"hyacinths" poems
Sweeter than the song of a nightingale
Gentler than the whisper of a spring wind
Quieter than the murmur of summer grass
Softer than the symphony of hyacinths
Hypnotic like the splash of blue seas
Tinkling like a stream that flows
Mesmerizing like the cadence of rain
Enchanting like the hush of snow
Like the faint breath of a scarlet dawn
The rustle of clouds on a turquoise high
A duet of night and an ivory moon
A Capella of stars in the sky
A hymn, a chant, a choir of angels
Singing on a rainbow of time
Celestial is the serenade of love
A tune and a note divine.
Jul 4, 2016
Jul 4, 2016 at 11:14 AM UTC
*
Crape myrtle blooms form
the entrance now leading
Into the garden of
dreams that we share
Rose buds and hyacinths
tickle our senses
Blending their fragrance
so sweet with the air
Lantana flowers in
yellows of lemon
Paint summer sunrises
along the wall
Hibiscus petals are
raining so softly
Before our eyes as
their beauty does fall
Daffodil dimples now
show as they're smiling
Watching the two of us
learn happily
That since we met we
have found our dream garden
Grows of our love
now a reality*
Aug 13, 2016
Aug 13, 2016 at 10:19 PM UTC
The Alexandrians were gathered
to see Cleopatra's children,
Caesarion, and his little brothers,
Alexander and Ptolemy, whom for the first
time they lead out to the Gymnasium,
there to proclaim kings,
in front of the grand assembly of the soldiers.
Alexander -- they named him king
of Armenia, Media, and the Parthians.
Ptolemy -- they named him king
of Cilicia, Syria, and Phoenicia.
Caesarion stood more to the front,
dressed in rose-colored silk,
on his breast a bouquet of hyacinths,
his belt a double row of sapphires and amethysts,
his shoes fastened with white
ribbons embroidered with rose pearls.
Him they named more than the younger ones,
him they named King of Kings.
The Alexandrians of course understood
that those were theatrical words.
But the day was warm and poetic,
the sky was a light azure,
the Alexandrian Gymnasium was
a triumphant achievement of art,
the opulence of the courtiers was extraordinary,
Caesarion was full of grace and beauty
(son of Cleopatra, blood of the Lagidae);
and the Alexandrians rushed to the ceremony,
and got enthusiastic, and cheered
in greek, and egyptian, and some in hebrew,
enchanted by the beautiful spectacle --
although they full well knew what all these were worth,
what hollow words these kingships were.
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It is nothing,
a mordant of the soul,
an elixir, a panacea, a placebo
for my lesions, there in the thistle, grows
our drastic garden of red posies and hyacinths,
such little things, on the verge,
lilting as the decorum begins to bobble
and slump sideways, and murmur,
on Mondays I can swallow the octave
of your absence, tendrils and all,
red quince limbs parting from the deluge
and in its wake, the wreckage
of black pumpkins and purple corn, hanging
pendulum at our door,
the Autumn lights summon a lavish song to harvest,
thirty seven colours in the brocade you gift me,
tangled and heavy the years upon my bones
begin to spur and flower
into cunning disruptions,
and stratify upon my body like rinds of ricepaper,
vellum for another wish
in the complacent burial of mango flesh,
listen,
as my song liquefies,
drowns you, inundates
each alveoli, and our love
in the swallowing gush, perched,
begins to shudder,
devoured by its symmetry,
stem cells all akimbo
in the shallow pitch of days
bound in a nostrum of wine and liquorice
it is nothing, really,
a mordant for the soul, a tulle filament
twitching in a raincoat of lightning....
Oct 21, 2012
Oct 21, 2012 at 4:35 PM UTC
In Vienna there are ten little girls,
a shoulder for death to cry on,
and a forest of dried pigeons.
There is a fragment of tomorrow
in the museum of winter frost.
There is a thousand-windowed dance hall.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this close-mouthed waltz.
Little waltz, little waltz, little waltz,
of itself of death, and of brandy
that dips its tail in the sea.
I love you, I love you, I love you,
with the armchair and the book of death,
down the melancholy hallway,
in the iris' darkened garret.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this broken-waisted waltz.
In Vienna there are four mirrors
in which your mouth and the echoes play.
There is a death for piano
that paints little boys blue.
There are beggars on the roof.
There are fresh garlands of tears.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this waltz that dies in my arms.
Because I love you, I love you, my love,
in the attic wherethe children play,
dreaming ancient lights of Hungary
through the noise, the balmy afternoon,
seeing sheep and irises of snow
through teh dark silence of your forehead.
