Sonnet Of Motherhood X
I walked among the flowers that bend their heads
Low to the earth and back again to light,
Hearing them prattle of their blue and white—
Violet and jasmine in the bordered beds.
They whispered them of every wing that weds
388ഊFragrance to fragrance in the dusky night;
And, seeing them, I knew another sight,
And saw them bowing where all Beauty spreads.
I touched each petal with the sunbeams flaked—
Roses and pansies of the early morn,
Lilies that lilted of the moon’s light grace,
And left them hushed when all my joy was slaked;
For in the garden of my soul, God-born,
Each flower made beauty for my child’s soft face.
poem by Zora Bernice May Cross
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A Walk In The Park
On a wintry morn, just for a lark,
I went for a morning walk.
All of a sudden I spotted roses bloom.
I stood spellbound watching the hues
And had my daily talk with God,
And said out aloud, Lord
How do you do it?
While we hassled, sit
And moan about life being dreary
At the end of the day when we are weary.
As I walked past flower beds,
In colors- pink, white, violet and red.
Poppy, Calendula, Pansy, Flox
Their smiling upturned faces seem to mock.
They will die in a day or two,
I thought as I saw the petals covered with dew.
They just bloom unaware of their beauty,
Has God sent them to fulfill a duty?
I wonder why we pluck flowers,
And put them in vases.
They belong here
In the flower beds, where
All can bask in their beauty
And forget about their chores and duty.
poem by Mamta Agarwal
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Alone
THE lilies clustered fair and tall;
I stood outside the garden wall;
I saw her light robe glimmering through
The fragrant evening's dusk and dew.
She stopped above the lilies pale;
Up the clear east the moon did sail;
I saw her bend her lovely head
O'er her rich roses blushing red.
Her slender hand the flowers caressed,
Her touch the unconscious blossoms blessed;
The rose against her perfumed palm
Leaned its soft cheek in blissful calm.
I would have given my soul to be
That rose she touched so tenderly!
I stood alone, outside the gate,
And knew that life was desolate.
poem by Celia Thaxter
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The Immortal
BEAUTY is still immortal in our eyes;
When sways no more the spirit-haunted reed,
When the wild grape shall build
No more her canopies,
When blows no more the moon-gray thistle seed,
When the last bell has lulled the white flocks home,
When the last eve has stilled
The wandering wing and touched the dying foam,
When the last moon burns low, and, spark by spark,
The little worlds die out along the dark,–
Beauty that rosed the moth-wing, touched the land
With clover-horns and delicate faint flowers,
Beauty that bade the showers
Beat on the violet's face,
Shall hold the eternal heavens within their place
And hear new stars come singing from God's hand.
poem by Marjorie Lowry Christie Pickthall
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Love Aches
Have you ever craved the waves of flowers perfume
That float in the garden of roses under the moon sheen loom
They come and go whence no one knows at night gloom
As spring renewed his reign in colors and in splendor bloom
Thoughts of sadness wave and sail in my mind
They come and go leaving memories of pain and agony behind
Like that keen fragrance in the garden, born on the wings of soft wind
And yet none of the flow of thoughts is soft, soothing or kind
But in the instant the thoughts of air remain
To ignite the memory I knew of laughter and of joyful pain
Of times unlike now that will not come again.
The mountains of aching thoughts the earth under heavy clouds of rain
I try to catch and subdue my mind of these many tunes
Like tears of light fallen from the forlorn moon,
Flattened, scattered and bright on a dark lagoon,
Where high reeds lull and sway by echoing duns
But my mind is dissolved under such bare
My anguish floats away, I am too timid, for who can hold
The pain of Youth, the perfume of a flower or a moon so bold?
Where one can ask the strength to dare?
At Glan-y-Wern
White-robed against the threefold white
Of shutter, glass and curtains' lace,
She flashed into the evening light
The brilliance of her gipsy face:
I saw the evening in her light.
Clear, from the soft hair to the mouth,
Her ardent face made manifest
The sultry beauty of the South:
Below, a red rose, climbing, pressed
Against the roses of her mouth.
So, in the window's threefold white,
O'ertrailed with foliage like a bower,
She seemed, against the evening light,
Amongst the flowers herself a flower,
A tiger-lily sheathed in white.
poem by Arthur Symons
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Distant Winters
There are spring flowers
Exuding an exhilarating fragrance
And unimaginable beauty.
If nurtured, they flourish
Throughout the summer.
In late autumn, every garden is sad
As the colors fade
And every delicate petal
Begins to fall to the ground.
