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,
Congratulations,
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
flower
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.