Ay, ay, ay, ay!
Take this "I will always love you" waltz.
In Vienna I will dance with you
in a costume with
a river's head.
See how the hyacinths line my banks!
I will leave my mouth between your legs,
my soul in photographs and lilies,
and in the dark wake of your footsteps,
my love, my love, I will have to leave
violin and grave, the waltzing ribbons.
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there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears
and honey dancing off the tip of my tongue.
there are roses that tint my vision with petals of pink
and hyacinths dye my skin with a faint color between forget-me-not and periwinkle.
there are vines that creep up through the gaps in my ribs, soft limbs of green to curl a cage around the rice paper butterfly in my chest.
there are flowers growing in the curves of my ears,
and yet I can still hear every word you say.
every sting, every snarl, every bite until the line between humanity and bloodlust is blurred with the plague painted in the air.
your words hurt the thread and needle butterfly, beating its wings faintly against the thorns cracking my bones into splinters.
every
beat
is
weaker
and
weaker
until the flowers wither at the corners, mourning the loss of every leaf.
until the honey tastes of vinegar, acid burning at the walls of my mouth.
until the roses turn dusty and the hyacinths are more eggshell than cornflower.
until the spun glass butterfly beats its last fight against the growing infestation.
shattering.
infinitesimal.
all that’s left for the flowers to do is drink up the leftover gasoline and feed off of the light of your apocalypse.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 2:30 AM UTC
Spring is the season of new beginnings.
Surrounded with beauty that energizes you.
Green meadows , cool breeze , the purple moors,
Lush blooms that take away the winter glooms.
Enticing you in an array of colours,
Narcissus ,Hyacinths ,lilacs, Irises and Freesia ,
present a string of floral amnesia.
Like a pollywog when you are scampering through,
Oh ! dear spring you are a welcome view.
Wear your gadoshes ,
head to where the valleys and the skies meet,
robin's and swallow's tweet,
The bright rays of the sun spread the warmth and rainbows present a colourful greet.
Bid goodbye's to winter blue's ,
Welcome the "VERNAL EQUINOX" hues.
©Mrunalini.D.Nimbalkar
Feb 20, 2019
Feb 20, 2019 at 7:52 AM UTC
The young maiden,
with eyes the color of the green-blue sea,
porcelain skin,
and the face of an angel.
She had a hyacinth in her flaxen hair.
She is the hyacinth girl,
with beauty words can't describe,
and the grace of a princess.
Today somebody called me the hyacinth girl,
words nobody has ever said to me.
Glancing at the image in the mirror,
I didn't believe her words.
grotesque,
revolting,
and disappointing.
are all compliments that I have received generously.
hyacinths - however, I have never received.
"words with malicious intent, were never actually intended maliciously", they said.
they led me to believe,
that I could never be the hyacinth girl,
that I see deep inside of me.
Aug 15, 2013
Aug 15, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
There is music at dawn in the song of the koyel
The tweeting, the chirping, the warbling,the cry
The medleys that float in the morning air
As birds sing a welcome to a rising sky
There is music in the span of feathered wings
The steady drone of the humming of a bee
As the sun revels on his throne at noon
While a brisk wind whisks leaves on willow trees
There is music in the silver drops of rain
A gentle drizzle or a thunder squall
Music in the flow of rivers and streams
And the sparkling cascade of a waterfall
There is music on slopes of lofty mountains
In echoes that reverberate of a water spring
In the soft rustling of a valley of flowers
Of blue irises and pink hyacinths
There is music in seas and oceans blue
Waves overreaching to meet the shore
Rippling in sounds of frothy ecstasy
Whispers of pearls and ocean floors
There is music at dusk when the day rests
The throaty croaks in a nocturnal sheer
As moths flutter drawn to light
'Tis music of life that I hear
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 9:50 AM UTC
There was suddenly sun spilling all over,
and suddenly hyacinths everywhere.
I have watched everything change so slowly
that nothing ever seemed to move at all,
and in my obstinate blindness, I didn't notice
that the ground had thawed, never mind that it had begun
to bleed spring.
I have never seen spring.
In all honesty, I have never lived
in any sort of weather –
only the starched, air-conditioned bedroom
in my parents' sickeningly stereotypical suburban concoction
of a house, where nothing –
not the dusty closed blinds or even
a blade of grass – ever moved at all.
Here, there are magnolia trees that move,
swaying in soft rhythm.
They have peeled themselves like vinyl stickers off
the backs of my windowpanes, and they really are
alive. I know because they wave to me
in flurries of dip-dyed pink petals –
like a good diaphragm-laugh,
or maybe like a good cry.
