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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Related quotes
Green Branch
I want to be a green branch
In vineyards of the Lord
To grow in strength and beauty
As leaves to light unfold
To dwell close to the true vine
Refreshed by showers of faith
Amid a sea of flowers
No weeds, no seeds of wraith
I want to see the garden
That Jesus tends with love
The true vine of all living
Who blesses from above
I want to be a green branch
In vineyards of the Lord
To grow in strength and beauty
As leaves to light unfold.
poem by Liilia Talts Morrison
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-32
Thanga Arali, Manjal Arali
(Mexican oleander, Yellow Oleander, Lucky Nut
Thevetia peruviana)
Swarna Pushpam(Yellow bells, Yellow trumpet,
Yellow-Elder, Tecoma stans)
How can it be else possible
While you both are divine
For yellow oleander plausible
Yet having lucky-nutty poison..
Swarna, tell me how come slender
Yet pull your support all down
Bewitching with a belled splendour
For us yellow bells as well known
Of similar colour and persona
Puzzled of ManjalArali which we
No puzzle but we know now in awe
Thevetia, Tecoma friends we agree
Coloured of same tinge by Lord's wish
Differed a bit of shape in leaves
Grown to a shrubby tree to enravish
For pooja with you our prayer heeds
poem by Indira Renganathan
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On a Theme in the Greek Anthology
Thy petals yet are closely curled,
Rose of the world,
Around their scented, golden core;
Nor yet has Summer purpled o'er
Thy tender clusters that begin
To swell within
The dewy vine-leaves' early screen
Of sheltering green.
O hearts that are Love's helpless prey,
While yet you may,
Fly, ere the shaft is on the string!
The fire that now is smouldering
Shall be the conflagration soon
Whose paths are strewn
With torment of blanched lips and eyes
That agonize.
poem by Alan Seeger
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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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A Coronal
WITH HIS SONGS AND HER DAYS TO HIS LADY AND TO LOVE
Violets and leaves of vine,
Into a frail, fair wreath
We gather and entwine:
A wreath for Love to wear,
Fragrant as his own breath,
To crown his brow divine,
All day till night is near.
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine
For Love that lives a day,
We gather and entwine.
All day till Love is dead,
Till eve falls, cold and gray,
These blossoms, yours and mine,
Love wears upon his head,
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
Violets and leaves of vine,
For Love when poor Love dies
We gather and entwine.
This wreath that lives a day
Over his pale, cold eyes,
Kissed shut by Proserpine,
At set of sun we lay:
Violets and leaves of vine
We gather and entwine.
poem by Ernest Christopher Dowson
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Sonnet: Jesus, the Grape-Vine
“I am the Vine: You be its branch always.”
Jesus is succor and our nourishment;
Allow the sap to flow to bless your days;
There will be no defeat or punishment.
’Tis easy being branch with leaves and fruits;
We help the vine to grow luxuriously;
The starch that’s made makes sturdy trunk and roots;
The wine from grapes will soothe hearts curiously.
A broken branch will lose its life quite soon;
A leafless one is useless to the vine;
A fruitless one is bane and not a boon;
With God, we make our earthly days divine.
The vine is proud to make the best of wine;
With God’s will done, man’s soul looks rather fine!
poem by John Celes
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The Rebellious Vine
One day, the vine
That clomb on god’s own house
Cried, “I will not
grow
And, ‘I will
not
grow,’
And, I
will
not grow,’
And,
‘I
will not grow,’
So God leaned out his head,
And said:
‘You need
not
Then the vine
fluttered its leaves, and cried to all the winds:
‘Oh have I not permission from the Lord?
And may I not begin to cease to grow?’
But that wise God had pondered on the vine
Before he made it.
And all the while it laboured not to grow,
It grew; it grew;
And all the time God knew.
poem by Harold Monro
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The couple must cling
Two trees cannot cling to each other
And two vines do not cling together.
To cling, there be a tree and a vine.
Bend your wife or bend to her utmost.
Be supple if she is not supple
Or divide between you the time and the place
As to when and where each be supple.
Between the couple must there be clinging
For the welfare of home and children.
Once accustomed, discomfort is over.
15.10.2008
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Trumpet Voice
I live to hear my father sing
People come
Far and wide
Gathering like anchovies in a can
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father burns a record
Neighbors and friends
Float from their lonely birdhouses
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father records a tape
The family sits in the living room
Under the golden chandelier
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
My father has a CD
My brother and I sit in my room
Playing Parcheesi
We open the player
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
I lie on the city bus
One seat for my head
The other for my feet
I turn on my small, silver iPod
And zone out from the world
To hear his deep, trumpet voice
poem by Aury Cecile
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A Flower To Auroville Mother 28
Kodi sampangi, (chambangi, Telosma minor,
Telosma cordata)
Yellow-green pale in subdued hidden silence
Sparse and scarce and slack you're this day
Of mechanised life moulded of machines, mindless
Man to remind and commend you to world of today
Yet of your fragrance divine in evening bloom
A rare beatitude hued creamy in dulcet nightfall
Leafing hearts supporting along the vine as you groom
Bewitched people some treasure you in closer hearts
Salient, sanative cupped perfume an abundant spray
In grip of a hardy trunk as you blossom in clusters
Of culinary exotica too, Telosma, what else? 'Hurray...Hurray..'
