These little flowers, appearing in New York City in Spring, have tiny blue bells, but are they really bluebells? No, according to poet John Latta, who kindly informed me that in the US, they are called grape hyacinths. Nice name, though I don’t think T.S. Eliot would have liked it:
He: “You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;”
She: “They called me the hyacinth girl.”
He: –Yet when we came back, late, from the hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
She: “Honestly!… do you go like that every time you have sex? Catatonic?”