A Flower To Auroville Mother-43
Fuchsia(Fuchsia spp)
Vine Fuchsia(Fuchsia corymbiflora)
Eardrops you look like
O'fuschia pendulous
Or
Neckpendant you look like
O'fuschia pendulous
Or
A dancerlike you look..
Sepaled fluttering
Four upward all alike
Petaled drooping
Rest downward all alike
Peeping stamens peering
Mixed colours all to strike
Laughing leaves notched
There a cousin nearby
Hanging in clusters
Racemed tubes bubbly
Her reflexed sepals
Reflecting all ruby
Stooping scarlet petals
Lettingg stamens peppy
Vined leaves thrilled
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Related quotes
You may have other loves,
You may have other loves,
Red mouths to kiss.
Why should you lose
That loveliness for this?
No loveliness of mine
That comes and goes
Wild-fuchsia-like,
Need blind you to the rose.
So I, who bless
Your hot and passionate ways,
Still need the starry loves
Of virgin days.
poem by Lesbia Harford
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Arrival
The first flush of Spring arrives
Tinted with fuchsia infection
Opening to fresh new attitudes
Where, as a gem, lily white brillances shines
Leaving long long behind
The chill of all the misguided shadows
Of Winters broken disfigured leaves
Where the white noise deafened
The warm rains rush the needful Earth
Given the liberty to quench its buds
Bringing forth the gorgeous perfumed air
That is so positive-that it just has to be Spring
September 22,2010
The First Day Of Fall
The Essence
poem by Theodora Onken
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-48
Golden Trumpet Vine(Allamanda Vine
Allamanda cathartica)
Bush Allamanda(Oleander-Leaved Allamanda
Allamanda neriifolia)
All that ye possess is just simplicity
Simply the yellow bright like sun light
Lighting around to show cluttered leaves
Leaving ye upon just a rubbish atrocity
'Atrocious', ye try to trumpet to all
All but don't hear your toungless voice
Voicing with hidden stamens somewhere ajar
Ajar in rustling dried leaves of yours
Yours albeit a scentless beauty, lot useful
Useful curative cleansing body and mind
Minding when all jasmines fail to bloom
Blooming Lord asks for golden Allamanda
Allamanda, vine to blush purple and supple
Supple enough to be shrubby bushy in clusters
Clusters of ye flowers binding all hearts
Hearts at the Lord's feet with ye Allamandas
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Sunset sky
Gold
ruptures
shining pearl
splitting ashen
powdered nebula
languidly changing form.
Infused fuchsia wisps unfold
drowsily thread by thread trailing
athwart the resplendent crimson orb
seductively slipping into twilight.
poem by Diana Rosser
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When I No Longer Exist, You Will
Put your fuchsia lipstick on
And let’s walk out into the sun.
Your hazel eyes sparkle in the daylight
Standing near the floral shop
Making all the loneliness of yesterday
Seem alright.
So many glamorous words like alluring
Enter my mind and dance
When I fall asleep at night
And dream of your gold necklace
In the barroom light
As you stand sweetly
With a glass of wine.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Color Critic
Why does it bother me
That the juice of the plum
At the heart of the poem
Should not be maroon?
Did I not feel the heartbeat
Of a mother birthng her loss?
As the fledging left her hand
Jar shattering, ripe womanhood
Spilled?
What was that color then?
We all know it. Saffron? No.
Fuchsia? Close. Not pink, nor purple,
And, definitely, not maroon.
By concentrating on the hue
I escape the pain
Of my vermillion loss.
poem by Suxanne Popp
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Hotel Olympic Plage
the moon across his shoulders
listening to the silence of cicadas
in the darkness of Aleppo Pines
and the murmurings of shadows
ascending the steps from the beach
there stands Apollo
at the entrance to the cocktail-bar
how could it have come to this
even the you know what
has lost it's fizz
yet there's magic on this terrace
civilisation's furthest reach
at the tips of Barbie's fingers
it's rouge laque
coral
fuchsia
apricot
and peach
poem by STEPHEN BRIAN Brady
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Girl with a Pearl Earring
Lift your head - look not in shadows
Gaze not into murky dark pools
Raise high - let nothing foreshadow
Let your heart be my muse.
Let me dry ephemeral tears away
Let me paint a portrait genius
Dull the moonlit night into disarray
Turn the sun - into trickster's waxes.
