A Flower To Auroville Mother-56

Violet(Viola spp.)

Going out of hand my heart
Questing for flora all over
And this Violet a divine art
When captured by manoeuvre
Bloomed a Violaceae-mart
Amazing me with a hang over
A hurried study did my heart
Of variety violas however
Just to end up with one Violet
Of whom small, shrubby some-some are
Perennial, annual some-some Violet
Of upswept four, lobed one lower
Petals of colours many to treat
Violet, blue yellow, white to flavour
Bicoloured some alongwith impart
All now in one hold to favour
Medicinal and culinary art
Heart and oval leaves to savor

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poem by Indira Renganathan
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The Violet

UPON the mead a violet stood,
Retiring, and of modest mood,

In truth, a violet fair.
Then came a youthful shepherdess,
And roam'd with sprightly joyousness,
And blithely woo'd

With carols sweet the air

"Ah!" thought the violet, "had I been
For but the smallest moment e'en

Nature's most beauteous flower,
'Till gather'd by my love, and press'd,
When weary, 'gainst her gentle breast,
For e'en, for e'en

One quarter of an hour!"

[...] Read more

poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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The Violet And The Rose

The violet in the wood, that's sweet to-day,
Is longer sweet than roses of red June;
Set me sweet violets along my way,
And bid the red rose flower, but not too soon.
Ah violet, ah rose, why not the two?
Why bloom not all fair flowers the whole year through?
Why not the two, young violet, ripe rose?
Why dies one sweetness when another blows?

poem by Augusta Davies Webster
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Violet De Vere

You've heard of Violet de Vere, strip-teaser of renown,
Whose sitting-base out-faired the face of any girl in town;
Well, she was haled before the Bench for breachin' of the Peace,
Which signifies araisin' Cain, an' beatin' up the police.
So there she stood before the Court of ruddy Judge McGraw
Whom folks called Old Necessity, because he knew no law.
Aye, crackin' in a silken gown, an' sheddin' of a tear,
Ashine wi' gold an' precious stones sat Violet de Vere.
Old Judge McGraw looked dourly down an' stroked his silver beard.
Says he: "Although the Sheriff's bruised, the lady should be heared.
What can you say in your defence? We'll give you a square deal."
"I jest forget," said Violet. "Maybe it was my heel.
I always want to kick the gong when I am feelin' gay;
It's most unfortunate, I guess, his face was in the way."
Then scratchin' of his snowy pow the Judge looked down severe,
Where bright wi' paint like plaster saint sat Violet de Vere.

Says he: "I'm going to impose a twenty dollar fine."
Says Violet: "Your Honour, to your judgement I resign.
I realize I should not my agility reveal:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert William Service
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In our film profession you may have Gable's looks, Tracy's art, Marlene's legs or Liz's violet eyes, but they don't mean a thing without that swinging thing called courage.

classic quote by Frank Capra
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Purple Forest

I walk into a purple forest
The place is magical and free
The grass is violet, the sky is white
Purple defines every tree

I walk into a purple forest
There are purple buzzing bees
And a swamp of violet waters
creep up to my knees

I walk into a purple forest
A streak of purple runs across the sky
I hear a gentle whisper say
It was a fairy passing by

I walk into a purple forest
On violet sod I lie my head
But later, of course
I awake in my bed

poem by Summer Song
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Butterfly lingers
On african violet
A joy to behold

haiku by Dorothy Holmes (09 May 2008)
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My Frost-King - Song II

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,

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poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Brighter Shone The Golden Shadows

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,

[...] Read more

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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Violet

drowned in a pool of violet
the windows pour forth invisible echos
the leaking panes - my decrepit house-
leaking against a flooding ocean.
the fluids mix one in another
the colour is no more diluted.
still violet.
it remains outside
holding the house together -
tape on a house of cards
it does little good to pursue
orange, persimmon or other hues;
for blind are the lanterns
that guide those with-out
soon the lanterns'll drown too,
in a pool of violet hue.

poem by Crystal Korzinsky Chambers
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Violet The Organ Grinder

Chorus:
I am violet the organ grinder
And I grind all the live long day
I live for the organ, that I am grinding
Ill die, but I wont go away
I am violet the organ grinder
And I grind all the live long day
I live for the organ, that I am grinding
Ill die, but I wont go away
Ooh, wait a minute, I think u better trip on this
Ooh, wait a minute, I think u better trip on this
I was on my way to another room
When an image of u sweetly
Appeared in the mirror
Perhaps u recall
U and I were neatly
In the middle of a crystal ball
That now serves as a reminder
On the wall of u and I the organ grinder
In the greatest concert of them all

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song performed by Prince
Added by Lucian Velea
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The Frost-King' Song II

Brighter shone the golden shadows;
On the cool wind softly came
The low, sweet tones of happy flowers,
Singing little Violet's name.
'Mong the green trees was it whispered,
And the bright waves bore it on
To the lonely forest flowers,
Where the glad news had not gone.