There are certain flowers
That bring us immense joy for awhile
And then they’re never seen again.
Remain someone’s endearing flower
For as long as you have your being in the sunlight of life,
And then, perhaps,
The perfume of your love
Will long be wafted
Into the hearts you’ve touched
After distant winters
Have carried you far away.
poem by Uriah Hamilton
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Yes, My God Is Everywhere
My Lord is everywhere
every petal of flower has been touched by his hand
every blow of wind has been softened by his heartbeats
every my tear has been moistened by his drops
every my heartbeat has been pleasured by his love
The beauty of flowers the kiss of God's lips
the beauty of grass the touch of God's hands
the beauty of sea the rain of God's tears
the beauty of mountain the power of God'mystery
Every my suffer has been cuddled by his blood
every my pain has been taken by his veins
every my cold night has been drowned into his warmth
every my lost has been straightened by his paths
The beauty of sunrise the purity of God's light
the beauty of sunset the red of God's blood
the beauty of hope the green of God's buds
the beauty of trust the God's belief in me
Yes, my God is everyhwere
poem by Ata Augustyn
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Birth, Pain, Love, Happiness, Sacrifice and Death-A Life Quoted
Penning down the fantasy,
From the land with mortals as scarcity,
Every frame having its liberty,
Where no word is struck with sterility.
The verse depicting a prose,
As in the clouds the sun rose,
Earning the smile of every earthly rose,
And going to touch Lord’s toes.
A flower was born out of the soil,
Where others were in turmoil,
Beauty of love it had in its essence coil,
Budding out it was juvenile.
Grew it on every ray of light,
But the days were not full of delight,
The clouds and the floods came into its sight,
And it slept every day as if it was a night.
Faded were the colors,
Days it lived like counting numbers,
But there is a God who never slumbers,
For the life of a child He played like a gambler.
Sent He a gardener with His smile,
Who never left that flower for a single while,
Who would bring the showers from the flooding Nile,
Who gave the flower a new color and went away as He's agile.
Gardener being God,
Sent by the Lord,
Was the only reason for the flower to make a nod,
Made with the flower a life bond.
Nurtured he the flower and its roots to the earth,
Never let the flower move away from mirth,
Everytime he touched it gave a new birth,
And the flower died every night in his memory when he returnest.
The gardener had to do his service,
This was too known to the flower’s nervous,
Told it to him, it was thrown in a circus,
But he never completely acknowledged its reverence.
God was the supporter to the shining flower,
Which showed like a bright star,
The gardener’s pain was its scar,
And his hand was its power.
Flowers cursed by the Satan,
To live until the autumn,
But gifted by the God’s solemn,
To live ever after, by the aroma, in men.
Said the flower to his Almighty,
“Crush me under your bare feet”,
Replied the planter to his child,
“You are my child from the bosom
And I would melt myself in the guilt.”
The flower with a pearl in its eye and a smile in the sun,
“The colors of my life, the water in my roots,
The food in my shoots,
Are no a pleasure of Him or the earth’s loots,
But of your might.
I would get my heavenly abode under your feet,
By serving my God who gave me my colors,
And my fragrance would keep you in my Light.
poem by Aashish Kalra
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Margaret
I KNOW a garden where white lilies grow,
Under the grey sweet-laden apple boughs;
It is a garden where the roses blow,
And honeysuckle covers half the house.
O happy garden, do you keep the vows
Breathed in your quiet ear beneath the rose,
Or do you tell the tale to each soft wind that blows?
Across your grassy paths she used to stray,
She moved among you like a living flower,
Her beauty drank your beauty every day,
Your beauty decked her beauty every hour.
You gave her rose and lily for a dower,
With all sweet flowers and fruits your bosom bore--
She took them all--and now she comes not any more.
O garden, if you breathe such secret things
To the south wind who loves you, tell him this:
To spread the scented softness of his wings,
And seek that other garden where she is,
And bid him bear no blossom and no kiss;
Only, dear garden, tell the wind to say
How grey the world is grown since Margaret went away!
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Blood Blossomed
Far away in ancient Jerusalem
Stood a garden, long, long ago
Home to giant oaks and figs
And plants and shrubs of every kind.
On every season, from time to time
Merrily they would burst into bloom
Filling the air with fragrance sweet
And fuelling the hearts with joy and cheer.
Amid the riot of flashing shades
Where Poppies and Pansies held their heads
In a corner, there a Lily stood,
Sans scent and sans grandeur.
