Memories




Forget Me Nots

By Don Jackson, August 2011
Former host of one of Canada's most popular radio shows spanning three decades.
Author, broadcaster, storyteller.

The great city fell asleep
But we did not sleep.
Clearly we heard, all night,
From the hillock next to our house
The tender branches of the flower-clustered tree
With leaves like peacock feet
Let fall
Their blue-sapphire flowers.
Kollan Arici, translated by A. K. Ramanujan

I could not build a website without speaking of my favorite color: blue.

Rainbows; and the blue bitter smoke of wood;
And radiant raindrops couching in cool flowers;
And flowers themselves, that sway through the sunny hours,
Dreaming of moths that drink them under the moon.
Rupert Brooke

There is a very old legend about the Forget-Me-Not.

Two lovers, a knight and his lady fair, were walking by the shore of a small lake when she spied a few beautiful flowers of the Myosotis on the bank of an island some distance away from the shore.

This retelling appeared in the edition, 'The Wonderful, The Curious And The Beautiful In The World's History' by John Clark Ridpath, published in 1891. This is the oldest volume I have in my library.

She expressed a desire to possess them, when her knight, in the true spirit of chivalry, plunged into the water and swimming to the spot, cropped the wished-for plant; but his strength was unable to fulfil the object of his achievement, and feeling that he could not regain the shore, although very near it, he threw the flowers upon the bank, and casting a last affectionate look upon his lady-love, he said, 'Forget me not,' and was buried in the water.

This writing in this very old volume was by Mills.

The Forget-Me-Not has been known in England since the time of Edward IV, and now it serves to remind us of those afflicted by a devastating disease that robs the victim of dignity and the lifeline to remembrance. This flower suggests to us that we cherish our memories because they could disappear in an instant, as though they were drowned in the muddy waters of forgetfulness.

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and half-light,
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.
'He Wishes For The Cloths Of Heaven' by William

Don Jackson, August 2011


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