"gladioli" poems
"Have you a working pulse?"
he asks of his petunias.
"...he went away cold as a snowball!"
he tells his gladioli.
They positively beamed at him.
"Oh yes...oh yes. . ."
he pontificates
"Flowers like Shakespeare
best!"
"...especially PERICLES
& other minor plays
rather than the great Dane
or say OTHELLO!"
"The herbs prefer
Gilbert & Sullivan!"
"But, spoken:
not sung!"
"...poor wandering one..."
"Or sometimes a little
dash of Noël Coward!"
"...what compulsion compels them and
who the hell tells them..!"
What could I say?
His voice produced
such a fecundity
such a fertility
that his word
could not be doubted.
"Oh yes...oh yes
plants like to be
spoken to, but:
prefer a little culture.
Apr 24, 2015
Apr 24, 2015 at 4:26 PM UTC
After the English fry-up at the Turkish café,
I ask to use the toilet.
It’s through the back of the kitchen where his wife
Is washing pans, out the door and down the stairs
Rusted with years of rain and peeling paintwork.
In the passage down below, between moss-grown brick,
A patch of earth. So many pots line the walls.
A few onions sprout. A maple tree. Some emerald shoots
Beneath a seed packet sign saying “Gladioli”.
It is quiet here. A place where servitude ends,
Where pause is taken
From the sound of coffee machines and clatter,
Chip-fryer sizzling and the perpetual radio’s chatter.
A spot within the city, apart from the chaos upstairs,
Where the proprietor can breathe
More than fumes and demands,
Smoke a single cigarette and contemplate
A pebble carefully placed among the hidden green
And trace the ground of being, a memory of home.
Aug 7, 2012
Aug 7, 2012 at 11:01 AM UTC
Mired in history, coiled around by cheap reflections
On previous ramshackle glory,
Roman armies camped in valleys,
Swords trickling with blood from the battle
On the heath. Bodies covering the bracken
Like a foreshortened locust swarm, wingless
Over the town. The triumphant Italians had there
On the high ground, above the sinuous Col,
Built temples
And baths. Marble hauled in from Sicilian quarries,
Loaded on to Carthaginian ships by fierce North African slaves-
Themselves beaten warriors.
They were in the town when the tribes struck,
Dying in chains.
Before their own savage deaths, they slaughtered
Others, cut them into ragged pieces, decapitated, *****
Choralling songs of victory, leaving none alive.
That day, the dun hills smelt better!
They torched the temples and wasted the proud theatre,
The slender apogee of culture.
Now the town slumbers in the present,
Burying its past under beautiful gardens, purple flowers and
Raffish gladioli peeking out from unobtrusive suburbs
Stinking of ancient corpses.
Jul 10, 2017
Jul 10, 2017 at 4:38 PM UTC
Flowers are beautiful.
Not just in their appearance.
Each flower has a meaning,
Meanings unique to each one.
Flowers smell nice and look nice.
However, if you get too close they can hurt.
That's why they're put away in a vase, for viewing.
Look, don't touch.
However, all nice things must come to an end.
Flowers will wither away, much like a human.
However, you can always grow them again.
Flowers are easily replaceable.
Sometimes I hate flowers.
They're everything a human isn't.
You can't **** a person and grow one back.
You can't wither away and become a decoration.
Humans can't be put away, only to view.
Even the most beautiful flowers will hurt you.
Because you let them out of the vase.
I envy flowers, in some way.
Pick me up and spin me around.
Not too tightly, or you'll cut yourself.
Smell me, lean in and tell me I'm pretty.
Then when I wither, scatter me across the sea.
Nov 21, 2017
Nov 21, 2017 at 9:43 AM UTC
Lady Highgate, Martha thought alone.
Death or the gladioli,
the train tracks have already taken
companions , too quick to take in the malady.
Park benches, astute cold Sundays,
but no invited parties,
suitcases increasingly deftly packed,
never staying long enough to dream
Concrete gardens, searching the shortest rose
Jan 3, 2015
Jan 3, 2015 at 3:32 PM UTC
She's as beautiful as the morning clouds that kiss the ground, the last night star that is captured by the mists that rise in early summer,building extraordinary heat.
She is the beautiful princess who stole away your heart.
She sent you a smile, a wish and a kiss.
She is the stole you wrap around your shoulders, she stole your heart and then became yours.
She is fluffy as a kitten, who wears mittens , she hurts you not when she holds you close.
She's delicate as a bone china vase, filled with gladioli blooms and erratic ferns.
Then like a carpet of bluebells she's shining...brightening your world.
Good morning,the world is awakening!
(c)LIVVI
Mar 28, 2015
Mar 28, 2015 at 7:14 AM UTC
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!"
Oct 23, 2019
Oct 23, 2019 at 2:59 PM UTC
C'est un trou de verdure, où chante une riviere
Accrochant follement aux herbes des haillons
D'argent, où le soleil, de la montagne fière,
Luit: c'est un petit val qui mousse de rayons.
Un soldat jeune, bouche ouverte, tête nue
Et la nuque baignant dans le frais cresson bleu,
Dort; il est étendu dans 1'herbe, sous la nue,
Pâle dans son lit vert où la lumiere pleut.
Les pieds dans les glaïeuls, il dort. Souriant comme
Sourirait un enfant malade, il fait un somme.
Nature, berce-le chaudement: il a froid!
Les parfums ne font pas frissonner sa narine;
II dort dans le soleil, la main stir sa poitrine,
Tranquille. Il a deux trous rouges au côté droit.
Arthur Rimbaud, Oeuvres
translation:
THE VALLEY SLEEPER
It's a green vale where a river runs
clawing madly at silver herbs that toss
shade, while from proud mountain the sun's
rays fall on a crater foaming with moss.
A young soldier, mouth open, head bare,
neck nape bathed in blue water cress
sleeps; white faced, of clouds unaware
and in green bed, the light's caress.
Feet in gladioli, smiling, dozing, still
as a sick child smiles, he is taking a rest.
His nostrils uncloyed by scents,
he sleeps in the sun, hand on chest,
In his right side are two red rents.
TOBIAS
Mar 24, 2018
Mar 24, 2018 at 1:38 PM UTC