Looking for Flowers
I went looking for flowers to Giverney,
we travelled paralle to long fields of yellow rape
(Brassica Napus), that stretch to a horizon bordered
with meadows and mighty trees
and land that greens out as far as the sky.
Branches of an early summer Musk Rose (Rosa moschata),
bush ramble the hot stone walls and carry
the scent of summer. Pink and white blooms
tangle with the lilac flush of Wisteria’s (Wisteria)
pendulous racemes. We enter the garden and see
that bridge traversing the water, those as yet unopened
Waterlilies (Nymphaeaceae) spangle the surface.
Bed after bed of blooms nearby, a palette of tulips
(Tulipa) mingle with the lapis blue of Irises
(Iridaceae), pushing the boundaries
with narrow paths in between.
Monet’s garden pictured and painted
so many times that it looks familiar to our eyes,
a mix of pigment that we recognise.
Later the bees will come buzzing and busy
among the open flowers, their legs will be bushy
with pollen, as they fly back to the hive to perform
their own dream of transubstantation.
They see the world with compound eyes.
She learns in stages that she is his type
cast as lover, partner maybe.
He woos her with square meals, little
songs and the hint of deft effleurage.
Her voice is just right: good tone quality
dark and low, like the hair.
Features fine and strong
eyes bright, soul old.
Hands long and elegant;
their own scripts.
the year’s first opening up
panes folding out
Place a vase
on sill, fresh painted,
fan against light
and the blue
of a perfect June.
Woman, don’t write me moons and light and rain,
birds and rivers; let us talk love’s language
all in signs, like this, and this, and this again.
Eye to eye, hands on hips, and with our lips
speak silently; let us talk love’s language
till we thirst, till the heady conversation dips
between us. No, don’t make notes, no writing white,
but sweat and lust in love’s language
like lovers everywhere. Enough, no more, it’s night.
His Annual Diaries
My uncle, age 92, is three weeks dead;
in a line, someone has neatly laid
his diaries on his narrow bed.
In leather covers of brown, green, and red:
reminder notes, the things he did,
names of friends who died,
promises and decisions made
– a civil servant, retired, each bit
noted – was this how he dreamed it?
Christopher T. George
To A Son
I keep your grown face in mind
now when the lips tighten,
the feet do a buck n wing,
the clear eyes are steady.
You do see the point.
The year of divorce I was
class mother. Your fifth grade
picture sits on my bookcase.
The photographer snapped you
clowning for classmates
making fish faces with your mouth.
Saying ‘cheese’ never lightened your eyes.
Short story by Tom Noonan http://geocities.com/big_rudra/waylon06.html