Night Flowering Jasmine
A night flowering jasmine tree
stands alone in my open courtyard
even in day time
when all birds have flown
towards the western sky
and some strayed birds
took the southern flight,
even in the night it remains alone
its grey barks, green leaves
and white flowers
never see one another in the night
they feel that they may have different colors
but same juice flow through all the cells
and they’ve never heard of apartheid,
On this very spot
when the great grandmother
of this tree stood alone
at the time when great wars were fought
when my great granny had come here
as a bride in a beautiful gown
with pinkish cheeks with alluring dimples
as if she were its white flowers
with light red centre,
she was shy in the day
and open in the night
as its flowers start blooming with dusk
and falling down at dawn,
In their short span
the Night Flowering Jasmine flowers
unfold many things
and I pick up them one by one
as I pick up its fallen flowers,
my great grandfather picked up flowers
under the great granny of this tree
With some flowers he picked up tales
of the fall of Tsar,
with some flowers he picked up
the end of the First World War,
its tiny flowers
with a diameter of five cm
lifted the heavy weight of the Great War
and its white circle ensnared the elliptical orbit
of this Earth where wars are fought,
After some years
in a beautiful spring morning
my great grandpa picked up a flower
with its little petals
he lifted the sorrow
of The Waste Land
and Eliot came into my open courtyard
he picked up a petal resembling the shape
of human heart
he understood the meaning of his great work
from Europe to Asia
from ‘The Burial of the Dead’
to ‘Shantin Shantin Shantin’
(Peace, peace, peace)
all came into his mind
and my great grandpa continued
to pick up flowers
Eliot, the philosopher wandering
all over the world
and many things (In ‘The Waste Land’)
found Eliot, the poet in my courtyard,
My grandpa never planted
any night flowering Jasmine
in his garden
he kept his love a secret
and never opened it on beaches,
after a great night of love
one morning he picked up flowers
with his beloved, my granny
he picked flowers
and with its mild fragrance
he inhaled the smell of the soil.
Night Flowering Jasmine blooms
every night since then
and flowers fall down with the dawn
my father picked up the fallen flowers
for years….
and now
I do the same,
with each flower I pick up
thousands of tales of love and war
of ‘War and Peace’
with each petal I pick up Tolstoy,
under this ten meter tall tree
I find my heart
I find many mysteries
and their remedies
for them I don’t need to travel
in the space
this ten meter tall tree has enough space
to accommodate the big Earth
its little flower with red centre has a heart
larger than those of thousands of warriors,
I’ve felt in my short journey
shorter than that of Eliot
even shorter than that of Tolstoy,
that somewhere in the world
the Night flowering Jasmine blooms
and there’re some people who pick up
these fallen flowers
and I’m quite sure
they’re not the warriors who fight great wars.
My Night flowering Jasmine – a small thing
with many sparks.