Hi Bob thanks for reading and commenting. Many hedge at "bidden" and I have
wondered about its use and repetition in the light of those complaints.
It is an echo of my gradmother's voice who would tell us to do something and
add, " See tha does as tha's bidden."
It is old Yorkshire usage and I feel it belongs despite the complaints. The
repetition holds, too, since I was a stranger to the proper etiquette at
'viewings' and not a little terrified. I had to be told what to do and how
to do it all the time. This was the first dead person I had seen. Regards,
Arthur.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Bob Cooper" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Saturday, November 06, 2004 12:34 AM
Subject: Re: New Sub: The scent of Oranges
> Hi Arthur,
> A fine tale but I sense the stanza:
> >I gave, too, the bidden kiss
> >and a feather of terror stirred
> >at the scent of zest there.
> is a tad OTT with feather and scent feeling suspicious suspects for why
the
> stanza feels too unlike the rest of the poem.
> How about deleting the whole stanza - and using scent instead of the word
> perfume earlier on? I sense the poem strong enough to use simple language.
> Bob
>
>
> >From: Arthur Seeley <[log in to unmask]>
> >Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
> >To: [log in to unmask]
> >Subject: New Sub: The scent of Oranges
> >Date: Wed, 27 Oct 2004 19:03:51 +0100
> >
> >The Scent of Oranges
> >
> >
> >
> >Strangely still that day, no children played
> >
> >on the fading hopscotch grids,
> >
> >curtains drawn in quiet respect.
> >
> >
> >
> >" Go down and say goodbye to your Grandma."
> >
> >I had been bidden. Reluctant, I dawdled,
> >
> >lazy as a trout, down the sunlit stream of the afternoon.
> >
> >
> >
> >I hunkered behind the world's cold back;
> >
> >wet my finger to clean a scuffed knee;
> >
> >sucked at an orange until my cheeks stung.
> >
> >
> >
> >Heavy curtains bulged with prising light.
> >
> >Plain pine, chromed handles, set upon trestles,
> >
> >it loomed - choose how I tried to ignore it.
> >
> >
> >
> >I covered my face with my hands.
> >
> >I puzzled how to grieve, an alien art,
> >
> >while perfumes of orange pervaded.
> >
> >
> >
> >I was bidden to stroke her brow.
> >
> >The waxen face slept on, lips slightly parted,
> >
> >a glimmer of shining dentures, rouged cheeks.
> >
> >
> >
> >I gave, too, the bidden kiss
> >and a feather of terror stirred
> >
> >at the scent of zest there.
> >
> >
> >
> >We buried her in a sodden graveyard
> >
> >high on the moor road home
> >
> >to where she had been born.
> >
> >
> >
> >Many years later I looked for the unmarked place
> >
> >in the steep graveyard of secret steps and shades
> >
> >but who remembers things like the locations of graves.
> >
> >
> >
> >I only remember the thudding knock of homage - sod
> >
> >on coffin roof, the scratch of rain on elder leaves
> >
> >and hands that reeked of death.
>
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