Saturday, May 28, 2011

Gardener, Quiet


Gardener, Quiet 

Whether I went 
up the garden path 

or wandered off it, 
it was all garden, 
wherever I looked. 
And I bonded there. 

The blood I'd got 
from my past, blood
of hands, hands tilling, 
grew branches

from my heart, 
and bore this prayer: 
let me stay 
in this verdure forever, 

if I'm to stay 
anywhere.

8 comments:

  1. Hello Faisal:
    We have been in touch, one way or another, rather a lot this weekend!

    This poem is, once more, beautifully atmospheric, and we love the image of 'hands tilling,/grew branches.

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  2. Yes, I can't stop writing. I had begun my adulthood as a poet, but gave it away, because I couldn't stand trying to sell it...I thence became practical, in reality my weakest point.
    What I love about your site, and blogging generally, is the liveliness.
    Thankyou, both of you, for caring.

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  3. Faisal,
    This really beautiful. Thanks.

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  4. Lovely poem, Faisal! Gardens are the smiles of our souls, visualised...

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  5. Thankyou, Nicholas. When I was writing this, I was remembering my grandfather's garden, large enough for a small boy to get almost lost in. I see that memory as an introduction to much of what's followed.

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  6. This is lovely, and makes me feel peaceful and serene and we all need moments like that. Thank you.

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  7. Thankyou, Andrea. Sometimes it takes forever to put a poem's few lines together, but I like the distillation process.

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