A poor loner never once noticed
Nor skilled to steal the show,
Those, brilliant in shade and shape
With contempt openly quipped
‘It's such a shame
She grows among us
With such pallid shade
And nothing to rave',
‘Lilies are such lazy lot
Giving only seasonal blooms'
Rang aloud their haughty comments
Rashly blurted out and blunt
The poor Lily wilted in shame
Wishing she had never been born.
Late that evening, through the garden
Into the newly dug up grave
A band of people came with lights
Bearing someone cut and scathed.
With blood oozing, dropp by drop
From wounds, left by piercing nails
The body, carefully wrapped in linen
Was the body of Jesus - Son of God
The one who bore the sins of the world
And courted the most accursed of deaths.
The body embalmed was laid inside
And sealed with a giant block of stone
Soldiers posted to guard the tomb
And every vigil so prudently kept.
Early by dawn, three days hence
While it was still very dark
From inside the tomb had come
Rumbling sounds and a blinding light.
Flowers en masse blinked their eyes
Beheld a man, gently walking out
The wounds still fresh on his palm
And the linen that swaddled, lying behind.
As they watched this queer sight
In awful amazement, they did see
A host of Lilies, white as snow
Far more beautiful than any of them
Bowing their heads in reverential glee
And singing Hosanna to the Lord of Life.
All the flora in silent shock
Sighted from whence the Lilies came
They sprang unforeseen in those spots
Where drops of blood from his body fell
Then onwards, without fail
April sees the grandeur and grace,
Of snowy lilies - those delicate blooms
Sprouting suddenly from the crust of the Earth
Joggling their heads in whiffing breeze,
And giving delight to all who behold.
poem by Valsa George
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Our Lady Of Solitude
All summer long she touched me
She gathered in my soul
From many a thorn, from many thickets
Her fingers, like a weavers
Quick and cool
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
And I knew her, I knew her
Face to face
And her dress was blue and silver
And her words were few and small
She is the vessel of the whole wide world
Mistress, oh mistress, of us all
Dearly dead; queen of solitude
I thank you with my heart
For keeping me so close to thee
While so many, oh so many, stood apart
And the light came from her body
And the night went through her grace
All summer long she touched me
I knew her, I knew her
Face to face
song performed by by Leonard Cohen
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Beauty O beauty I am in love with you
Beauty O beauty I am in love with you
When you are found in the common face
My heart can barely wait to take your place
I see your look in the common race
For there you have placed
In a love that bares no disgrace
Cupid is blind this is true
So do not blame him when he strike you
And a man you find not fair
For half of beauty is within
This you can not see till you woo
And his inner beauty will overthrow
All of your misconceived notions
About what beauty mends
Beauty my man beauty
The common face capture me
The common love I can not see
But this love of the common he
Is what most that moves me
I have no shame to call upon the name
Of gay love tied with a ring
For love of beauty is beyond the dictate of the state
For they are only man made rules
And has not the true power to school
Common beauty can be seen on any street
And the bars where you go to meet
The common men is yout yo greet
Some say that beauty be not common
But they are but fools to think this so
For well does the true poet knows
That beauty is white as the snow
Beauty is black as the night
Beauty is yellow as the sun flower’s petal
Beauty is bronze as the metal
Beauty is red as the blossom of the crape myrtle
Beauty, O beauty its true that you do
To who you care to do
For all the races are filled with you
Beauty by like a tender touch
That in the night will come to irrupt
Beauty be soft, beauty be roughs
To pull back the skin of the silk
And expose the kernels of our love
Beauty o, beauty
Found in women and in men
We know that each of the same sex can comprehend
That a man can find beauty in a man.
poem by David E. Patton
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Flower Blooms As The Universe
a million years for a flower
to unveil the art of divine creation
to us - fragrance, shades, curves,
texture and minute ingenious designs
- filamens, pistils, stagmens, pollen..
orchids, roses, crocuses, geraniums
petal by petal, inch by inch,
second by second,
sun and moon, moon and sun
a million other universes
accompany the bloom
as it slowly, surely
digests the world
to show us its beauty
as the bloom crowns us all
at the apex of its wonder
- a million other universes
too have been born and
move inch by inch
towards achieving
a full bloom in the heavens
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Golden Daffodil's
Oh, what joy my eyes behold
To see such beauty there unfold,
And my heart with pleasure fills
When sun from ebbing winter days
Bring forth the Golden Daffodil's.
Lovely flower, majestic king
Who God awakes in early spring
So cloth'd in all your golden hue
No flower on the garden scene
Is as beautiful as you.
