June 2017
Frederick Wilbur
fcwilbur@verizon.net
fcwilbur@verizon.net
I was brought up and still live in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia so I rely on imagery derived from the natural landscape to explore human relationships. My wife, Elizabeth, and I have two daughters and three grandchildren. I have been an architectural woodcarver for over 35 years and have written numerous articles and three books on the subject. My poems are forthcoming in Able Muse, The Chariton Review, Plainsongs, Poetry Quarterly, and Snowy Egret among others.
Author's Note: From ancient times, meaning has been assigned to flowers. Victorian England saw an abiding interest in such things and lists were generated and poems written on the subject (Leigh Hunt, Charles F. Hoffman, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Longfellow) Though there are several works titled ‘The Language of Flowers,’ I treat the phrase generically. In my poem the tattooed flower continues the notion of mystery and meaning, but the tone is a little risqué as well as pejorative.
Floral Language
A tattooed flower appeared one morning
on her inner thigh, as a faux pas surprises in polite
conversation—near enough to be embarrassing,
near enough to be part of a colorful truth.
She turns the pages of The Language of Flowers
seeking clues, a Latin name, circumstances.
Each specimen, bare of weather, is etched
on sunny paper, flaunting fresh petals,
pistil openly begging: stamens with pollen
ready, the bee buzzing in the margin.
Of generic ink, the flower could signify
patience, indiscretion, grace, could be
a barbed rose, graveyard periwinkle, a lily.
She will endure its constant season, its companionship
that never germinates, doesn’t quite fade.
Floral Language
A tattooed flower appeared one morning
on her inner thigh, as a faux pas surprises in polite
conversation—near enough to be embarrassing,
near enough to be part of a colorful truth.
She turns the pages of The Language of Flowers
seeking clues, a Latin name, circumstances.
Each specimen, bare of weather, is etched
on sunny paper, flaunting fresh petals,
pistil openly begging: stamens with pollen
ready, the bee buzzing in the margin.
Of generic ink, the flower could signify
patience, indiscretion, grace, could be
a barbed rose, graveyard periwinkle, a lily.
She will endure its constant season, its companionship
that never germinates, doesn’t quite fade.
© 2017 Frederick Wilbur
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