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Squash in Blossom
How lush, how loose, the uninhibited squash is.
If ever hearts (and these immoderate leaves
Are vegetable hearts) were worn on sleeves,
The squash's are. In green the squash vine gushes.
The flowers are cornucopias of summer,
Briefly exuberant and cheaply golden.
And if they make a show of being hidden,
Are open promiscuously to every comer.
Let the squash be what it was doomed to be
By the old Gardener with the shrewd green thumb.
Let it expand and sprawl, defenceless, dumb.
But let me be the fiber-disciplined tree
Whose leaf (with something to say in wind) is small,
Reduced to the ingenuity of a green splinter
Sharp to defy or fraternize with winter,
Or if not that, prepared in fall to fall.
poem by Robert Francis
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Across The Window
The Vine crept out across the window, tall and arched,
and curled in such profusion as it went,
Planted there with great pride so many years ago,
each year it’s growth is always so well spent.
Its flowers like long golden trumpets in clusters hang,
varied colours, reds, pinks and yellows glow.
Decorating the fine old Victorian bricks,
giving to all a spectacular show.
The twisted and gnarled high branches giving support,
look sadly bare when winter comes around,
A bird’s-nest is suddenly spied within its wrap,
empty now of its cargo. Not a sound
is heard of four chirping chicks who cried out last spring,
all have flown now, making new homes in trees.
Amongst foliage, little ones are warm and safe,
shielded from rain and sun and teasing breeze.
The Vine crept our across the window, tall and arched,
and curled in such profusion as it went,
To see it, through the four seasons, is such a joy,
its fresh renewal, leaving one content.
poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Vine
I dreamed this mortal part of mine
Was metamorphosed to a vine,
Which, crawling one and every way,
Enthralled my dainty Lucia.
Methought, her long small legs and thighs
I with my tendrils did surprise:
Her belley, buttocks, and her waist
By my soft nervelets were embraced
About her head I writhing hung
And with rich clusters (hid Amoung
The leaves) her temples i behung,
So that my Lucia seemed to me
Young Bacchus ravished by his tree.
My curls about her neck did crawl,
ANd arms and hands they did enthrall,
So that she could not freely stir
( All parts there made one prisoner).
But when I crept with leaves to hide
Those parts which maids keep unespied,
Such fleeting pleasures there I took
That with the fancy i awoke,
And found (ah me!) this flesh of mine
More like a stock than like a vine.
poem by Robert Herrick
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Beside The Sea
ONE time he dreamed beside a sea
That laid a mane of mimic stars
In fondling quiet on the knee
Of one tall, pearlèd cliff; the bars
Of golden beaches upward swept;
Pine-scented shadows seaward crept.
The full moon swung her ripened sphere
As from a vine; and clouds, as small
As vine leaves in the opening year,
Kissed the large circle of her ball.
The stars gleamed thro' them as one sees
Thor' vine leaves drift the golden bees.
He dreamed beside this purple sea;
Low sang its trancéd voice, and he-
He knew not if the wordless strain
Made prophecy of joy or pain;
He only knew far stretched that sea,
He knew its name-Eternity.
A shallop with a rainbow sail
On the bright pulses of the tide
Throbbed airily; a fluting gale
Kissed the rich gilding of its side;
By chain of rose and myrtle fast
A light sail touched the slender mast.
'A flower-bright rainbow thing,' he said
To one beside him, 'far too frail
To brave dark storms that lurk ahead,
To dare sharp talons of the gale.
Beloved, thou wouldst not forth with me
In such a bark on such a sea?'
'First tell me of its name.' She bent
Her eyes divine and innocent
On his. He raised his hand above
Its prow and answering swore, ''Tis Love!'
'Now tell,' she asked, 'how is it build-
Of gold, or worthless timber gilt?'
'Of gold,' he said. 'Whence named?' asked she,
The roses of her lips apart;
She paused-a lily by the sea.
Came his swift answer, 'From my heart!'
