In my garden there are no chrysanthemums,

Only thistles with sharp prickles.

When I look at their faces,

When I think of weeding them out,

When I grow excited with

The passing breeze slapping on my face,

Suddenly I see my own face

On the rounded heads of purple flowers,

And my body on their frail stems.



Bibek Adhikari

Poetry by Bibek
Read 149 times
Written on 2019-05-25 at 06:53

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Like I said:

I like thistles but that internal rhyme
I think you can do better
The rest of the poem is bomb tho

jim The PoetBay support member heart!
I agree with Thomas, the economy, and the 'sharp' imagery is just right, not in the sense of less-is-more, but in the sense of knowing when you've said what you meant say.

I relate to this on a personal level as well, thistles (as a rancher) have plagued me, and after a day of pulling or cutting or spraying them, I dream of them.

This is one of my favorites of your poems.

This is quite good. I cherish the poem for its verbal economy, its vividness, and its "twist" --- reminiscent, in some ways, of the short gnomic poems by the American Stephen Crane (1871-1900).