I have never laughed,
or cried.
But I cry at everything now –
now that I see it is all alive.
It must be what happens when you start living
alone – growing pains –
I imagine the hyacinths must get growing pains, too,
from exploding like purple fireworks
out of the frozen soil in
no time at all.
Apr 17, 2021
Apr 17, 2021 at 1:31 AM UTC
this love will sink its teeth on my throat and never let go, like a bite mark on the hollow of hyacinths. like closed fists on a burning letter. like serpentine sighs around my neck. in time, in vain, my poems will pay for this feeling but darling, i am intoxicated with the dark way that i am yours. i am high — high and reduced before your fevered kisses, and when all of this wears off, you'll find in place, in absolute constancy, in slate black eyes, that my love is yours — and yours alone.
Aug 29, 2021
Aug 29, 2021 at 11:57 PM UTC
Fair is thy site, Sorrento, green thy shore,
Black crags behind thee pierce the clear blue skies;
The sea, whose borderers ruled the world of yore,
As clear and bluer still before thee lies.
Vesuvius smokes in sight, whose fount of fire,
Outgushing, drowned the cities on his steeps;
And murmuring Naples, spire o'ertopping spire,
Sits on the slope beyond where Virgil sleeps.
Here doth the earth, with flowers of every hue,
Heap her green breast when April suns are bright,
Flowers of the morning-red, or ocean-blue,
Or like the mountain frost of silvery white.
Currents of fragrance, from the orange tree,
And sward of violets, breathing to and fro,
Mingle, and wandering out upon the sea,
Refresh the idle boatsman where they blow.
Yet even here, as under harsher climes,
Tears for the loved and early lost are shed;
That soft air saddens with the funeral chimes,
Those shining flowers are gathered for the dead.
Here once a child, a smiling playful one,
All the day long caressing and caressed,
Died when its little tongue had just begun
To lisp the names of those it loved the best.
The father strove his struggling grief to quell,
The mother wept as mothers use to weep,
Two little sisters wearied them to tell
When their dear Carlo would awake from sleep.
Within an inner room his couch they spread,
His funeral couch; with mingled grief and love,
They laid a crown of roses on his head,
And murmured, "Brighter is his crown above."
They scattered round him, on the snowy sheet,
Laburnum's strings of sunny-coloured gems,
Sad hyacinths, and violets dim and sweet,
And orange blossoms on their dark green stems.
And now the hour is come, the priest is there;
Torches are lit and bells are tolled; they go,
With solemn rites of blessing and of prayer,
To lay the little corpse in earth below.
The door is opened; hark! that quick glad cry;
Carlo has waked, has waked, and is at play;
The little sisters laugh and leap, and try
To climb the bed on which the infant lay.
And there he sits alone, and gayly shakes
In his full hands, the blossoms red and white,
And smiles with winking eyes, like one who wakes
From long deep slumbers at the morning light.
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A man in a flower shop… What a sight! He doesn’t know what to do, how to pick, where to look. Too many colors! Too many choices! I’m not sure what she likes…
What a weakness it is, to be a man next to flowers… Something so fragile and so beautiful, it makes him look stagnant in a world of much flow.
Then, in walks F. Scott… What are you?! You look mighty fine by this Rose. Do the thorns disrupt you? Do the petals leave you longing?
I thought you had a thing for Kichijoten-- in her Temple; next to the Sakura blossoms of Japan…
My, my. You can’t be part of the Lost Generation; I think you’ve found your place! As I look for mine by the Cattails and fresh Dahlias…
Have you seen these bunches of Baby’s Breath?? Sincerity only costs $3.95; it’s much more expensive nowadays… They don’t even play Jazz music here… What are you doing here, Fitzgerald? I know you aren’t here for the Hyacinths…
Has someone slain your heart again? My heart was slain many times, but everything happens for a reason, right Francis??
I know you have a thing for Gold, come check out these Daisies…and brighten your day. Don’t fret. Don’t fear. Loosen your heart and let it be free. I’m here. And everything is okay.
The Daisies? Really? Awful choice… I was only kidding about those.
Feb 24, 2015
Feb 24, 2015 at 2:24 PM UTC
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
those eager plantings of last summer's heat
they are the voices of our dearest dead
we have not asked just what the blossoms said
nor listened long to the black loamy beat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
have no regret nor signal any dread
their meaning is not evil it is sweet
they are the voices of our dearest dead
returning to us in the garden spread
in sudden colour in the light complete
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
each shocking signal sent right to the head
and heart that with old sorrow is replete
these are the voices of our dearest dead
gone now but leaving us with souls full fed
since life refuses to accept defeat
hyacinths and daffs in the flowerbed
they are the voices of our dearest dead
Apr 4, 2010
Apr 4, 2010 at 1:58 PM UTC
Those little blue, grape-like flowers
They remind me of childhood.
