to the crocus.
Do not stand on the purple crocus, it will remember your footprint;
like elephants—they never forget. The crocus beckons like homemade liqueur—
each one a glassful of sunlight. The crocus is a soft word in my ear;
the crocus is my best self. I carry them around in my head like a song.
I want to crawl inside of their purple armor—dwell in the honeyed saffron
filaments at their center. Thank God when the final curtain falls
it is made of crocuses.
Marion McCready was born in Stornoway on the Isle of Lewis and brought up in Dunoon, Argyll, where she now lives. She studied for a Joint Honours degree in Politics and Classical Civilisations at Glasgow University followed it with an MLitt in Philosophy, also at Glasgow University. Whilst at university, she won the Royal Scottish Academy of Music & Drama’s Edwin Morgan Poetry Prize, the Scottish Book Trust New Writers Award and the Melita Hume Poetry Prize 2013, receiving mentoring from the poet Vicki Feaver.
One Response
Beautiful!