Red Hot Pokers in Point Arena, CaliforniaHeadland, Point Arena LighthouseMount Shasta
Lacking a Rosendahl entry for the Letter “X,” I decided to use the term “xeric,” which means “dry” or “arid.” That term brought back recent memories of my trip with Tim to the California coast last August. The poem, “California Flipbook,” draws on these memories and images taken late last summer, when the air was smoky from wild fires was ablaze near Chico, and the natural world was at once fragrant and beautiful but also demonstrably stressed and fragile.
Wishing you blue skies, wherever you go today, LESLIE
Today, I was not inspired by the few terms offered by Rosendahl for the letter “W”, and so I began to think about plants whose name begin with that letter: weeping willow, walnut (done that!) wisteria, white cedar, white birch, white spruce, white pine, wax begonia, wild ginger (some in our garden soon), wallflower, watermelon, wood anemone, wych elm, wisteria & wood lily/trillium (I have already written poems inspired by these plants in past years), witch hazel, and…water lily, a plant I have admired for years and have been able to get to know better thanks to the kayaking skills of our friend, Tricia Smith, whose home is mere steps from a quiet protected lake that fills with these flowers as the summer advances.
Willows and water lilies. And Shakespeare’s birthday. These thoughts made me think of his character, Ophelia, in Hamlet, specifically the words spoken by Queen Gertrude to convey the pathos of her death off-stage.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook, That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream; There with fantastic garlands did she come Of crow-flowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples That liberal shepherds give a grosser name, But our cold maids do dead men’s fingers call them: There, on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds Clambering to hang, an envious sliver broke; When down her weedy trophies and herself Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide; And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up: Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes; As one incapable of her own distress, Or like a creature native and indued Unto that element: but long it could not be Till that her garments, heavy with their drink, Pull’d the poor wretch from her melodious lay To muddy death.
These musings and this literary antecedent, along with memories of visiting some of Monet’s Water Lily paintings at Musée de l’Orangerie when I was a teenager like Ophelia, inspired my Shakespearean sonnet today. And I am grateful to my sister, Karla, for allowing me to use her spectacular images of water lilies to illustrate this post. May their shining beauty, and Shakespeare’s immortal lines, distract you from the flaws of my own hasty effort!
In the course of looking up water lilies, I chanced upon an educational video aiming to debunk or corroborate the widely held belief that the tubers of water lilies can serve as a source for food. This 15-minute summary of several controlled experiments–and definitions of such terms as “edible” and “palatable”–convinced me not to depend on supplementing my food stores with water lilies should I be lingering in the wilderness. (Lotus, apparently, is a different story, botanically and culinarily, than is our native North American cousin.)
The poem that resulted today is a bit of a stretch from the prompt word found in Rosendahl’s glossary, “unarmed.” What, I wondered, does this adjective have to do with plants? I learned that “armed” plants are those with thorns. From there–with a hop, skip, and a leap–I thought of the anniversary trip that Tim and I took two years ago to the place we serendiptiously found on our honeymoon, then later returned to as first home-buyers, but had not seen for many years. This time, the little house we had briefly owned was not to be seen from the street due to overgrown vegetation, and this reminded me very strongly at the time of the fairy tale of Sleeping Beauty, of the impentrable barrier of thorny brambles that repelled visitors.
From there, I thought of images from that summer–sails that remind me of thorns and, conversely, the statue of the unarmed woman, called “Flower in a Crannied Wall,” beloved by Frank Lloyd Wright and reproduced in several locations in his Spring Green, Wisconsin home, Taliesin.
Wishing you a fairy tale happy ending to a magical day, LESLIE
Today, the words “trailing” and “twining” seemed a natural pair to me, and “tendrils” fit right in with these sororal twins both in terms of sound and sense. The accompanying photos from our garden show three plants: a Grandpa Ott morning glory, a winter squash, and a California poppy. The morning glory climbs, just as reliably as the sun does each morning. The squash, Tim finds, does better with a short trellis or fence to climb, too, rather than trailing on the ground in a more traditional garden plot, because then the fruit does not rot. The California poppy is not a twiner or a trailer by definition, but…its tendrils are so thin and flexible that it sometimes appears to be both.
Once I had selected the words, the title suggested itself, as did the long, skinny shape.
I have heard it said that Minnesotans go mad for color in spring. It might be true. Tim and I have just purchased some terra cotta pots, glazed a deep cobalt blue, for the garden. I am envisioning them holding pansies and bright green sweet potato vines, but they cannot safely be planted yet because, well, it is Minnesota. Only the foolhardy plant tender annuals before May 15. (I know this from sad experience 🙁 .)
In any case, those pots alone, resting on the soft red bricks of the patio Tim made for me on our 10th anniversary, next to the now-greening grass and the sea of deep-blue scilla blooms, are a welcome pop of color all on their own.
Perhaps that is why one of the Rosendahl glossary terms for the letter “S” caught my eye this morning: “Sordid.” It is a word I know, of course, but in the metaphorical context of dirt: “sordid details” or “sordid deeds.” Here is Rosendahl’s gloss: “dirty in tint, chiefly applied when of a impure white.” That got me thinking about the subtle sophistication of such hues–not soiled but chic–and how I am missing that opportunity in our garden. Next time I plant tulip bulbs, I am going to seek out some with this lovely shades.
