Analysis of Garden Show



I didn't know what you were
a non-descript pot of green
peppered with tiny burst of lilac.
Nothing special except for the surprising ability of tiny petals to swallow my heart whole.
That would have been enough for me.
An impulse purchase to recapture my pulse
which I had to have at any price.
The humble botanist recognized me
as a kindred spirit who spoke the language of things that come from the soil.
Without a word, he plucked a leaf, rolling it between earth-stained fingers,
and held it up to my nose.
He watched me, his mouth contorting with the beginning of a knowing smile, expectant
as I politely inhaled, expecting something green and herby.
Instead, the essence of a thousand old-fashioned roses exploded deep in my lungs.
I gasped, and the botanist laughed.
He called you by your Arabic name, "etre."
"Etre," I repeated, recalling the Francophonic verb, "to be."
And you most certainly were. something.
I loaded you into my wheelbarrow, alongside rare desert moutain thyme, false mint, rosemary, oregano, purple basil, french lavender, honeysuckle, jasmine, and strawberries.
I was after a scented garden for my rooftop paradise in the concrete Cairo jungle.
You grew erratically. Stalks and leaves plumping up like a straggly succulent, tumbling over the sides of the planter.
You refused to be outdone by your neighbors, the thirsty basil and insistent creeping thyme.
You mocked the edible herbs and obvious sweet smelling shrubs
each morning as I dragged the hose from planter to planter before the heat of the day struck.
All I had to do was brush up against you and you released your heady teenage girl scent.
Sweet, sticky rose rose rose.
You turned my delicate scented garden into a cheap brothel.
My very own garden whore
quickening my pulse
giving me my heart back
beat by beat.
May 2008


Scheme ABCDEFGEHIJKLMNAEOPQARSTUJQVFCWX
Poetic Form
Metre 1101110 011111 10110111 10100110010010011010110111 11110111 11010101011 111111101 010100101 101010110101111101 01011101101011110 0111111 1111111001010101010 110100101010101 010101010110100101011 11001001 1111110011 1101001001111 011100010 110101110011110111110101010110010010010 1110010101111000011010 1101001011110110010010011010 10111111110010100010101 110100101001101 1101110111011001011011 111111110110101110111 110111 1111001010010110 1101101 10011 101111 111 1
Closest metre Iambic heptameter
Characters 1,813
Words 332
Sentences 24
Stanzas 1
Stanza Lengths 32
Lines Amount 32
Letters per line (avg) 45
Words per line (avg) 10
Letters per stanza (avg) 1,448
Words per stanza (avg) 309

About this poem

Reflection on shopping for plants as an immigrant (we called ourselves expats in the day) at a garden expo in Cairo, Egypt. Rose Geranium, aka "citronella', is the plant.

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Written on 2008

Submitted by dianab.11037 on February 07, 2023

Modified on March 23, 2023

1:39 min read
25

Diana Boeke

Lifestyle artist, writer, poet, student of nature, social justice witness and activist. more…

All Diana Boeke poems | Diana Boeke Books

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