Petals and Poems
Martha slept soundly that night after being trapped in a flower bud on the gargantuan gardens of Sylomain. The plants there were an obscene size, towering over you like skyscrapers in New York. They had arrived as a race of aliens made of sludge and tar decided to “upgrade the patch of dirt”. They had been caged in a giant petunia for treason and only after days of trying to find the tiny sonic screwdriver in the thick sickly sweet nectar they were knee deep in did they manage to get out and intervene in the invasion.
In return, the natives of the Sylomain gave them a bouquet of flowers representing who they were in the past and present, knowing exactly which ones to give.
Martha was given elder, fennel, clematis, alyssum, and alium, symbols of her compassion, strength, beauty and intelligence. The Doctor frowned during the ceremony, however, when the speaker explained that she also had daffodils of unrequited love, and yellow hyacinths for jealousy. He looked at Martha for a moment and she merely shrugged. Yet, he could see that sad look in her eyes and he swallowed the thought that his companion wanted more than what he could give.
The speaker of the ceremony (which was becoming deathly long as it explained every flower’s history and meaning) then turned to the Doctor’s bouquet. The arborvitae represented his virtual immortality which was contradicted by the bay leaves which tried to communicate that he changed but in dying. The eglantine voiced his genius but what he found quite fitting was the fir and the wild honeysuckles which represented time and his inconstancy.
The rest of the bouquet was less flattering. Yarrow was inserted to represent strife and war, an obvious reference to the Time War and the way he lived his life. So close after the battle at Canary Wharf there were four flowers that made his face harden, trying desperately not to feel the sadness and the grief he felt from the memories that they brought up. Forget-me-nots reminded him of what he’d lost and zinnia and jasmine to symbolize his mourning and the vigil he kept for the namesake of the last flowers.
The speaker held up three red roses, silhouetted against the sunset and the Doctor looked away. The speaker spoke of how it represented love and romance. He also said that many life forms didn’t know that the rose also represented courage and respect. He felt Martha try to put a comforting hand on his but he pulled back. A quick thought appeared in his mind and he saw what the daffodils were for but he closed his eyes and realized his rejection was for the better. He didn’t want to encourage Martha the way he unconsciously encouraged Rose if it was only going to end the way it always would.
Now that Martha slept, the Doctor had time to go to the library next to his bedroom. He wanted to record this particular adventure. The bouquet was put on a desk, exploding in color and scent. With his glasses on, he turned a page of his journal and drew the flowers. He turned another page and drew a panorama of the world he’d just visited. He turned another and drew the speaker. He turned one last sheet when that whisper of a wind from the movement gently shook petals from the roses and they softly landed on the desk. He put the gold pen he held down and slumped back, watching the bruised petals.
The Sylo must be remarkably emphatic, he thought. Just looks at you and knows what you’ve been through and how it’s changed who you are.
His fingers touched the zinnia.
Mourning? Am I mourning? Well, I’ve been mourning since Gallifrey…
His jaw tightened at the name of his old home.
Even more so since Rose…
His hands clenched at the thought of her.
In the Doctor’s many incarnations, he didn’t think he ever had an affinity to the written word quite as he did in his tenth incarnation. Not to say that he didn’t like books before. There was enough evidence in the countless libraries in the TARDIS to prove that the Doctor was an avid reader.
Still…
As this spectacled brown-haired, pinstriped man, there seemed to be something deeper than just a love for knowledge. There was an adoration for poetry and the flow of words that made his soul (if he believed in such a thing) calm after a long, arduous trip. As he stared at the petals the thought occurred to try his hand at writing a few verses of his own. He picked the pen up again.
He scribble a line and then some…
“Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”
He looked. He blinked. He crossed out the lines, realizing that Shakespeare beat him to the words of love seeing past age… Something that he thought he would have done for Rose… With Rose.
“I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
Now Tennyson would probably scoff at his plagiarism. If Albie, as the Doctor affectionately called him when they met, ever caught wind that the Doctor had claimed those words as his own, he would get… a little testy. The man was strange enough with all his daddy issues but coming from the stuffy Victorian era just made things worse. He tore the page out, smashed it between his hands and threw it against the wall.
“Is there anybody going to listen to my story,
All about a girl who came to stay.
She’s the kind of girl you love so much it makes you sorry.
Still, you don’t regret a single day.”
Very fitting, if John Lennon hadn’t already written the song. He growled lightly and threw the new sheet against the wall again.
“We loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.”
More than fitting…. Except of course Rose was not Annabel Lee. And if he remembered correctly, Edgar Allen Poe had already written what he’d jotted down. There was also the slightly unnerving ending where the poet goes to the woman’s grave to lie down beside her corpse. He cringed at the thought of ever having see Rose in the same state.
He took a deep breath and this time tried to clear his mind of all the poems, sonnets, and haikus he might, accidentally, claim as his own. The Doctor scanned the new sheet of paper. He brought his pen down and wrote:
Why’d you have to leave,
Far away to another land.
It’s you that I need, but you,
I just don’t understand.
Not exactly Wordsworth, but at least is was his own. He looked at the page with a kind of child-like pride. His smile faltered at the though of his muse and he sighed again. His hand smoothed down the page and gathered the fallen petals. He put them in between another set of pages and closed the book. The Doctor pressed his lips lightly on the cover and put it on the shelf where it would remain until the next time he finds himself too overwhelmed by the memories of Rose Tyler…
In return, the natives of the Sylomain gave them a bouquet of flowers representing who they were in the past and present, knowing exactly which ones to give.
