The Bead Nymph
The moon is not made of cheese. Not according to Harold Monro. He was a poet back in the Georgian Era, where he lived and died in Brussels (1879—1932), writing poems about everything he could think of. He was well respected and was published many times in books, news papers and compilations. Harold Monro insinuates that the moon is full of beads. And they’re green and made of glass. Here’s now I know that…
I was reading a book of children’s poetry, and I found a poem written by Monro. Its called Overheard on a Salt Marsh and it made such an impression on me that I decided to get permission to hand it out to my students in my bead classes. Everyone who read it loved it. It got me thinking of the ways we express our ideas and attitudes, our creativity and personality. Some of us bead. Some of us write. Some play sports or cook. Our expressive ways branch out into other directions. How many beaders that you know also do scrap booking or quilting or knitting? And they incorporate beads into those other interests. So Harold Monro intrigued me to look for other beaders who write poems about beads. And I found a lot, just doing a simple search on the computer.
Suzanne Cooper is a really well known beader who also writes books on how to create gorgeous amulets and neck pieces from seed beads. She loves to write bead poetry, and says that they are “shameless self-indulgence”. I love it! If you’d like to read Suzanne’s poetry, go to www.suzannecooper.com and enjoy. If you look around the web you’ll find many people expressing themselves in beads, and then writing about it.
So here is Harold Monro’s poem. May it conjure up images of sparkling green glass tinkling around the neck of a nymph. And be a nymph yourself, by making a stunning necklace in the green beads of your choice. If you can’t be them, join them!!
Overheard on a Saltmarsh
Nymph, nymph, what are your beads?
Green glass, goblin. Why do you stare at them?
Give them me.
No.
Give them me. Give them me.
No.
Then I will howl all night in the reeds,
Lie in the mud and howl for them.
Goblin, why do you love them so?
They are better than stars or water,
Better than voices of winds that sing,
Better than any man's fair daughter,
Your green glass beads on a silver ring.
Hush, I stole them out of the moon.
Give me your beads, I want them.
No.
I will howl in the deep lagoon
For your green glass beads, I love them so.
Give them me. Give them.
No.
-- Harold Monro
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