Daffodils
By Brandon Astor Jones
"I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils
Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the milky way.
Ten thousand saw I at a glance,
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.
A poet could not but be [happy],
In such a jocund company." — William Wordsworth, 1770-1850
The poetic passage above is very vivid. Wordsworth had a certain and special way with flowers and words that causes some readers to seek intimacy with both. I too have always had a soft spot in my heart for the daffodil; like a weed it is often necessarily pugnacious and always strong.
Daffodils go by many other names: narcissus, buttercup, jonquil, to name but a few. I think some poets — perhaps those who lacked Wordsworth's courage — did not write more about daffodils because of the flower's narcissistic connotation. Fear of being perceived as vain, no matter how indirectly, can be poetically restrictive, I would think.
However, since I have no writing titles and therefore I am not a poet, I have no such fears. I feel that I will not be judged too harshly for the composition I am about to share here.
After all, the built-in nature of my confinement is rooted in such modesty that any inadvertent suggestion of vanity in the poem that follows will be tempered by the knowledge that I am in prison and, while this prison denies me physical freedom, it cannot deny me the freedom of my imagination in this flower that I respect so much, the lowly daffodil.
Of Your Senses
With my head bowed, not in a narcissistic swell
Rather, swaying upon this immured wind-swept field like a bell
With fragrant but painfully silent co-co-brown clackers
Heralding, in pantomime, the need to set free all things that green has shackled
Weather? ... never matters to me how frigid, nor how hot
I am hardy! ... and demand to bloom, even in snowy spots
Scavenging gophers, and hungry roebucks, dare not taste me.
You see, they all know that my kind long to be free
Our narrow shafts of sword-like leaves
Stems that protrude beyond the evil shadows beneath jailhouse eaves
Throughout the world our legions of many hues breathe and explore
As our petals and bulbs fall, perennially multiplying knocking on every door
We are, whether you like it or not, THE DAFFODILS ...
OF YOUR SENSES
[The writer is a prisoner on death row in the United States. He welcomes letters commenting on his columns. He can be written to at: Brandon Astor Jones, EF-122216, G3-77, Georgia Diagnostic & Classification Prison, PO Box 3877, Jackson, GA 30233, USA. Brandon and his friends are trying to raise funds to pay for a lawyer for his appeal. If you can help, please make cheques payable to the Brandon Astor Jones Defence Account and post to 41 Neutral St, North Sydney NSW 2060, or any Commonwealth Bank, account No. 2127 1003 7638.]