Friday Flowers: Hidden Flame

Red Hibiscus

Another lovely Summer weekend has arrived.

Let's celebrate the day with some verse by John Dryden, born on August 9 (in the Old Style dating), 1631.

"Hidden Flame"

Enjoy!!!

Friday Flowers: Days of Wine and Roses

White dahlias

Vitae Summa Brevis

(By Ernest Dowson)

They are not long, the weeping and the laughter,
Love and desire and hate;
I think they will have no portion in us after
We pass the gate.

They are not long, the days of wine and roses:
Out of a misty dream
Our path emerges for a while, then closes
Within a dream

White Dahlia

After highlighting roses throughout the summer, I couldn't do it again. Instead, our focus is on the "Angel of August", the white dahlia. Symbolic of elegance and dedication, it's an auspicious beauty to start off the month.

So, why the title of this post? We're celebrating the birth date of Ernest Dowson, featuring one of his most famous phrases. Anyways, it's closer to our premise than "gone with the wind". ;-)

Canary

Detail of The Canary (1913) by William McGregor Paxton

Canary
(By Rita Dove)


---for Michael S. Harper

Billie Holiday’s burned voice
had as many shadows as lights,
a mournful candelabra against a sleek piano,
the gardenia her signature under that ruined face.

(Now you’re cooking, drummer to bass,   
magic spoon, magic needle.
Take all day if you have to
with your mirror and your bracelet of song.)

Fact is, the invention of women under siege   
has been to sharpen love in the service of myth.

If you can’t be free, be a mystery.


It's been a while since I last posted up a poem. I figured that the day would be improved with some lovely verse by Rita Dove.

Enjoy!!!

Friday Flowers: Tulips and Turtles

Yellow and orange tulips

The Turtle
(By Ogden Nash)

The turtle lives 'twixt plated decks
Which practically conceal its sex.
I think it clever of the turtle
In such a fix to be so fertile.

Pink tulips

It's been a rough couple of days, but I figured that we could have a bit of levity to round out the week, setting a positive mood for the weekend. And what makes for a smile and chuckle better than a pretty bouquet of tulips and the verse of Ogden Nash?

Moreover, how often do you see tulips and turtles thematically paired? ;-)

Friday Flowers: Echeveria

Echeveria Imbricata

History
(By Robert Lowell)


History has to live with what was here,
clutching and close to fumbling all we had--
it is so dull and gruesome how we die,
unlike writing, life never finishes.
Abel was finished; death is not remote,
a flash-in-the-pan electrifies the skeptic,
his cows crowding like skulls against high-voltage wire,
his baby crying all night like a new machine.
As in our Bibles, white-faced, predatory,
the beautiful, mist-drunken hunter's moon ascends--
a child could give it a face: two holes, two holes,
my eyes, my mouth, between them a skull's no-nose--
O there's a terrifying innocence in my face
drenched with the silver salvage of the mornfrost.

Echeveria Pulvinata "Frosty"

Since we started this cycle of posts with desert flora, I figured we would close it out with some as well. So, here are a few photos of lovely echeveria from the Huntington Botanic Gardens. Looking at the varieties of echevaria in the conservatory, I actually started to develop a liking for these plants, becoming beguiled by their understated beauty. In times past, I would simply stroll right by them, ignoring their subtle grace.

So, even with all of my experience at pausing and appraising the wonders that surround me, I can be oblivious. Although a practiced aesthete, I can overlook splendors that bloom before me. Therefore, it is always good to have a friend who will lead one to appreciate that which is overlooked.

Friday Flowers: Magnolias

Magnolia: San Jose

Sonnet I (from Renascence)
(By Edna St. Vincent Millay)


Thou art not lovelier than lilacs, -- no,
  Nor honeysuckle; thou art not more fair
  Than small white single poppies, -- I can bear
Thy beauty; though I bend before thee, though
From left to right, not knowing where to go,
  I turn my troubled eyes, nor here nor there
  Find any refuge from thee, yet I swear
So has it been with mist, -- with moonlight so.

Like him who day by day unto his draught
  Of delicate poison adds him one drop more
Till he may drink unharmed the death of ten,
Even so, inured to beauty, who have quaffed
  Each hour more deeply than the hour before,
I drink -- and live -- what has destroyed some men.

