Poetry, notes, and marginalia by William Michaelian
We have lilacs in a vase on the bench top today, William and your poem here provides such a contrast - death as against the flower's heady perfume. There's a poem, isn't there? I can't remember exact words: Lilies of the field fester worse than weeds.
I can’t either, Elisabeth. But I like the idea of festering lilacs.This year the perfume from my mother’s lilac is stronger than ever. It’s near the street, but we inhale it as soon as we step outside.
Thanks, Gerry. I will take that as a yes, then.
I like your poem. A good way to say that live goes on. Thanks.
I am thinking of blooms plucked so as to enjoy their beauty or scent as acsessory to the banquet, but in so doing, we bring a faster death, than natures own hand. So would you rather be plucked in full glorious bloom, or fade slowly on the vine?
Thanks, Anthony.Annie: both, definitely.
My husband has a saying about giving someone you care about CUT flowers..."tell someone you love them, kill a flower"!!! He wouldn't write a good ad for florists :)
simply true in all ways of nature: each day death stares us in the face and we child-like carry on, til it holds our hand. i prefer to look away.
Janice, you’re right — especially with Mother’s Day coming up!Another way to look at it, Rahina, is that nothing ever really dies; it’s just on its way to becoming something else. A problem arises, of course, when we try to see ourselves in those terms....
Nous aimons ces fleurs de lilas, tout comme les pivoines, fleurs de printemps parce qu'elles sont éphémères...ou le myosotis que vous appelez vous "forget me not" et qui lui va si bien!
How right you are. And of course flowers wouldn’t be flowers if they lasted. That’s part of their magic....
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