Martha was given elder, fennel, clematis, alyssum, and alium, symbols of her compassion, strength, beauty and intelligence. The Doctor frowned during the ceremony, however, when the speaker explained that she also had daffodils of unrequited love, and yellow hyacinths for jealousy. He looked at Martha for a moment and she merely shrugged. Yet, he could see that sad look in her eyes and he swallowed the thought that his companion wanted more than what he could give.
The speaker of the ceremony (which was becoming deathly long as it explained every flower’s history and meaning) then turned to the Doctor’s bouquet. The arborvitae represented his virtual immortality which was contradicted by the bay leaves which tried to communicate that he changed but in dying. The eglantine voiced his genius but what he found quite fitting was the fir and the wild honeysuckles which represented time and his inconstancy.
The rest of the bouquet was less flattering. Yarrow was inserted to represent strife and war, an obvious reference to the Time War and the way he lived his life. So close after the battle at Canary Wharf there were four flowers that made his face harden, trying desperately not to feel the sadness and the grief he felt from the memories that they brought up. Forget-me-nots reminded him of what he’d lost and zinnia and jasmine to symbolize his mourning and the vigil he kept for the namesake of the last flowers.
The speaker held up three red roses, silhouetted against the sunset and the Doctor looked away. The speaker spoke of how it represented love and romance. He also said that many life forms didn’t know that the rose also represented courage and respect. He felt Martha try to put a comforting hand on his but he pulled back. A quick thought appeared in his mind and he saw what the daffodils were for but he closed his eyes and realized his rejection was for the better. He didn’t want to encourage Martha the way he unconsciously encouraged Rose if it was only going to end the way it always would.
Now that Martha slept, the Doctor had time to go to the library next to his bedroom. He wanted to record this particular adventure. The bouquet was put on a desk, exploding in color and scent. With his glasses on, he turned a page of his journal and drew the flowers. He turned another page and drew a panorama of the world he’d just visited. He turned another and drew the speaker. He turned one last sheet when that whisper of a wind from the movement gently shook petals from the roses and they softly landed on the desk. He put the gold pen he held down and slumped back, watching the bruised petals.
The Sylo must be remarkably emphatic, he thought. Just looks at you and knows what you’ve been through and how it’s changed who you are.
His fingers touched the zinnia.
Mourning? Am I mourning? Well, I’ve been mourning since Gallifrey…
His jaw tightened at the name of his old home.
Even more so since Rose…
His hands clenched at the thought of her.
In the Doctor’s many incarnations, he didn’t think he ever had an affinity to the written word quite as he did in his tenth incarnation. Not to say that he didn’t like books before. There was enough evidence in the countless libraries in the TARDIS to prove that the Doctor was an avid reader.
Still…
As this spectacled brown-haired, pinstriped man, there seemed to be something deeper than just a love for knowledge. There was an adoration for poetry and the flow of words that made his soul (if he believed in such a thing) calm after a long, arduous trip. As he stared at the petals the thought occurred to try his hand at writing a few verses of his own. He picked the pen up again.
He scribble a line and then some…
“Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.”
He looked. He blinked. He crossed out the lines, realizing that Shakespeare beat him to the words of love seeing past age… Something that he thought he would have done for Rose… With Rose.
“I hold it true, whate’er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
‘T is better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.”
Now Tennyson would probably scoff at his plagiarism. If Albie, as the Doctor affectionately called him when they met, ever caught wind that the Doctor had claimed those words as his own, he would get… a little testy. The man was strange enough with all his daddy issues but coming from the stuffy Victorian era just made things worse. He tore the page out, smashed it between his hands and threw it against the wall.
“Is there anybody going to listen to my story,
All about a girl who came to stay.
She’s the kind of girl you love so much it makes you sorry.
Still, you don’t regret a single day.”
Very fitting, if John Lennon hadn’t already written the song. He growled lightly and threw the new sheet against the wall again.
“We loved with a love that was more than love-
I and my Annabel Lee;
With a love that the winged seraphs of heaven
Coveted her and me.
And this was the reason that, long ago,
In this kingdom by the sea,
A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling
My beautiful Annabel Lee;
So that her highborn kinsman came
And bore her away from me,
To shut her up in a sepulchre
In this kingdom by the sea.”
More than fitting…. Except of course Rose was not Annabel Lee. And if he remembered correctly, Edgar Allen Poe had already written what he’d jotted down. There was also the slightly unnerving ending where the poet goes to the woman’s grave to lie down beside her corpse. He cringed at the thought of ever having see Rose in the same state.
He took a deep breath and this time tried to clear his mind of all the poems, sonnets, and haikus he might, accidentally, claim as his own. The Doctor scanned the new sheet of paper. He brought his pen down and wrote:
Why’d you have to leave,
Far away to another land.
It’s you that I need, but you,
I just don’t understand.
Not exactly Wordsworth, but at least is was his own. He looked at the page with a kind of child-like pride. His smile faltered at the though of his muse and he sighed again. His hand smoothed down the page and gathered the fallen petals. He put them in between another set of pages and closed the book. The Doctor pressed his lips lightly on the cover and put it on the shelf where it would remain until the next time he finds himself too overwhelmed by the memories of Rose Tyler…