Sweet, soft, soothing childhood.
I would spend a warm afternoon,
picking the little bead-like petals off the stem,
for no reason in peticular, just to have them.
They were fun to hold in my hand.
Pretend they were little grapes.
Of course, those “grapes” I never ate.
My brothers would say they are poisin grapes.
They remind me of childhood.
Childhood, so sweet, innocent and good.
No drama, no homework, nothing to worry about.
Just playing house, jumping rope, learnign the ABC’s.
Every year, it was exciting when the time came around
when all the bright golden leafs fell to the ground.
pre-school, kindergarden, 1st grade...there comming now.
We’d be happy, getting older...we’d think
while jumping up and down.
But back then we had no idea, no clue at all,
how much we’d miss those carefree days,
our sweet, soft soothing childhood.
It will all seem so distant later on.
But some memories just wont be gone.
Sometimes you will see that flower,
the flower that reminds you of childhood.
Dec 24, 2012
Dec 24, 2012 at 6:12 PM UTC
Well I’ve lived a life just like yours
But I made some choices that were poor
So instead of having it my way
I’m selling flowers on the highway
I have a home but it moves around a lot
Maybe my rent’s the one thing I forgot
If I had my choice I’d dream by day
But for now I’m selling flowers on the highway
And somewhere, somehow, a man in a suit is burning sage
And somewhere, somehow, a woman in a dress is filled with rage
I’d like to tell them all to be proud, witty and gay
But instead I’m selling flowers on the highway
And these roads have an ego, about the size of a town
And the faceless people driving by, to me they look like clowns
Maybe I’m getting old, maybe I just need to feel okay
But for now, I’m stuck here, selling flowers on the highway
I’ve got hyacinths, marigolds and roses
I’ve got one cure for my neurosis
So pass me the bottle, if you may
I’m stuck here selling flowers on the highway
I just want to walk like I usually do
Beneath the tall buildings on the avenue
But for now I’ll bask in the sun’s rays
I’m just a human being, selling flowers on the highway
Dec 27, 2013
Dec 27, 2013 at 4:19 PM UTC
"...There are presumably images in the experience of lower animals...They have not that future and past which gives them, so to speak, any rights as such..." -- George Herbert Mead.
Lower being a term relative to concepts like the limbs of trees or the position in a list, only a careful, philosophical assessment was capable of blooming as a flower from the starfish to the stars. The past was an increment creating a (perfected, preferred) series of growths unfolding by the propagation of a (blueprint, dream). The dreams quantized ideology to make the receptivity and the discoveries made by grape hyacinths or hardy grass.
[ d _ cos ln d ( g , h ) P ( t ) ] = { [ tau n ( u ) d I ] / ( d e ) } :
int F ( B ) d I = dfn q ( r ) d r .
Best liked was the colorful effect of self enthusiasm, bringing shade, from the darkness to the twilight, of the trees. Yet, the animals had learned to grow claws and legs. Were the birds not learning to fly? Striving brought a weight of labor, the years were fading into prehistory. Predestiny had been a decision by tulips. Disturbances had been required to bring evolution. Insects were living a fantasy with flowers. This looked across to obscurity. Those hidden were not like those dancing.
Jul 21, 2014
Jul 21, 2014 at 8:22 PM UTC
I remember creeping reverently past
The yawning maw
Snarling braches, overgrown foliage
Sad eye sockets
The defeated roof
Listing drunkenly to the left
The black spirals on the ground
Where the fire had scored earth bare
Crouched from the sanctity of the sidewalk
Damp palm snaking back to
Clasp tight
My best friend’s hand
Fear skittering up our spines
We skirted past poisonous green weeds
That swayed in the yard
Unkempt and our eyes
Darted, seeking, feral
For movement in that open doorway
Her shadow
The witch
Years pass
Looking out into suburbia
Manicured green boxes
And cookie-cutter plans
From my own cracked window
My newly acquired reno,
I spot a flash of moving colour
From beyond the overgrown hyacinths
A tousled flash of curls between the green
Puzzlement ripples as
Three lanky preadolescent forms
Snake from the protection of my shaggy firs
Thin chests taking a breath before
Their whippy arms point accusing
And I barely see a flash before
The clutched rock leaves the
Stupid-looking red headed one’s hand
Crashing through my upstairs master
And I hear it
Witch, witch, where’s the witch?
