I shan’t let words slip to confess,
But aren’t the stars in my eyes enough a clue?
For once, I crave white on my dress,
I would do anything for a bridegroom like you,
But I shan’t let my feelings undress,
When your sentiments are for someone else due.
She was quick to redden, our April floweret,
Her verdant stems bore a pocketful of praise,
Her golden of petals danced by the springlet,
I beg that ample kindness within her stays.
April is very dear to my heart, as it is my birthday month. Although it takes place only five days in, I consider the whole month as a festive season for poetry and flowers. I’ve been pushing hard to write a poem every day during April, making this the second year I participate in National Poetry Month. Eighteen days in, I was really starting to get burned out and frustrated because I began to run out of words and patience. But ultimately, when the month will end, I know that I’ll miss April and its poetry.
Listening to Roman by Edis + Farkımız Var by Hadise
Reading a book from 1967
Eating an indecent amount of cake and ice cream
Drinking tall lattes
Participating in national poetry month
Getting back to the habit of writing every day
Indulging in picnics and coffee dates
Playing with my new (but old) Sony Walkman
Ticking off goals from my spring checklist
Slowly but surely getting stripped off my spring colors too soon
But trying to reinvigorate nonetheless
Wearing black nail polish
Pushing myself to gain some weight
Feeling frustrated and out of place
Craving a new adventure
Also craving a visit to a floral cafe
My muse, I urge for you the way my city aches for November to weep rain on its athirst sands. Dandle me the way Dubai’s autumnal clouds of white and blush rush to indulge in each other’s company. Serenade my heart with your artistic strokes against the blues. You know how quick I weaken over intensely-hued skies, how easily sated this brittle thing beating behind my ribcage. Darling, I will be your sun but reliant on your azure blanket to lessen my raging reds. My poetic eyes only implore your blushing skies to extend their visit. I need you for my poetry.
Should you be mine, my lad, I’d urge for little,
I’d adorn your buttonhole with nosegay,
A batch of forget-me-nots to you so brittle,
To me romantic enough to make me gay.
Undeserving of happiness, you say,
Swaying still? How dare I sway!
The sun scorches to your dismay,
It leaves your flesh sunburnt,
Tinges mine rather sun-kissed,
How dare I smile? Dare I play?
Wish me more bliss? Nay!
Undeserving of happiness, you say.
How do you sway still, youthful lily?
When wolves to your petals feed?
I heard they dub you fool and silly,
Kindly, pretty floweret, do not heed,
Kiss them warm when it waxes chilly,
But allow them not to make you bleed.