I visited Charles House today and we talked about gardening poems like Blake’s The Garden of Love, Frost’s Lodged and a lesser know gem My Garden is a Pleasant Place by Louise Driscoll. Then we wrote a little poem while our phones were buzzing with Severe Thunderstorm and Flash Flood warnings.
May is Full of Hope
-or- In the Weeds
Rosemary’s perfume still casts
her sticky summer spell
on Lt. Dandy Lion
or maybe Lord Catnip—
she only remembers
the whiskers.
But come June,
she will swoon
over Ruby Red Clover
under the Honey Moon.
(This also counts for today’s Living Poetry Prompt but since I wrote the prompt knowing I’d be talking about gardening, I also cheated. Fortunately, there are no rules in poetry.)
Bartholomew Barker, Poet 
A group I was involved in when I lived in the area was/is very involved with Charles House. I miss being able to participate but glad you and so many others still are. ❤️
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Charles House are good folk. I’m proud they keep inviting me back.
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What a smooth last quatrain. I’ve tried so many times to cultivate a love of rosemary, but it has a bitterness that displeases me. But ah, the honey moon, I can’t wait for a taste.
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We tried developing the Rosemary character more but we only write for about 15-20 minutes at the end of the session. It would’ve been interesting to include her bitterness along with her blossoms.
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Such a life. I want to be the cat. Not a lot of stress if you have a decent owner that is. Preferably one with a lawn.
I really love that second stanza a lot!
I also like the origin story of this one.
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Thanks!
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“Under the Honey Moon.” 💝
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Yeah, that was a good line they came up with.
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My lord – a man of few, but telling, words – another one I’m hoping you’ll send on to us here in Orkney – where, right now, the big poppies are flowering along the road sides, as they do every year…..
‘Big Poppy’ by Ted Hughes
Hot-eyed Mafia Queen!
At the trim garden’s edge
***
She sways towards August.
A Bumble Bee
Clambers into her drunken, fractured goblet –
***
Up the royal carpet of down-hung,
Shrivel-edged, unhinged petal, her first-about-to-fall.
He’s in there as she sways. He utters thin
***
Sizzling bleats of difficult enjoyment.
Her carnival paper skirts, luminous near-orange,
Embrace him helplessly.
***
Already her dark pod is cooking its drug.
Every breath imperils her. Her crucible
Is falling apart with its own fierceness.
***
A fly, cool, rests on the flame-fringe.
***
Soon she’ll throw off her skirts
Withering into vestal afterlife,
***
Bleeding inwardly
Her maternal nectars into her own
Coffin – (cradle of her offspring).
****
Then we shall say:
She wore herself in her hair, in her day,
And we could see nothing but her huge flop of petal,
***
Her big, lewd, bold eye, in its sooty lashes,
***
And that stripped, athletic leg, hairy
In a fling of abandon – ‘
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Came back to read it again and comment. I really like this one. Also, there was no cheating here. You had an idea for a poem and you used it for C.H. and L.P. That’s one of the key components of environmental stewardship (reduce, reuse, recycle).
:)
<3
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I appreciate the forgiveness.
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Ted Hughes…’Flowers & Insects’ – have a look – if you can find a copy….
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Thanks, I’ll check it out!
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It’s like a poet’s riddle.
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Except the poet doesn’t know the answer.
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