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.
Hello Faisal:
ReplyDeleteWe 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.
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.
ReplyDeleteWhat I love about your site, and blogging generally, is the liveliness.
Thankyou, both of you, for caring.
Faisal,
ReplyDeleteThis really beautiful. Thanks.
Thankyou indeed, Michael.
ReplyDeleteLovely poem, Faisal! Gardens are the smiles of our souls, visualised...
ReplyDeleteThankyou, 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.
ReplyDeleteThis is lovely, and makes me feel peaceful and serene and we all need moments like that. Thank you.
ReplyDeleteThankyou, Andrea. Sometimes it takes forever to put a poem's few lines together, but I like the distillation process.
ReplyDelete