Vox Populi
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John Lawson: Flowers
Anne Frank (1929 – 1945) and Hind Rajab (2018-2024)
A special tragedy, to survive
Almost till spring, when the nearing sun
Might quell dark fear, still
Convulsive shivering. Pull down with tender
Touch the purple lids;
Protect the eyes, so clear, that saw too little
And too much, from
Dirt bulldozers will push to form a virgin
Field above the bones.
Make daffodils and tulips rise and fret
The breeze of May.
Summer’s near. Forget. Forget.
“`
Copyright 2026 John Lawson
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To write such a beautiful poem about grief–oh, heart.
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Wow! Just, WOW!
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It is a great poem, isn’t it?
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Just, WOW.
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And yet we can’t forget, even though the bulldozers cover bones in the final places where evacuation becomes impossible. Except in the imaginarium where the heart’s daffodils or serviceberries arise on top of the clear cut landscapes of evil. Those may emerge as our places of rebirth or “evacuation”.
The evacuations will be everlasting— Mark Nowak.
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We cannot forget.
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This one hits me hard. John Lawson—thank you.
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me too. I feel this poem in my gut.
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So little, so much. Thank you for this poem.
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I’m so moved by this poem. That stanza break — oh my! History and horror in that silence — in that break. That’s where poetry comes wailing in, right? In those silences.
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This poem demonstrates the principle that poetry lives in the silence between words, lines, stanzas.
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And alas neglect not to read every John Lawson poem posted today. Another great poet in Pittsburgh. How do I move and leave all these cows behind?
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Stay where you are, Sean. God put you among the cows for a reason. As he put me on my mountain and Jeffers on his cliff and Naomi on the road…
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Oh God! To write like this. As seemingly simple as a flower, and we know how unsimple that is. Just a scrap of poem really, to bring in and find a vase to place on the table in the middle of that grand room you live in, your heart.
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“bring in and find a vase to place on the table in the middle of that grand room you live in, your heart” Yes!
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Sean spins poetry as easily as a spider spins a web — to paraphrase Merwin speaking of Neruda.
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