And I feel it.
My eyes beadily narrow
Peering over my bulbous nose
Shoulders hunching
Toes curl
And I reach for
The broom leaning next
The painter’s cloth
Grabbing on with knobbly fingers
Hurling myself
Out
Of
The door
Their eyes widened
Disbelieving
As they spot me
And thumbs clutched between index fingers
They run
Leaving me cackling
Breathless
While my familiar
Looks up from
Sunning her black self
On the step.
Sep 2, 2009
Sep 2, 2009 at 7:49 PM UTC
Life has beauty in her nooks
In woods that trill of feathered songs
Where fireflies dance at dusk
And starlight blankets night till dawn
In the rhythm of falling rain
And drops of dew that shine on leaves
On mountain tops that reach the sky
The mystic shades of coral reefs
And if you feel spirits sag
Heavy eyes with burdens stressed
Rest your eyes on hyacinths
And on the moon cradling a crest
Catch the starlight streaming down
See angels in clouds that pass
Lay your head on a flower bed
Run bare feet on the grass
Life has beauty in her arms
In kindness and the touch of love
In promises of hope and strength
Like the warm sun from above
In bouquets of wishes of care
Hands that tuck a flower in
Near and dear those precious ones
That soothe and balm a broken skin
And if you feel spirits sag
Heavy eyes with burdens stressed
Rest your head on a shoulder kind
And His eyes that forever bless
Your own shoulder, a solace be
Hands clasp another tight
For other spirits sag too
Then-
Into the beauty of the night.
Sep 11, 2016
Sep 11, 2016 at 9:34 AM UTC
Praise be to you, April, black patch of earth
All colors rise from your mysterious blackness
Lilacs of memory and desire, secretive lilies and primordial hyacinths
Praise be to you, round sun
For you have remained the same
Like the morning birds
who, among those human build ruins
still sing as in the cool valleys of origins
Praise be to you, anonymous worker of this land
Alchemist of the visible and the not visible
And to you, nameless form of unseen existence
Keeper of the premises of faith and silence
You, who have covered me with this blanket of dreams
I return to you that which I've stolen
I return to you my separated existence
Apr 25, 2015
Apr 25, 2015 at 6:57 PM UTC
Chaos is my North Star
My god
Because it is only through chaos
That we can burn down the underbrush and weeds
Of old ideas
Old systems
Bureaucracies and impediments
And plant
Hyacinths of truth
But then again
Ask me about all this
When I am 49
Aug 20, 2013
Aug 20, 2013 at 7:46 AM UTC
The squalid honey of this urban hive
that sways and quivers in Escolta's arms
assaulting viscous currents, I've survived
to witness time dissolve in waters warm.
When monsoon whispers calmed the fev'rish night,
hyacinths surren'dring to kundíman songs
seduced I was to words meant to ignite
another's lust. But still 'tis I that long
In time, desire has rotten into liquor
and putrid nectar spoiled in unloved lips--
this rancor that I spit into this river
to curse the farewell of your westward ship
and centuries have passed, yet here I bathe
Manila's vein that bursts with restless hate
Mar 31, 2020
Mar 31, 2020 at 2:56 PM UTC
I can smell
the soft floral remanence
of blue hyacinths in bloom.
The smell lingers everywhere.
It reminds me of you.
How you always smelled
so sweet,
like you'd just had a bath
with fresh lavender,
and rose petals swimming
all around you,
gathering at your feet.
I miss that smell,
almost as much as I miss you.
It's been a long time
since I've thought about you.
I've pushed you from my mind,
from my scarred up heart.
It's better that way,
keeping those memories
locked up inside me.
It took a long time
to stitch together
the pieces,
after you so carelessly
ripped my heart apart.
I'll always resent you for that.
I'll always love you for it too,
and whenever those hyacinths
are in full bloom
outside my window
I'll think of you,
of how much I loved you,
and for just a moment
I'll feel a touch
of the hyacinth blues.
Mar 21, 2017
Mar 21, 2017 at 2:03 AM UTC
The world shows you bouquets while law screams of consequence
So loud that you begin to wonder
At the random order of floral arrangements -
Red masked hyacinths
Fox-gloved armaments
Honeybee sentinels guarding the last living queen
Who will she be
Are hornets defter than bees at murdering interlopers -
The last of these I've seen
Tiptoe at the grave of endangered species.
Mar 24, 2016
Mar 24, 2016 at 8:42 PM UTC