top of page
  • By David B. Gosselin

Fresh-Picked Roses

A rose is lying in the summer mud— The dew still fresh from when it fell last night.

A phoenix sinks into a sea of sands— See how the midnight sky outshines the day?

It’s true—a comet burns one moment then It fades and scatters on the cosmic surf.

But Hector too had breathed his final breath, Then like a comet vanished in the depths.

A boy is dreaming on a backyard swing; He smells the lilacs, but he picks a rose.

He has his dreams, some dark, some bright, some light And pure like laurel sprigs or mountain streams.

He picked the rose—its beauty unsurpassed; He picked her though he feared her thorns—he had

A fear of fear itself, a love of love— The love of other and the love of self.

The rose we place inside our lover’s hands Is like the dreams we place in our own hands.

When fresh-picked roses fall into their hands, Our dearest hopes and dreams are placed there too.

Dreams too—like roses and like love have thorns, But oh the joy of picking our own rose.

David B. Gosselin is a writer, researcher, and poet based in Montreal. He is the founder of The Chained Muse and New Lyre. Follow him on Substack at Age of Muses.

3 comentarios

08 feb 2022

The poem's opening is attention-grabbing: a rose lying in the mud. What a jarring and pregnant image: beauty cast into the mud. The rest of the poem doesn't disappoint. It first ventures into the most natural connotation of the image with mortality, with some fine examples of the phoenix and Hector. Then the poem takes us to another place entirely, metaphorically "wiping the mud" off the rose and focusing on what the flower means. At the end we have an unexpectedly life-affirming message of love from what at first seems an image of death and despair.

As for the unrhyming couplets, the form is well-suited to the subject matter, which shifts focus and tone quite drastically. The couplets facilitate these…

Me gusta

Miembro desconocido
07 feb 2022

I appreciate the mastery of couplets here. Whether rhymed or unrhymed, they keep up a tight logic--the restrained counterpoint of the outflow of emotion (but not overflow). Wonderful opposition of the heroic couplet 4 and the modesty of a dreaming boy in couplet 5. We keep getting options--lilac, laurel--only to come back always to the necessity of the rose. The poem's latter half expands on its appeal, narrowing our choice but broadening our consciousness.

Me gusta

05 feb 2022

I was quite moved by this poem, especially the last two lines, because I've been following my own dream for years, and it's bound up with writing and having feelings for a woman who isn't really available; but is, nevertheless, my muse. So it's been a rather difficult dream to have. Yet the truth is: I picked the dream, I picked the rose, I picked the thorns, and it has been the great joy of my life! Thank you, David, for showing me how to see it clearly.

Me gusta
bottom of page