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Brent Kincaid Nov 2016
Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
She swears she is not picky
But avoids the ricky-ticky
And goes instead for the class.
She claims not to be picky
But avoids like a big hickey
Anything of plastic or brass.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.

Veronica is the prettiest
Down to the nitty grittiest
Girl in the local school we both attend.
She’s not always wittiest
Rather hit and messiest,
But I’m glad at least she is my friend.
I’d like her to be more
That’s what this rhyme if for
To tell her she’s the best in the world.
She ’s the very highest floor,
The one have always adored,
She’s most artistically talented girl.

Veronica LaMonica
Played the harmonica
In our local high school band.
She collected japonica
She says it is a tonic
Attuned to a young lady’s hand.
Nigel Morgan  Aug 2013
Rhythm
Nigel Morgan Aug 2013
Today we shall have the naming of parts. How the opening of that poem by Henry Reed caught his present thoughts; that banal naming of parts of a soldier’s rifle set against the delicate colours and textures of the gardens outside the lecture room. *Japonica glistening like coral  . . . branches holding their silent eloquent gestures . . . bees fumbling the flowers. It was the wrong season for this so affecting poem – the spring was not being eased as here, in quite a different garden, summer was easing itself out towards autumn, but it caught him, as a poem sometimes would.

He had taken a detour through the gardens to the studio where in half an hour his students would gather. He intended to name the very parts of rhythm and help them become aware of their personal knowledge and relationship with this most fundamental of musical elements, the most connected with the body.

He had arranged to have a percussionist in on the class, a player he admired (he had to admit) for the way this musician had dealt with a once-witnessed on-stage accident that he’d brought it into his poem sequence Lemon on Pewter. They had been in Cambridge to celebrate her birthday and just off the train had hurried their way through the bicycled streets to the college where he had once taught, and to a lunchtime concert in a theatre where he had so often performed himself.

Smash! the percussionist wipes his hands and grabs another bottle before the music escapes checking his fingers for cuts and kicking the broken glass from his feet It was a brilliant though unplanned moment we all agreed and will remember this concert always for that particular accidental smile-inducing sharp intake of breath moment when with a Fanta bottle in each hand there was a joyful hit and scrape guiro-like on the serrated edges a no-holes barred full-on sounding out of glass on glass and you just loved it when he drank the juice and fluting blew across the bottle’s mouth

And having thought himself back to those twenty-four hours in Cambridge the delights of the morning garden aflame with colour and texture were as nothing beside his vivid memory of that so precious time with her. The images and the very physical moments of that interval away and together flooded over him, and he had to stop to close his eyes because the images and moments were so very real and he was trembling . . . what was it about their love that kept doing this to him? Just this morning he had sat on the edge of his bed, and in the still darkness his imagination seemed to bring her to him, the warmth and scent of her as she slept face down into a pillow, the touch of her hair in his face as he would bend over her to kiss her ear and move his hand across the contours of her body, but without touching, a kind of air-lovers movement, a kiss of no-touch. But today, he reminded himself, we have the naming of parts . . .

He was going to tackle not just rhythm but the role of percussion. There was a week’s work here. He had just one day. And the students had one day to create a short ‘poem for percussion’ to be performed and recorded at the end of the afternoon class. In his own music he considered the element of percussion as an ever-present challenge. He had only met it by adopting a very particular strategy. He regarded its presence in a score as a kind of continuo element and thus giving the player some freedom in the choice of instruments and execution. He wanted percussion to be ‘a part’ of equal stature with the rest of the musical texture and not a series of disparate accents, emphases and colours. In other words rhythm itself was his first consideration, and all the rest followed. He thought with amusement of his son playing Vaughan-Williams The Lark Ascending and the single stroke of a triangle that constituted his percussion part. For him, so few composers could ‘do it’ with percussion. He had assembled for today a booklet of extracts of those who could: Stravinsky’s Soldier’s Tale (inevitably), Berio’s Cummings songs, George Perle’s Sextet, Living Toys by Tom Ades, his own Flights for violin and percussionist. He felt diffident about the latter, but he had the video of those gliders and he’d play the second movement What is the Colour of the Wind?

In the studio the percussionist and a group of student helpers were assembling the ‘kits’ they’d agreed on. The loose-limbed movements of such players always fascinated him. It was as though whatever they might be doing they were still playing – driving a car? He suddenly thought he might not take a lift from a percussionist.

