On Crocuses.
Why crocus? Why not rose, or orchid, or lily, or something else more intriguing and fascinating? Because I am not a rose type of person. At least my writings are not. I consider the crocus as something beautiful and potent, bringer of hope and love, lust and pleasure. Yet it has a simplicity, that allows it to combine with almost everything. A rose can never be as expressionate as a crocus. It is far too complex. No, my words will always be: crocus, tulip, marigold and dandelion. There is not a flower as whistful as the forget-me-not. This is why I have decorated my pages with flowers. Hyacints, daisies, marguerites... These flowers are both erotic, secretive and outspoken, their colours are shifting yet clear. Touch these flowers' buds a night when the moon is glowing, and you will understand completely the feelings I try to convey in my poetry. I have not succeeded fully. Perhaps I never will. Others might write roses. I will always write the crocus on the verge of unfurling in the morning sun.
 
 
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