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NaPoWriMo'23 Day Two: Flowers at Night

Wildflowers like her by Nithya Vijay

My mother loves her nights,

Sitting on the verandah-

Of our little house,

Staring into nothingness.

Calm and forever beautiful,

Ruling the silence,

I watch her and wonder,

What might rule her thoughts?

Maybe it's a little girl of 6,

Running around her garden,

Dreaming of the sky,

Laughing aloud.

Or maybe it's a teenager,

Sitting high up in a Ferris wheel,

Wondering about tiny flowers,

That meets the sky at night.

Perhaps there's a 20-year-old,

Finding her own light,

Jumping up high,

Even on eclipse days.

Does her heart weep for a 25-year-old-

Chained to her prison room,

Peering out into the night,

Staring blankly at the dying flowers?

Does a mother visit her thoughts-

Reciting stories of two saplings,

Under the shade of a weeping grey cloud,

Carrying a hidden silver lining?

Does she remember the stories of glory,

Behind the colours of wildflowers-

That glow only on nights like these:

When mothers stare into their dreams?

They've seen hurricanes,

And nuclear wars,

Yet hide until it's time:

To bloom under the big bear.

Wildflowers like her

Humming songs under the moonlight,

Awaiting none,

Serene for the burning earth.

I've known:

Wildflowers need no manure,

And the ones ruling the nights,

Seek no light,

They bring fireflies home,

And poison for phoney travellers,

Or doom-tongued wizards-

Lurking between bushes.

She sits alone on the verandah now,

Calling me to her side.

Her eyes tell stories of the night,

That only spoke to her.

Flowers at Night by Manisha Rathee

I look at this vast spread

of flowers shining bright,

over the dark canvas of night,

and I wonder if they too

long for someone to hold

them close, in this long

dark night, to find out

how for once,

they are destiny

to someone's love,

and not just mere means

of expression for selfish humans;

I wonder if their whispers

of love, of secret messages

coded in synced dance movements

with the wind,

are disturbed by the chirping of crickets

or they manage to steal a low kiss,

maybe even a cosy hug

behind the rustle of leaves,

if the sparking petals

conceal the gush of emotions

that night often brings;

I wonder if they pause,

stop spreading this fragrance

even if only for a minute,

to breathe in a whiff

of self-love,

and heal the scars that come

from sometimes birthing thorns,

from the unshared struggle

of nourishing a marvellous coexistence.

Flower of the Night by Antara Vashistha

Who thinks of those feisty flowers at night,

their fragility and fragrance disappear

Unless of course,

You're a night-flowering jasmine,

in which case,


Your shine surpasses the sky,

moon-lit in its muffles,

the orange of your stem

plays like the remnant of that

first dawn of a sunset

that hardly anyone notices,

you shimmer in your white,

petals of redolent radiance,

You're the star of the soil,

the night applauds you

for as long as it stays.

A symphony of smells from

mother's house in childhood,

You exist between swaths of time

and in the air that sits on the

palm of my hand,

you are what shines and survives

through the darkness, the night,

even with your fate sealed,

even if you are to crumble

and cave in

when the morning arrives.

You're the night-flowering jasmine,

not a rose, a lily, or a sunflower,

you do not grow in flower pots

that are not meant for you,

not everyone blooms in the

brilliance of the daylight,

not everyone adorns sidewalks

and bouquets for one's sight,

You're the night-flowering jasmine,

patient in its potential,

ephemeral and eternal,

Yes- you will disintegrate

and die

becoming one with the darkness you

once conquered.

You will however live on

In memory,

as things often do,

Echoing between pages and manure,

You're the night-flowering jasmine,

you will be remembered

as the


of the night.

Spring has arrived by Akshaya Pawaskar

Spring has arrived perched

on the shoulders of April.

Look how the garden has turned

into a galaxy as the river of milk

shines back from these children of earth,

relucent, under the pink moon.

They mirror the numerous stars as

their soft voices interrupt

the monologues of wind,

talking in half whispers

they are polyglots,

their tongue understood by all,

their petals opening wide like smiles,

they are dreams, they are magic.

Do they introspect during

such long hours of darkness

about life, about their purpose

or do they just live in the moment

of their Venusian splendour.

Do they suffer from insomnia

or do they revel in balmy twilight

drunk on their own nectar,

knowing well the ephemerality of being.

How they make us feel a pang

of sadness thinking about

their fugacious youth, yet

there is a certain lightness

to be gleaned by this enchanting sight of flowers at night.


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