On the grand piano there was, thankfully, a large pile of the special manuscript paper he favoured when writing for percussion, an A3 sheet with wider stave lines. Standing at the piano he pulled a sheet from the pile and he got out his pen. He wrote on the shiny black lid with a fluency that surprised him: a toccata-like passage based on the binary rhythms he intended to introduce to his class. He’d thought about making this piece whilst lying in bed the previous night, before sleep had taken him into a series of comforting dreams. He knew he must be careful to avoid any awkward crossings of sticks.

The music was devoid of any accents or dynamics, indeed any performance instructions. It was solely rhythm. He then composed a passage that had no rhythm, only performance instructions, dynamics, articulations such as tremolo and trills and a play of accents, but no rhythmic symbols. He then went to the photocopier in the corridor and made a batch of copies of both scores. As the machine whirred away he thought he might call her before his class began, just to hear her soft voice say ‘hello’ in that dear way she so often said it, the way that seem to melt him, and had been his undoing . . .

When his class had assembled (and the percussionist and his students had disappeared pro tem) he began immediately, and without any formal introduction, to write the first four 4-bit binary rhythms on the chalkboard, and asked them to complete it. This mystified a few but most got the idea (and by now there was a generous sharing between members of the class), so soon each student had the sixteen rhythms in front of them.

‘Label these rhythms with symbols a to p’, he said, ‘and then write out the letters of your full name. If there’s a letter there that goes beyond p create another list from q to z. You can now generate a rhythmic sequence using what mathematicians call a function-machine. Nigel would be:

x x = x     x = = =      = x x =      = x x x      x = x x

Write your rhythm out and then score it for 4 drums – two congas, two bongos.’

His notion was always to keep his class relentlessly occupied. If a student finished a task ahead of others he or she would find further instructions had appeared on the flip chart board.  Audition –in your head - these rhythms at high speed, at a really quick tempo. Now slow them right down. Experiment with shifting tempos, download a metronome app on your smart phone, score the rhythms for three clapping performers, and so on.

And soon it was performance time and the difficulties and awkwardness of the following day were forgotten as nearly everyone made it out front to perform their binary rhythmic pieces, and perform them with much laughter, but with flair and élan also. The room rang with the clapping of hands.

The percussionist appeared and after a brief introduction – in which the Fanta bottle incident was mentioned - composer and performer played together *****’s Clapping Music before a welcome break was taken.
jack of spades  Dec 2016
bouquets
jack of spades Dec 2016
what’s your favorite kind of flower?
mine’s a forget-me-not,
a fear settled deep in my chest
that remembering me might
not be for the best,
a knot in my stomach formed
from your stormcloud eyes
like summer skies.
like forget-me-nots.
loyalty and long-lasting
and pleading to remember me, forgetting.
december makes me forget sunny weather.
i think i’m kind of
in love with the sound of your voice,
and your smile,
which is dangerous because smiles
are always going to be the
worst kind of weakness.
i hope they don’t forget me.
i hope you don’t forget me.
i’ll send you bouquets of words i never said
of texts i never sent:
yellow acacias and yellow tulips and blue forget-me-nots
(secret and hopeless and true loves);
angelica and amethyst and flowering almond
(inspiration and admiration and hope);
red columbine because you
leave me anxious, trembling;
white camellia japonica because
your loveliness
is perfected.
send me red carnations
(yes and yes and yes)
with unwritten handwritten answers
(yes and yes and yes).
flower language source: http://www.languageofflowers.com
Claudia Ramirez Dec 2012
I begin to wonder into gardening, so many flowers to choose from
My first try was not the best, even though I tried really hard  
It almost seem like they hated me, they looked lovely but they had a deathly poison
It did not get easier, but I learned a few things a long the way as this passion continued.

Then one day, when I was going to give up I found a flower
Maybe not the pretties but with time it bloom in to something my heart could not believe
Something that let me know that my hand could do something
And let my plant know that there was love.

Things got rough and I had to travel and could not take my garden of Darwinias
I tried to give them the same love but they started to slowly die
Every now and then they do respond well. I just hope they can me it till I get back
But I too started to lose my hope…
They are in my mind very often but I’ve started to look for a new flower

I got blinded once again; I choose the flowers that would not bloom
I tried to find something that could compare to my Darwinia but nothing ever could
The Kerria japonica came in to my way with its bright yellow and made my heart stop
I still love my original garden but this; this just took my breath away it made my soul feel warm
They could not just grow anywhere
Some will break and some will merely bend as
we travel through until the end,
The end and I have seen the end in fallen friends,watched them drop and die,
die and wonder why I watched the end,wondered why that I should bend not break,not take the dip and slip into the,no not me everland
and wonder still,
some always will.
nicholas ripley Apr 2010
To-day we have dividing of parts. Yesterday,
We had arguing. And to-morrow morning,
We shall have what to do after separating. But to-day,
To-day we have dividing of parts. Japonica
Glistens like coral in all of the neighbouring gardens,
     And to-day we have dividing of parts.

