patterns

• amerikan şair amy lowell'in 19. yüzyılın sosyal standartlarına, ideal davranış biçimlerine ve dönemin toplumundaki kadının yeri'ne karşı yazdığı bir bakıma ironik, eleştirel, her satırında ayrı bir imge barındıran uzun şiirinin adıdır ayrıca.
  
  patterns
  
  i walk down the garden paths,
  and all the daffodils
  are blowing, and the bright blue squills.
  i walk down the patterned garden-paths
  in my stiff, brocaded gown.
  with my powdered hair and jewelled fan,
  i too am a rare
  pattern. as i wander down
  the garden paths.
  my dress is richly figured,
  and the train
  makes a pink and silver stain
  on the gravel, and the thrift
  of the borders.
  just a plate of current fashion,
  tripping by in high-heeled, ribboned shoes.
  not a softness anywhere about me,
  only whalebone and brocade.
  and i sink on a seat in the shade
  of a lime tree. for my passion
  wars against the stiff brocade.
  the daffodils and squills
  flutter in the breeze
  as they please.
  and i weep;
  for the lime-tree is in blossom
  and one small flower has dropped upon my bosom.
  
  and the plashing of waterdrops
  in the marble fountain
  comes down the garden-paths.
  the dripping never stops.
  underneath my stiffened gown
  is the softness of a woman bathing in a marble basin,
  a basin in the midst of hedges grown
  so thick, she cannot see her lover hiding,
  but she guesses he is near,
  and the sliding of the water
  seems the stroking of a dear
  hand upon her.
  what is summer in a fine brocaded gown!
  i should like to see it lying in a heap upon the ground.
  all the pink and silver crumpled up on the ground.
  
  i would be the pink and silver as i ran along the paths,
  and he would stumble after,
  bewildered by my laughter.
  i should see the sun flashing from his sword-hilt and the buckles
  on his shoes.
  i would choose
  to lead him in a maze along the patterned paths,
  a bright and laughing maze for my heavy-booted lover,
  till he caught me in the shade,
  and the buttons of his waistcoat bruised my body as he clasped me,
  aching, melting, unafraid.
  with the shadows of the leaves and the sundrops,
  and the plopping of the waterdrops,
  all about us in the open afternoon --
  i am very like to swoon
  with the weight of this brocade,
  for the sun sifts through the shade.
  
  underneath the fallen blossom
  in my bosom,
  is a letter i have hid.
  it was brought to me this morning by a rider from the duke.
  "madam, we regret to inform you that lord hartwell
  died in action thursday se'nnight."
  as i read it in the white, morning sunlight,
  the letters squirmed like snakes.
  "any answer, madam," said my footman.
  "no," i told him.
  "see that the messenger takes some refreshment.
  no, no answer."
  and i walked into the garden,
  up and down the patterned paths,
  in my stiff, correct brocade.
  the blue and yellow flowers stood up proudly in the sun,
  each one.
  i stood upright too,
  held rigid to the pattern
  by the stiffness of my gown.
  up and down i walked,
  up and down.
  
  in a month he would have been my husband.
  in a month, here, underneath this lime,
  we would have broke the pattern;
  he for me, and i for him,
  he as colonel, i as lady,
  on this shady seat.
  he had a whim
  that sunlight carried blessing.
  and i answered, "it shall be as you have said."
  now he is dead.
  
  in summer and in winter i shall walk
  up and down
  the patterned garden-paths
  in my stiff, brocaded gown.
  the squills and daffodils
  will give place to pillared roses, and to asters, and to snow.
  i shall go
  up and down,
  in my gown.
  gorgeously arrayed,
  boned and stayed.
  and the softness of my body will be guarded from embrace
  by each button, hook, and lace.
  for the man who should loose me is dead,
  fighting with the duke in flanders,
  in a pattern called a war.
  christ! what are patterns for?