With silent voices and knodding heads
Gayly dancing in swirling beds
Your beauty in the garden spills,
And lifts the lonely hearts of all
Oh, Daffodil's, Oh, Daffodil's.
Dazzling in your sunny place
You fill the garden with poise and grace
Your smell is sweet, your color bold,
And for the often pensive mood
You are the flower to the soul.
All too soon under an early spring sky
Leaves will yellow, crumble and die
Sweet flower that we long to stay
Slips away in peaceful sleep
To stir our hearts another day.
By
Richard Netherland Cook
poem by Richard Netherland Cook
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Passionflower.......mollys Garden
that summer,
passion flower bloomed
in wild abundance.
in the bower intwined
with woody tendrils
of the climbing vines,
the special charming blooms
mesmerised me.
blue, violet filaments,
unique in intricacy
and formation.
i wondered,
at the creators creation!
passion flower,
not a passion for love,
yet, the the flower offered ,
to krishna,
yet again it is the suggesting
symbol of crucification.
passion flowers,
in mollys garden
exclusive hosts
for numerous butterflies,
sharing, the foliage
and fragrance with them.
a special energy
a strange fragrance,
a satisfying peace,
connecting you to krishna,
in mollys garden!
poem by Ritty Patnaik
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Eurydice
I
So you have swept me back,
I who could have walked with the live souls
above the earth,
I who could have slept among the live flowers
at last;
so for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I am swept back
where dead lichens drip
dead cinders upon moss of ash;
so for your arrogance
I am broken at last,
I who had lived unconscious,
who was almost forgot;
if you had let me wait
I had grown from listlessness
into peace,
if you had let me rest with the dead,
I had forgot you
and the past.
II
Here only flame upon flame
and black among the red sparks,
streaks of black and light
grown colourless;
why did you turn back,
that hell should be reinhabited
of myself thus
swept into nothingness?
why did you glance back?
why did you hesitate for that moment?
why did you bend your face
caught with the flame of the upper earth,
above my face?
what was it that crossed my face
with the light from yours
and your glance?
what was it you saw in my face?
the light of your own face,
the fire of your own presence?
What had my face to offer
but reflex of the earth,
hyacinth colour
caught from the raw fissure in the rock
where the light struck,
and the colour of azure crocuses
and the bright surface of gold crocuses
and of the wind-flower,
swift in its veins as lightning
and as white.
III
Saffron from the fringe of the earth,
wild saffron that has bent
over the sharp edge of earth,
all the flowers that cut through the earth,
all, all the flowers are lost;
everything is lost,
everything is crossed with black,
black upon black
and worse than black,
this colourless light.
IV
Fringe upon fringe
of blue crocuses,
crocuses, walled against blue of themselves,
blue of that upper earth,
blue of the depth upon depth of flowers,
lost;
flowers,
if I could have taken once my breath of them,
enough of them,
more than earth,
even than of the upper earth,
had passed with me
beneath the earth;
if I could have caught up from the earth,
the whole of the flowers of the earth,
if once I could have breathed into myself
the very golden crocuses
and the red,
and the very golden hearts of the first saffron,
the whole of the golden mass,
the whole of the great fragrance,
I could have dared the loss.
V
So for your arrogance
and your ruthlessness
I have lost the earth
and the flowers of the earth,
and the live souls above the earth,
and you who passed across the light
and reached
ruthless;
you who have your own light,
who are to yourself a presence,
who need no presence;
yet for all your arrogance
and your glance,
I tell you this:
such loss is no loss,
such terror, such coils and strands and pitfalls
of blackness,
such terror
is no loss;
hell is no worse than your earth
above the earth,
hell is no worse,
no, nor your flowers
nor your veins of light
nor your presence,
a loss;
my hell is no worse than yours
though you pass among the flowers and speak
with the spirits above earth.
VI
Against the black
I have more fervour
than you in all the splendour of that place,
against the blackness
and the stark grey
I have more light;
and the flowers,
if I should tell you,
you would turn from your own fit paths
toward hell,
turn again and glance back
and I would sink into a place
even more terrible than this.
VII
At least I have the flowers of myself,
and my thoughts, no god
can take that;
I have the fervour of myself for a presence
and my own spirit for light;
and my spirit with its loss
knows this;
though small against the black,
small against the formless rocks,
hell must break before I am lost;
before I am lost,
hell must open like a red rose
for the dead to pass.
poem by Hilda Doolittle
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These Little Ones
'What of the garden I gave?'
God said to me;
'Hast thou been diligent to foster and save
The life of flower and tree?