Let me isolate the stars in a gaze
Catch jeweled a virgin panorama…
This world displays, let all else, malaise
On an earring, dangling - white fuchsia...
poem by Mark Heathcote
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Heaven....?
Heaven, eternal happiness!
Never to expire!
Millennia upon moments-
Spent strumming a wooden lyre
Heaven, encompassing light
Amongst each and other,
Floating free on fuchsia fluff
Blowing kisses to one another
Heaven, like the evergreens!
Calm and all one state!
Yet pen***s do not exist-
There’s no need to masturbate.
Heaven, eternal knowledge-
Tranquility is the limit,
Desire not to eat or nap-
Have fun being limit committed-
I’d rather go to hell.
poem by Lazarus Knix
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Writ In A Book Of Welsh Verse
This is the house where I was bred:
The wind blows through it without stint,
The wind bitten by the roadside mint;
Here brake I loaf, here climbed to bed.
The fuchsia on the window sill;
Even the candlesticks a-row,
Wrought by grave men so long ago —
I loved them once, I love them still.
Southward and westward a great sky! —
The throb of sea within mine ear —
Then something different, more near,
As though a wistful foot went by.
Ghost of a ghost down all the years! —
In low-roofed room, at turn of stair,
At table-setting, and at prayer,
Old wars, old hungers, and old tears!
poem by Lizette Woodworth Reese
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A Glimpse of Heaven
The sky resplendent
With translucent streamers
Suspended from end to end…
In colours brilliant-
Fuchsia, grapefruit yellow
Dove white and indigo,
Watermelon red and,
Purple grapes.
I joined the celebrations
Along with crescent moon-
Looking with an indulgent smile
Like a grandparent, at a
Child, jumping with joy...
At 10,000 feet height
While flying,
Wondering if it was
A flight of fancy…
The city was fading away
In twilight, din of traffic
Far below,
Dim lights only sign
Of civilized living...
Just a shift of glance
Filled me with amazement
And I gasped incredible, incredible-
Festivities in the sky,
Is it a farewell to the Sun
On it’s onwards journey?
My spirits buoyed
And I revelled at this
Surreal representation,
Till I was rudely woken from my reverie
By a voice
We have reached our destination,
I touched ground,
After a glimpse of heaven…
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Two Alike
Two Alike
Two Entities
Pulsating alike—
Two hearts
Beating alike—
Two minds
Throbbing alike—
Two souls
Singing alike!
Has anyone seen
Such a like
In this world
Where nothing is alike?
poem by Chandra Thiagarajan
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The Garden Sleeper
He slept for years out of doors
in a garden in London, his daytime
job, some sort of writer.
I didn't know him, but my path
as a young typist must have crossed his:
not only a bright colleger
but an abandoned lover, a philosopher,
a gardener without a garden
and a loafer in cafes rode to work with me.
From my north London window also
came the peck of a typewriter,
above the tired lemon shrub trees
hemmed in by dozing cats.
Trapped among statuary
lay summer-houses all year through.
He slept behind
the throng, the push of humankind,
the escalator pit,
the tall deaf buildings
connecting squares,
mind burrowing
in sentence-stretches, bits of maps
out of the libraries, museums,
much-loved bookshops.
Leaves opened out
in a city of milllions.
We read each other now.
A scrap in a plant-pot in my room
turned into a fuchsia.
Daisy-light shone by the railings.
At last, we all saw our
fought-for survivals
unfold. Each road led to another.
We do not live in London
and I have a garden
I am too old to sleep in.
1990
poem by Sally Evans
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Coming Home
Punchestown races a glorious extravaganza,
You had a flutter on Fuchsia Belle,
Tall white haired man, softest baby blue eyes,
Everything new and wondrous to you,
Without any fuss you showered your warmth,
Outside the rain lashed down relentlessly,
All together we were like long lost pals,
As you wove your pure spell,
Watching as horses fell, virgin territory
For the farmer with plenty of charm,
Never doing anybody any harm,
A life dedicated to your beloved farm.
Years have passed many changes taking place,
Lover of nature, plenty of patience as you work at your own pace,
Gentleness oozes from your eyes like water over a smooth stone,
You hold my hand, i feel i am coming home.
poem by Hazel Durham
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I tend my flowers for thee
339
I tend my flowers for thee—
Bright Absentee!