She laid her light palm in his hand:
'Let loose the shallop from the strand!'
poem by Isabella Valancy Crawford
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A Tulip That Does Not Wilt
there is a vine, so green
i put on a vase
of glass, there is water
and pebbles
the vine grows some more
leaves
alive on the filtered light
from the window pane,
there is a red tulip that never
dies there
but also does not
grow,
that plastic one i bought
a year ago,
i do not remember having washed it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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My Sort Of Poetry
A group of words that intends nothing
But only me
A group of words running towards a market of ideas
With no intention to buy or to sell
A group of children running towards the parks
Rushing
For no reason but
To play
Or simply a lonely
Word
With no other ambition, but to simply stroll under some shady trees of the boulevard
It has no direction
A mumbo jumbo with
No matching magic intended
A group of words like running cars to roads without traffic signs
Chaotic, dangerous, deadly
Accident-prone
Willing to take a solo flight
Then crash into the deepest sea
Or hit an indestructible mountain
Words that run berserk like kamikaze
When fed up
May take a sudden twist
Yogic stand stilling
Hide if you seek
Die if you will
Absurd
At times defecating,
Farting in the middle of a solemn mass
A group of words invented by my heart and mind
And mine alone
Hypocrite words hand in hand with honest words
Telling lies
And telling truths
And you shall be confused
By all these confabulations
Though not what I really wanted to achieve,
As I have no criminal malice
Except to make this group of words
For its own sake
My sake
My very own pleasure
Tiny pleasure
Now numb,
Now dead
Another victim
In a perfect crime
My own group of words wanting only to be human,
Ought to be,
Must have been,
And always must be
A group of human words
Where burdens are buried underneath
Or in-between
Hibernating mudfish
Molting garter snake
Molten magma
Saved saliva
Spittle
Living group of words,
Pulsating tadpole
Searching like a frisking airport guard trained for terrorism
A group of words, sort of poetry, sort of
My life
Expressing the idea
That some ideas are meant simply to be concealed
To be unexpressed, unexposed
. Like a newly cut- stem
Of a purple allamanda for propagation
For the next generation
Hidden from the sun
Glare is death
Exposure can become invisibility
Like familiarity breeding contempt
Too much
Can be nothing
In effect
Conceal to show the power of expression
I conceal to show my self to you
Helpless in anger
And it is good
Because we all need it
What is there to say?
When everything is there
Like a sea lion sunbathing
Or the penguins in procession
Or the goldfish
Inside a bowl
The noon sun
The full midnight moon
The white cross of Magellan
Or the twin towers of York
The need of not having to say any word
After all
Is the gift of etiquette
I am
Silent in too much noise
Unfathomable by too much layered depth
Of the everyday mores
Thick face
Thin scary skin
Lively feelings meant for the dead
For those better not said, better not done
For those that which these words have done and for those left undone
My life, my sort of group, of own words
All written for the prolongation of the secretive human race
For the preservation of this transient world
In the name of duty, of life, the ought, the must, the mandatory, of all the laws, man-made and
God- made
I shall obey
I have followed
Down to the last letter
All focused for eternity
All these words
Of fingers pointing towards the thousand careful touches of humanity
My greatest sigh of all
This group of words is so dedicated.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-92
Kodiroja(Coral vine, Antigonon leptopus)
White Coral Vine(Antigonon leptopus 'Alba')
I sowed in my childhood
Eager I waited and stood
You grew into my heart
High to the Lord's feet
As high As Him so good
I can feel Him pleased
Your floral aura filled
Pinkish bracts guarding
Subdued flowers smiling
Thickened greens appeased
Coral, grow fast and wild
Slender tendrils upward
Hearty leaves in bushes
My heart well in clutches
Viny coral, twist entwined
poem by Indira Renganathan
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Vines of Love
Two hearts beating as one
Entwined like a vine
The many colours of love's curling ends
Rolling fingers on canvas
Like soft gentle flaps of butterfly wings
Toe curling sighs of delight
Eating juiciest fruit from the vine
Creeping crawling whatever the calling
Under the moon's light
Twirling curling consuming
Caressing with words
Touching souls
Vine steadied around pillars of stairway
Love shading the night
poem by Persian Khushi
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A Flower To Auroville Mother-65
Blue Trumpet Bush
(Strobilanthes tomentosa
Aechmanthera gossypina)
Little eyes look at so many
Little brain eats as many
Yet too little known only
Puzzling blues as are many
My folly'Bluebell, Bluebell'
Yelled my mouth of little
In brain gathered brittle
Ho, but different and subtle
Shrubby bush leafed elliptic
Blue, violet, purplish hectic
Clustered flora trumpet-magic
Tubed raise of an elysian chic
Hunt o' my heart hunt ceaseless
Anyway for blue trumpet endless
Stop, hear her hush relentless
Wonder at the goddess ageless
poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Bride
“YOU know, my friends, with what a brave carouse
I made a second marriage in my house,—
Divorced old barren Reason from my bed
And took the Daughter of the Vine to spouse.”
So sang the Lord of Poets. In a gleam
Of light that made her like an angel seem,
The Daughter of the Vine said: “I myself
Am Reason, and the Other was a Dream.”
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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