Returning to ‘Tulips’

A reflection written for JANE

In the poem, she didn’t want any flowers. They were excitable and too red. Knowing this comforts me when I can’t find words to write down, because I remember that words aren’t always where we are supposed to start. You begin with the fragments of light that corrupt the calm of ecru ceilings. The night breeze that invades the unclosed window. In the poem, she only wanted to ‘lie with her hands turned up and to be utterly empty.’

To be empty: that thought comforts me, too. Holding my pen, heavy with ink ripe to be painted upon the cosmos, above the naked page—ready for the birth that always feels too late. In the poem, she was aware of her heart. It opened and closed its bowl of red blooms out of sheer love for her.

That is why I return to Sylvia’s tulips. Because I don’t want any flowers, either. Lest they be wild as the words that we ought never to entirely tame.

Originally published in issue thirteen of JANE magazine, in collaboration with Rosie Dalton