My Fuchsia's Coral Seams
Rip—while the Sower—dreams—
Geraniums— tint—and spot—
Low Daisies—dot—
My Cactus—splits her Beard
To show her throat—
Carnations—tip their spice—
And Bees—pick up—
A Hyacinth—I hid—
Puts out a Ruffled Head—
And odors fall
From flasks—so small—
You marvel how they held—
Globe Roses—break their satin glake—
Upon my Garden floor—
Yet—thou—not there—
I had as lief they bore
No Crimson—more—
Thy flower—be gay—
Her Lord—away!
It ill becometh me—
I'll dwell in Calyx—Gray—
How modestly—alway—
Thy Daisy—
Draped for thee!
poem by Emily Dickinson
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Cirque
Alone in a dark room
A figure sits
A woman
A girl
Bedraggled hair
White face
Red lips
Scarred
Arms crossed over her chest
X
Clasping each shoulder
Lightly
As though afraid to touch
One hand shakes
Quivers
All she can hear is
Razor blades over a violin
Screech
Her hair is wrinkled
Wet
Like her lips
Chapped and red
Glistening
She’s not in pain
She giggles
Insane
Looks up
Dark eyes
Circled in black
Sunken like pits
Hair, so pale,
It could be green
Dress of purple
Lilac
Fuchsia
Her arms unfold
Her smile widens
Into Glaswegian
She runs her tongue
Across her teeth
Like she’s hungry
“Smile, much? ”
She’ll giggle
As she unveils a knife
poem by Rebecca Kate Summers
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Fallen Petals
for one thing i do not know the name
of this sea flower falling from a very lushy
tree whose leaves reach to the sands
as though kissing salt and silence
it is a big flower with pink lines
following the sides
the stamens are long and
scented like a woman with perfume
on her hair
alone in the night she walks
towards a cave
of cascading desire and there
he is waiting naked
the flowers keep on falling
the petals crushed
the night is silent
and well scented
the shadows fuse and then
they were lost in total darkness
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Lost the Colors of Giotto
I LOST THE COLORS OF GIOTTO
I lost the colors of Giotto:
the steady pouring of
earnest angels; the
forerunning fuchsia
of generations of light
and fountaining ardor.
I lost the sorrowless
carmine quiet, the
rectitude of stars lapped
in lapis lazuli
the indigo stairwell of clouds.
I lost the olive branching, the
sweet cerulean days; the small
birds gathered in the lemon wind;
I lost my place at the shell pink window
and grieved for the shimmering ladder,
misplaced;
through the vacant castle I sought so many things
but the way was fused I lost
the sunset aureoles
the unchastening wing
then it seemed that I lost Earth
and all my tears flowed upwards
in the Space where you were not: I lost
the sundial in the shade
of your last rose
mary angela douglas 5 june 2009
poem by Mary Douglas
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In Profusion
In bloom, the Rose of Sharon, with its honey yellow hue,
Along with the graceful Jasmine, Clematis and Lilac too.
Followed by the Buddleia, that the butterflies so love,
Sedum, Quince and Penstemon, and the tall Foxglove.
With Crocosmia of orange and lime green Hosta bright,
London Pride, Pansy, Primula, what joy they all invite.
Geraniums in profusion, charm the glancing eye,
And standing proud, as if on guard, the grand gladioli.
Lily of the Valley with dainty bell shapes, white,
Japanese Anemones that close their heads at night.
Lavender and Fuchsia plus Hydrangea pink and blue,
All these lovely flowers grow in my backyard venue.
Pleasure is in the looking and seeing such a show,
A palate of such beauty, like the sweep of a rainbow,
Nature in all its excellence, dresses this vibrant scene.
In one small English garden these genre thus convene.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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Watch
1.
Watching it closely, respecting its mystery,
is the note you've pinned above this heavy Dutch table
that takes the light weight of what you work at,
coaxing the seen and any mystery it might secrete
into words that mightn't fall too far short, might let you
hear how the hum of bees in the pink fuchsia
and among the buttercups and fat blackberries
is echoed by that deep swissshhh sound that is
your own blood coursing its steady laps
and speaking in beats to the drum of your left ear.
2.
When you watch the way the sycamore leaf curls,
browns, dries, and drops from the branch it's lived on
since spring, to be blown by a soundless breeze
along the seed heads of the uncut grass, then
the mystery that is its movement—the movement,
that is, from seed to leaf-shard and so on
to fructive dust—holds still an instant, gives a glimpse
of something that quickens away from language
into the riddling bustle of just the actual as you
grab at it and it disappears again, again unsaid.
poem by Eamon Grennan
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