How have the roses thriven,
The lilies I have given,
The pretty scented miracles that Spring
And Summer come to bring?
'My garden is fair and dear,'
I said to God;
'From thorns and nettles I have kept it clear.
Green-trimmed its sod.
The rose is red and bright,
The lily a live delight;
I have not lost a flower of all the flowers
That blessed my hours.'
'What of the child I gave?'
God said to me;
'The little, little one I died to save
And gave in trust to thee?
How have the flowers grown
That in its soul were sown,
The lovely living miracles of youth
And hope and joy and truth?'
'The child's face is all white,'
I said to God;
'It cries for cold and hunger in the night:
Its little feet have trod
The pavement muddy and cold.
It has no flowers to hold,
And in its soul the flowers you set are dead.'
'Thou fool!' God said.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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The Easter Lily
A little child, as winter turned to spring,
Tended a lily-plant with patient care,
Thinking, when she should see it blossoming,
To set it on the chancel-step; that there,
When Easter dawned on Lent, the spotless thing
Might on the feast-day be her offering,
Lifting its own white face to One more fair.
But, as the plant grew upward day by day,
Raising itself from earth towards the sky,
So seemed the child from earth to draw away,
The while she feared to see the lily die;
Unthinking that, ere broke the Easter ray,
She might her own white soul before Him lay
For Whom she sought the flower to sanctify.
Time passed. The lily bloomed not; and the night
Before the feast had come. And so the child
Sent to the church the cherished plant, despite
’T was but an unblown bud; and—reconciled
That on the altar-step, midst flowers white,
Her poor green stalk watched out the silent flight
Of hours until the morn—contented smiled.
• • • • • • • •
Fair broke the dawn upon the altar’s hem
Of lilies, breathing Easter greeting sweet;
But, with the night that so perfected them,
The child’s own spirit fled, the Light to meet
Beyond the heaven’s roseate diadem;
And, with the morning, bloomed upon the stem
The fair, white soul her own had longed to greet!
poem by Guy Wetmore Carryl from The Garden of Years and Other Poems (1893)
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Roses, Roses
Roses, Roses blooming bright!
In earth’s gardens; ‘What a sight! ’
Studding plants in dawn’s dew, light;
And perfuming day and night!
Queen of flowers, roses stay;
Budding, blossoming en way;
Hues pretty, very well laid;
Decorating bride and maid.
Oh, what mind had shaped thee thus!
And what hearts enjoy thy bliss;
Thorns amongst green leaves just say,
‘Beauty needs protection, Aye! ’
Roses, Roses petaled fine;
Standing glorious in sunshine;
Beauty unmatched on earth, thine;
Making garlands more divine!
Roses add to Mary’s crown,
Reciting Rosaries when;
Blessings and grace then come down,
Making souls fit for heaven!
Copyright by Dr John Celes 06-12-2010
poem by John Celes
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Thoughts On A Fallen ' Paarijaatham ' Flower.
thoughts on a fallen 'paarijaatham ' flower.
&
i was wading through my vague thoughts
as i walked along the roadside-
i came to senses with a sudden start-
o god! i was about to tread on a small flower
full of grace and simple beauty with a mild fragrance-
it is considered a holy flower;
it is 'paarijaatham' or ' pavazhamalli '
with one 'cm' orange stalk
and six perfectly merging white petals-
there always seems to be a swirl frozen on its petals
resembling the wheel-like weapon of gods-
memories of bygone years visit crowding me
whereupon we, brothers, rushed to gardens and groves
to gather these lovely flowers
with the greediest arms encircling in whirls
to corner these gems outwitting other valiant competitors
as they lay spread like mats on the ground
while rained in blossom-showers over our heads-
we also had gentlemen agreements among boys
not to invade the territories of others not so clearly marked out-
and to offer duty bound to our father
for his daily morning worship-
yes those were the cheerful days
as if on an expedition in the cool dawn hours
waiting impatiently for the 'keyman ' to unlock the premises-
why this flower blossom stealthily at night
with none to enjoy its fragrance and beauty?
why its life is so short-lived?
why even the whisper of a gentle breeze knocks it down?
o tree! are you so heartless to disown your kids
like some soulless mothers of their illicit infants?
or do the stars order that these star-children
also to depart at the invent of the dawn?
o tiny flower! ever you kindle sweet memories
of our joyful association from ages past-
blessed i am, o charming friend,
i have ever my rebirth as a child at your sight!
-s.chandra kalaadhar
poem by Sundaram Chandrakalaadhar
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