Thus the Frost-King lost his kingdom,
And his power to harm and blight.
Violet conquered, and his cold heart
Warmed with music, love, and light;
And his fair home, once so dreary,
Gay with lovely Elves and flowers,
Brought a joy that never faded
Through the long bright summer hours.

Thus, by Violet's magic power,
All dark shadows passed away,

[...] Read more

poem by Louisa May Alcott
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They made me suspect

They made me suspect
Suspect that the blue violet
Hides poison in its mystery
And wide-eyed beauty weeping in the glooms
Of dusky eves half-hidden from the day
And in the other half from dark Night kept.

Therefore I
From the blue violet kept away
Admiring from afar
And loving from afar all fearfully.

And thus I left in solitude
The blue violet to the plaintive moon
And to the dewy paces of the dawn
Passing by on the grass from her east cave
And to the wan embraces of the wanton Night
When darkling wavelets lap their way to shore
When nightingales sing their silver melody
At the full distant faces of the startled stars

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poem by Emmanuel George Cefai
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Valentine's Day

A violet
between the pages
permeates our Valentine
with love.

poem by Vince Gullaci
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Cakes, Boots and Merry-go-rounds

Violet's art cakes were fake, some say
but Violet's boots were a hoot!
She'd bought them down in Carnaby Street
and they came right up to her knees!

Now what in the heck d'ya suspect
they came right up to her knees.
She wore them into town she did
she wore them to go into town

and when she got there
there was a fair and the
merry-go-round went round and round
the merry-go-round went round.

Violet was an artiste, a very merry artiste
and when she got merry on her daddy's sherry
the cakes she made were a feast they were
the cakes she made were a feast!

poem by Ruth Walters
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Oil And Blood

In tombs of gold and lapis lazuli
Bodies of holy men and women exude
Miraculous oil, odour of violet.

But under heavy loads of trampled clay
Lie bodies of the vampires full of blood;
Their shrouds are bloody and their lips are wet.

poem by William Butler Yeats (1928)
Added by Dan Costinaş
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On Violet's Wafers, Sent Me When I Was Ill

Fine-tissued as her finger-tips, and white
As all her thoughts; in shape like shields of prize,
As if before young Violet's dreaming eyes
Still blazed the two great Theban bucklers bright
That swayed the random of that furious fight
Where Palamon and Arcite made assize
For Emily; fresh, crisp as her replies,
That, not with sting, but pith, do oft invite
More trial of the tongue; simple, like her,
Well fitting lowlihood, yet fine as well,
-- The queen's no finer; rich (though gossamer)
In help to him they came to, which may tell
How rich that him SHE'LL come to; thus men see,
Like Violet's self e'en Violet's wafers be.

poem by Sidney Lanier
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Voices

EACH small gleam was a voice
-A lantern voice-
In little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.
A chorus of colors came over the water;
The wondrous leaf-shadow no longer wavered,
No pines crooned on the hills
The blue night was elsewhere a silence
When the chorus of colors came over the water,
Little songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

Small glowing pebbles
Thrown on the dark plane of evening
Sing good ballads of God
And eternity, with soul's rest.
Little priests, little holy fathers
None can doubt the truth of your hymning
When the marvelous chorus comes over the water
Songs of carmine, violet, green, gold.

poem by Stephen Crane
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Grif, of the Bloody Hand

In an immense wood in the south of Kent,
There lived a band of robbers which caused the people discontent;
And the place they infested was called the Weald,
Where they robbed wayside travellers and left them dead on the field.

Their leader was called Grif, of the Bloody Hand,
And so well skilled in sword practice there's few could him withstand;
And sometimes they robbed villages when nothing else could be gained,
In the year of 1336, when King Edward the III. reigned.

The dress the robbers wore was deep coloured black,
And in courage and evil deeds they didn't lack;
And Grif. Of the Bloody Hand, called them his devils,
Because they were ever ready to perform all kinds of ills.

'Twas towards the close of a very stormy day,
A stranger walked through the wood in search of Grif, without dismay;
And as the daylight faded he quickened his pace and ran,
Never suspecting that in his rear he was followed by a man.

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poem by William Topaz McGonagall
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A Calendar of Sonnets: November

This is the treacherous month when autumn days
With summer's voice come bearing summer's gifts.
Beguiled, the pale down-trodden aster lifts
Her head and blooms again. The soft, warm haze
Makes moist once more the sere and dusty ways,
And, creeping through where dead leaves lie in drifts,
The violet returns. Snow noiseless sifts
Ere night, an icy shroud, which morning's rays
Willidly shine upon and slowly melt,
Too late to bid the violet live again.
The treachery, at last, too late, is plain;
Bare are the places where the sweet flowers dwelt.
What joy sufficient hath November felt?
What profit from the violet's day of pain?

poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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