Poem by the celebrated William McGonagall, from his book Poetic Gems.

A gallant knight and his betroth'd bride,
Were walking one day by a river side,
They talk'd of love, and they talk'd of war,
And how very foolish lovers are.

At length the bride to the knight did say,
'There have been many young ladies led astray
By believing in all their lovers said,
And you are false to me I am afraid.'

'No, Ellen, I was never false to thee,
I never gave thee cause to doubt me;
I have always lov'd thee and do still,
And no other woman your place shall fill.'

'Dear Edwin, it may be true, but I am in doubt,
But there's some beautiful flowers here about,
Growing on the other side of the river,
But how to get one, I cannot discover.'

'Dear Ellen, they seem beautiful indeed,
But of them, dear, take no heed;
Because they are on the other side,
Besides, the river is deep and wide.'

'Dear Edwin, as I doubt your love to be untrue,
I ask one favour now from you:
Go! fetch me a flower from across the river,
Which will prove you love me more than ever.'

'Dear Ellen! I will try and fetch you a flower
If it lies within my power
To prove that I am true to you,
And what more can your Edwin do?'

So he leap'd into the river wide,
And swam across to the other side,
To fetch a flower for his young bride,
Who watched him eagerly on the other side.

So he pluck'd a flower right merrily
Which seemed to fill his heart with glee,
That it would please his lovely bride;
But, alas! he never got to the other side.

For when he tried to swim across,
All power of his body he did loss,
But before he sank in the river wide,
He flung the flowers to his lovely bride.

And he cried, 'Oh, heaven! hard is my lot,
My dearest Ellen! Forget me not:
For I was ever true to you,
My dearest Ellen! I bid thee adieu!'

Then she wrung her hands in wild despair,
Until her cries did rend the air;
And she cried, 'Edwin, dear, hard is out lot,
But I'll name this flower Forget-me-not.

'And I'll remember thee while I live,
And to no other man my hand I'll give,
And I will place my affection on this little flower,
And it will solace me in a lonely hour.'

Genus Myosotis, sounds rather dull doesn't it? A member of the borage family, once thought to be able to harden steel, forget me not and Love-me are far better names, more fitting somehow. Growing fearlessly in dark, dank places, fuzzy green stems support rows of small flowers, each with five delicate sky-blue petals surrounding a tiny sunshine-yellow center. Clear blue innocence. Bright, happy, exuberant.

Like trying to explain color to a blind man, or birdsong to the deaf, words are inadeqate, they cannot express what has passed between us. But in trying to stand back from my heart a spark has left my life. Something is missing, something undefineable, something I didn't know existed before we fleetingly shared our lives.

And the small points of white shine in the dappled shade. Self-seeded forget-me-nots have come up white this year, devoid of color, like they have forgotten who they truly are.

Some things is worse.

Don't I know it, it's like taking a leak at dusk in midsummer Minnesota. Pull out your piece and a swarm of skeeters cramp you mad out of the variegated foliage. Boy if that ain't the Lord singing a song. Splash fast baby.

Torture isn't new to me, I've stumbled upon something else plenty of times; Poison Ivy, nettles, red fire ants. Nature doesn't bother me, it's the environmental cesspool I was born in that spites my existence. I'm an American, which pretty much means I got everything and nothing at the same time. Aerosol sprays, lead paint, cigarettes, booze, laws, ideals, capitalism, welfare…

I never wanted it to be this way. The cookie cutter urban sprawl, strip malls and town home complexes make my soul shine rash itch like a bitch.

I like the ideal of freedom. I live just fine how it is. I have a roof over my head and plenty of ways to get around. I have it made, just like the rest of you. The other America can barely point out five countries on a map. Michael Moore is trouncing around Europe as we speak, spouting off about how ignorant Americans are. Here at home, we applaud his avant-garde approach to Gonzo journalism. I'm offended. I'm not an imperialist, I'm not even a communist and I don't follow the anarchy gig. I can name all the Canadian provinces. My being just retains an inherent right to exist without being scrutinized for being a part of something else. I explore.

Don't know shit from shinola? Get it straight America.

Folks talk to me all the time on the street. I once met this American girl in Prague and she was jumping up and down, imploring me to listen to the
"Screams of the cobblestones"
beneath her feet. She was neat. I listened and heard the cobblestones scream. I thought they were singing a sad old song. That same girl once drank me under the table on becherovka and she used to steal blue kisses from my cheek. I loved her.

She would pick a stem out of the castle walls every morning and twirl it in her fingers. One morning, the stem had a tiny blue flower Kaleidoscoping in her swirls.
"Forget-me-not. Such a sad name for a little blue flower". She said.
We walked down toward the Vltava and across Charles bridge. As we crossed she flicked the flower into the river. She mused,
"That's for all the voices you never heard".

At night I lay on my belly and hug my pillow close, then I tuck me feet under the cover and spoon them together rubbing them to release the djinn inside.

For*get"-me-not` (?), n. [Cf. G. vergissmeinnicht.] Bot.

A small herb, of the genus Myosotis (M. palustris, incespitosa, etc.), bearing a beautiful blue flower, and extensively considered the emblem of fidelity.

⇒ Formerly the name was given to the Ajuga Chamaepitus.

 

© Webster 1913.

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