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donall-dempseyPoems
THE NURTURE OF CULTURE "Have you a working pulse...?" he asks of his petunias. They perk up at once to Pericles. "...she sent him away cold as a snowball..." he whispers to his gladioli. Once again the Pericles does the trick. They positively beam at him eager for more Shakespeare. "Oh yes...oh yes...flowers...!" he pontificates "...adore Shakespeare especially Pericles and other minor plays rather than the great Dane or say Othello!" I gasp hardly believing the flower's Bardolatry. The herbs prefer Gilbert and Sullivan. "Really...?" A ha...be my guest!" I tentatively  approach a sprig of oregano. It looks startled being sung to! "Poor wandering one though you are sad and lonely...." " "No no my son...herbs like to be spoken to...not sung!" Ahem, I try again. "Poor wandering one Though thou hast surely strayed..." The oregano dances in the breeze. "Or sometimes my son a little dash of Noël  Coward!" "What compulsion compels them..." I sing to the chives. "And who the hell tells them!" before being interrupted as before. "No no my son spoken not sung!" "Why do the wrong people travel, travel travel When the right people stay back home?" "Excellent...excellent one of their favourites!" What could I say? His voice provoked such a fecundity that could not for a second be doubted. "Oh yes...oh yes when one talks to one's garden one must bear in mind that flowers and herbs prefer a little culture!"
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Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
THE NURTURE OF CULTURE
THE NURTURE OF CULTURE "Have you a working pulse...?" he asks of his petunias. They perk up at once to Pericles. "...she sent him away cold as a snowball..." he whispers to his gladioli. Once again the Pericles does the trick. They positively beam at him eager for more Shakespeare. "Oh yes...oh yes...flowers...!" he pontificates "...adore Shakespeare especially Pericles and other minor plays rather than the great Dane or say Othello!" I gasp hardly believing the flower's Bardolatry. The herbs prefer Gilbert and Sullivan. "Really...?" A ha...be my guest!" I tentatively  approach a sprig of oregano. It looks startled being sung to! "Poor wandering one though you are sad and lonely...." " "No no my son...herbs like to be spoken to...not sung!" Ahem, I try again. "Poor wandering one Though thou hast surely strayed..." The oregano dances in the breeze. "Or sometimes my son a little dash of Noël  Coward!" "What compulsion compels them..." I sing to the chives. "And who the hell tells them!" before being interrupted as before. "No no my son spoken not sung!" "Why do the wrong people travel, travel travel When the right people stay back home?" "Excellent...excellent one of their favourites!" What could I say? His voice provoked such a fecundity that could not for a second be doubted. "Oh yes...oh yes when one talks to one's garden one must bear in mind that flowers and herbs prefer a little culture!"
donall-dempsey
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donall-dempsey
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
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