This is the book I was given. And this
Is a present from Aunty, whose use you will see,
When you have departed. To be shared with a new partner
Which in your case you have not got. The branches
Hold in the gardens their silent, eloquent gestures,
     Which in your case you have not got.

This is the video, which is way outdated
But will play memories. You can do it quite easy
If you only read the manual. You can watch
Our daughter on the beach with the waves. The pages
Are fragile and motionless, never letting anyone see
     Any sentimental reminiscence.

And this you can see is the album. The purpose of which
Was to record our joys, as you see. The pages
Have not been filled since the advent of digital: you call this
Shameful neglect. And rapidly backwards and forwards
The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:
     They call this shameful neglect.

They call this shameful neglect: it is perfectly easy
If you only read the manual: like the albums
And the tapes, and the pictures, and the shame
Which in your case you have not got; and the almond-blossom
Silent in all of the gardens and the bees going backwards and forwards,
     For to-day we have dividing of parts.
with apologies to Henry Reed (C) N. Ripley (& H Reed) 2010
Satsih Verma Sep 2016
You said this summer,
hold me tight,
when hanging lights―
go out.

I will heal your moon,
your cryptobiosis
of seeds―

at dawn, when you wake up
before the stars leave.

It would not be a day of mourning.

The quinces, japonica
irises were deeply disturbed.
Under the tongue
lies the religion of masses.

The menus are same, only
the taste was different.
Acora  Sep 2020
Scabiosa japonica
Acora Sep 2020
And you're beautiful,
and that catches me,
caught in the snares of awe and empathy,
plus sweet summer associations.
If misery welcomes company,
we’d enough misery to
warrant one another’s company for a million years.
I got permission to rework @Christine Ely's piece a little bit and use it for my page. Read the original here: https://hellopoetry.com/poem/3384068/cat-and-mouse/

Scabiosa japonica, also known as scabius or pincushion flower, meaning "unfortunate attachment".
You are recurring,
effervescent,
dust on light streams.

I am elsewhere,
static, immobile,
a 30ft depression
in damaged concrete -

though still
we unfurl together,
lean towards sunlight
like Japonica’s  in bloom;
you are the coloured iris
that enfolds my empty pupil,

you are
my subtle hue,
I wish to paint you
in a surreal saturation,

a sincerity that breathes in between our authenticity.

Before we leave to write essays on realism,
come meander with me
into the depths of profundity.
Yours truly never heard, seen, no lies
particularly when alone
facing my (pushing up daisies) demise,
without pretense nor guise,
he honestly decries
smelled, tasted, nor touched, any size,

and essentially knew nothing besides
ancient fruit grown in Japan
for past 1,000 years as Earth flies
thru space, now more about loquats,
plethora of details to exercise
memory bank, though

this poetaster still tries
to appear learned, no matter
me no expert, I reckon eyes
aforementioned small yellow size
egg-shaped acidic fruit
great breakfast, lunch,
or dinner sup prize

for dessert never knew the evergreen
eastern Asian tree of rose family,
in Thorndale residents
at somber occasions,
or holidays edibly feast
as modus operandi to eulogize.

If ever opportunity
finds agriculturally cocksure
and propensity doth arise to venture
to savor succulent juice of Loquat,
savoir faire mine mean
mien to one epicure
this wordsmith, whatever

his wordsworth as whitman,
he will need to remove lower denture
minor inconvenient truth (er tooth),
where jaws comprise juncture
and/or chop delectable treats
into byte size morsels.

Perhaps before I lay
me down to sleep
forever and a day
launched into death
be not proud, aye
will strive to appease
culinary yen oy vey
searching high and
low unexpectedly axed
about diddly squat (a spot,
pimple, or sty) seated
please and lemme
introduce myself, cuz
thar thou looking

for specific monsignor okay
thy my quest, I wilt thus assay
to indulge me secrete,
and rejoice hip... hip... hooray
if thee will allow any which way,
yours truly to supplicate,
perhaps magic discovery
after I pay obeisance and pray
to Mother Nature
my hunger, she will allay.

If ambition to satiate loquat all naught
please scatter cremated ashes,
upon bed of loquat sought
but ne'er found,
cuz earnestness to secure
coveted desire fraught,
not necessarily in vain if I got
repurposed to commingle,
viz this pauper devoid of haute
cuz thrift stores find me
where clothes get bought.

— The End —