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Best Famous Burgeoned Poems

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that precise moment

 however foul the times or difficult the ways are
through those personal morasses this change of age
won’t let a single being (rich or poor) be free from
come spring the trees get on with their blossoming
you’d think they didn’t read the newspapers

you’d think the media hadn’t yet found a way
of getting to them conveying the miserable truths
this creaking into a new century has been unleashing
come this spring (like any other) the ignorant trees
still feel compelled to get on with their blossoming

see all the journalists commentators politicians
shaking their fists from within closed windows
and choking on the fug of their smoke-filled rooms
with all this bitterness about – what are trees doing
getting on with their blossoming – bringing beauty out

that’s a dead word – beauty – no time or place for it
(except on page threes where people go to leer
to forget the miserable world sitting on their doorstep)
come spring how shocking to find trees don’t agree
a bad habit that – to get on with their blossoming

of course it won’t last – three weeks or so it’ll be gone
then we can all go back indoors and forget trees
and how they get on with their blossoming spring in
and bad spring out – there’s no such thing nowadays
as the natural law – blossom on trees – a thing of the past

luckily for each one there’s a small corner in the dark
where a light is stored and a gasp of delight survives
and a song is on the point of again bursting into hearing
at the mere thought of a one-time blossoming tree
come spring – at that precise moment when the tree

decides the winter’s been enough and its light side
should now be burgeoned to the world – then in the quick
of each denying being (wilfully or reluctantly or what)
a blossoming takes place also – is noted and then
put aside – its hope is not forsaken – spring survives

Written by T Wignesan |

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication, Translation of Carlos Bousono's Sonnet

Words uttered in a subdued voice in order to constitute a dedication,
Translation of Carlos Bousono’s poem :Palabras dichas en voz baja para
formar una dedicatoria
(To Ruth, so young, from another age)
(It’s quite probable that this poem commemorates and addresses Bousono’s
wife, Ruth, and as such the interest in the poem must underlie the intimate and/or
private candidness of tone, rather than the less than pretentious art form. T.
Wignesan)
I
This isn’t exactly wine that you and I drain to the last drop
with such slowness at this hour,
the neat truth. It’s not wine,
it’s love.
In any case, it’s not a question of an awaited
celebration, a noisy fiesta,
raised on gold.
It’s not a canticle of the mountains.
It’s only a whistling sound : flower, less than this :
whisper, lacking in weight.
II
And all this began some time back. We joined hands
very hurriedly to be able to remain by ourselves, alone,
both jointly and separately in order to walk on the neverending
pathway
interminably.
And in this manner, we move forward together on the
pathway
tenaciously. The same direction, the self-same golden instant
and despite it all, you walked without being in doubt,
always very far away, far behind, lost in the distance,
in the brightness, diminshed, yet wanting me,
in another station where flowers burgeoned,
in another time and in another pure space.
And from the secluded spot in the woods, from the sandy
indignity
of mature lateness, from where I contemplated
your eagerness to be ahead of time,
I saw you slow down, once and all over again,
without raising your head in your remote garden,
though being held back, obstinate-
ly,
and so unjustly !
pluck in joy
roses for me.

© T. Wignesan – Paris, 2013