Boboli Gardens

Grotto-Boboli-Gardens-Italy

We come to the garden,
surrounded by unwatching eyes
set in grimacing frozen faces,

ears that do not tremble
to the vibration of birdsong in the air,
rigid hands that reach out

but can never grasp or even touch,
riven noses (why are they always
first to go?) unable to enjoy

the fragrance of the gentlest flower.
And what to say about the tongues?
Stonestill as if caught mid-word

with no way to finish the thought,
complete the image, not one, not one
of them to sing the mystery,

except by what can only be called
the greatest of all miracles,
a warming to life.

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Written for dVerse on the occasion of their third anniversary. Dedicated to poets everywhere who are attempting to see, hear, smell, touch, and speak of what we experience.

40 thoughts on “Boboli Gardens”

  1. oh…their tongues made be stone still, but still they speak, cry out to the poets surrounding them telling their tale in stone silence such that if you to sit stock still you will hear their story and in doing so, like any true poet, you will share it out. glad to see you made it to the ball!

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  2. I’m glad at least we can sing (or write) about warming to life. I like your descriptive images. Nice poem. Also – nice to meet you. Have fun at the ball.

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  3. ah but they can surely inspire us to sing of them…i feel a bit bad for them frozen there in that moment…unable to be creative….guess it is up to us, you know….poet on man

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  8. Glenn Buttkus says:

    for some reason I kept flashing on the DR. WHO characters, the Weeping Angels, that statues that kill (silly of me). I have always admired the sculptors who stare at a block of granite, and can see the figure inside clearly; one of the great mysteries for me; like talking to jazz musicians who see notes, see images, and they play notes. Cool job, Jeff.

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    • Thanks Glenn. I also admire those that can create something tangible from an inner idea or vision. You also do the same every time you write a poem, and I find it very admirable!

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    • Thanks Sumana–all true artists (poets, painters, musicians, sculptors, whatever) are Pygmalions, bringing life to the world. So it seems to me.

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    • Thanks Kathy, I was glad to attend the celebration. Life is a mystery. And, according to Shakespeare, life is a miracle. I tend to believe him.

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  12. Who would have thought a warming to life would be a miracle! But thinking about it ; yes, it would be a miracle.There are lots of these statues warming only to the jingle of coins, avarice and bank accounts except they don’t look as good as the ones in the museums (even with their expensive nose jobs:) Good to see you back again Nico/Jeff.

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  13. i’m often fascinated by sculptures…captured and frozen in a moment of embrace, triumph, sadness, thoughtfulness… and that warming to life is surely a big miracle..

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  16. Welcome to the party, it’s been a while since I’ve read your words..I wonder what they would say if they had the opportunity to finish their thoughts..tongues stone still..it’s up to the poets to feel their words..warming life..I like that..

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  17. the grimacing frozen faces..that never truly see meaning in poetry..or life in general..as it can be..wild and free..simply letting all go freely flowing..

    Are the saddest to me..

    And the polar opposite can truly be..

    poetry in me..
    and
    for
    you

    and yes grimacing frozen face more than ever 2..

    as to ever hope..to melt the hearts of frozen ones…

    hmm..i’d link the musicK video to the Disney Frozen song..

    but perhaps with words..like these..and yours..

    that will not be necessary..to find a heart in words…:)

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  20. Ah there are more in the city – copies of the great ones outside the Uffizi – life size saints in the niches of the Duomo – the slaves are emerging at the Academia, the David is a towering GIANT in his ring where he dominates the entire structure of the Academia. Marie di Medici reclines in her garden and pinocchios hang on strings around the Pontevecchio – they’re still breathing the joy, the inspiration, the genius sculted into them – they bond with the breath of God – charged matter that has travelled the cosmos. Florence is and always will be forever vibrant – and being there so are we! Thanks for the very fine poem.

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