Brilliant post. Fascinating that Plath had her bees for barely one season, 'a swarm in June is worth a silver spoon' [only!], and not long enough to experience the full hive cycle. Wasn't her father a beekeeper and is it possible her writing draws heavily on her observations of bees from childhood?
Love your lines about ‘my ear to the hive, listening to the hive sound – their mumming and murmuring, their odd wails and readjustments, until that which preserves the colony within its surroundings is renegotiated and they become almost silent.’ Strangely, this reminded me of when my children were babies— trying to understand what they needed when all the usual tricks didn’t work, then stumbling upon the thing that stilled us both. I didn’t understand how silence could be ‘golden’ until I had children!
If the bees outlive us humans wouldn’t that be great! Lovely insights about the intelligence of Insects and the poetic intuition that they share
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Brilliant post. Fascinating that Plath had her bees for barely one season, 'a swarm in June is worth a silver spoon' [only!], and not long enough to experience the full hive cycle. Wasn't her father a beekeeper and is it possible her writing draws heavily on her observations of bees from childhood?
interesting! i didn't know that. thanks v much
Many thanks for a wonderful post.
Here’s a small bee contribution:
As I lie on the patio
in front of the greenhouse,
a slight breeze rustles parched leaves
across the tiles. The musty tang of ripe
tomatoes and geraniums wafts
warm from the greenhouse
damp. Pots of herbs and grass cluster
either side of me. As I look
up, I can see the sunlight glow
bright-green through the mint leaves, wink
powder-green through the mesh of lavender.
Cobwebs blow full in the breeze;
a cameo of miniature spinnakers reaching
for the sunlight.
A spider dangles from the dill.
As bees forage the chive, they bend
its slender stalks, lever
them one after the other to coax
delicate fugues, honeyed rhythms from the plants.
Carol Ann Duffy’s The Bees, also. About writing poems, & mothers & daughters.
Love your lines about ‘my ear to the hive, listening to the hive sound – their mumming and murmuring, their odd wails and readjustments, until that which preserves the colony within its surroundings is renegotiated and they become almost silent.’ Strangely, this reminded me of when my children were babies— trying to understand what they needed when all the usual tricks didn’t work, then stumbling upon the thing that stilled us both. I didn’t understand how silence could be ‘golden’ until I had children!
“the honey, the intimacy…” — wonderful post.
Brilliant some amazing pieces of bee writing and reminder of Sylvia Plath’s bees too.