Magnolia: Brozzonii

Today, we celebrate two "old fashioned" beauties, magnolias and the poetry of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Both have a variety of culture connotations that might bring to mind bygone eras. Yet, when assessed for that which they are, free from bias or expectations, both the flowers and poems have undeniable beauty, as vibrant and charming today as they were generations ago.

So, let's wind up the week with these gentle beauties.

Magnolia: Verbanica

And, yes, these are photographs that I took during my trip to the Huntington. With so many gorgeous flowers in bloom, it'll be a few weeks before I can share them all.

Then, it'll be time for the Spring blossoms. ;-)

Become a Habit

Shadows and reflections upon the surface of a car, gilded illusions of the day's final hour

A Fixed Idea

(By Amy Lowell)

What torture lurks within a single thought 

When grown too constant, and however kind, 

However welcome still, the weary mind 

Aches with its presence. Dull remembrance taught 

Remembers on unceasingly; unsought 

The old delight is with us but to find 

That all recurring joy is pain refined, 

Become a habit, and we struggle, caught. 

You lie upon my heart as on a nest, 

Folded in peace, for you can never know 

How crushed I am with having you at rest 

Heavy upon my life. I love you so 

You bind my freedom from its rightful quest. 

In mercy lift your drooping wings and go.

Three trees illuminated in the late afternoon light

Well, I was in the mood for more poetry. ;-)

I really haven't very much to share today. But, since it is Amy Lowell's birth date, we can appreciate her lovely poetry and call it a day.

Friday Flowers: Forget-Me-Not

Myosotis sylvatica: Victoria Blue

One Art

(By Elizabeth Bishop)

The art of losing isn't hard to master; 

so many things seem filled with the intent

to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster

of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:

places, and names, and where it was you meant

to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or

next-to-last, of three loved houses went.

The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,

some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.

I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture

I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident

the art of losing's not too hard to master

though it may look like (Write it!) like a disaster.

Forget-Me-Not

Another Friday. More flowers. ;-)

And today we're celebrating the birth date of one of my favorite poets, Elizabeth Bishop. With such beautiful words, such compelling verse, she is in no danger of being forgotten or lost.

Friday Flowers: Paradise

Strelitzia: Bird Of Paradise

Dreams

(By Langston Hughes)

Hold fast to dreams 

For if dreams die

Life is a broken-winged bird

That cannot fly.

Hold fast to dreams

For when dreams go

Life is a barren field

Frozen with snow.

Crane flowers and a blue sky

Did you know that the Bird of Paradise is the official flower of the city of Los Angeles? Given the way that they thrive out here, it doesn't surprise me. Even in the midst of an unusually cold winter, these hardy plants are still thriving.

Well, it's certainly nice to see these bright colors. ;-)

Friday Flowers: A Plethora of Pretties

Fuchsias: Angel Earrings

Some, too fragile for winter winds

The thoughtful grave encloses —

Tenderly tucking them in from frost

Before their feet are cold.

Never the treasures in her nest

The cautious grave exposes,

Building where schoolboy dare not look,

And sportsman is not bold.

This covert have all the children

Early aged, and often cold,

Sparrow, unnoticed by the Father —

Lambs for whom time had not a fold.

--- Emily Dickinson

Winter-Blooming Bergenia

Yes, your eyes do not deceive you. We have returned to featuring poems as a part of Friday Flowers. It used to be a favorite of my readers back in the good old days, but I got lazy. So, here we are with poetry and floral pretties.

But There on the Shining Metal

Detail from Shield of Achilles (1821) by John Flaxman

Yeah, I'm still sick and tired. Feeling really awful today. . .

But it takes little effort to post a "Photo of the Day" and share a few words. ;-)

Anyways, I recently visited the Huntington Museum. I'm not a big fan of Neoclassicism, but I'm starting to develop a fondness. It still feels slightly inauthentic and pretentious, but the beauty wins me over. For instance, nothing can be more inflated in self-importance than Homeric pastiche, yet I can't help but appreciate this sculpture for its craftsmanship and lovely detail.

Hopefully, I'll get back to the Huntington sometime soon to snap a few more detailed images for you all. It's a real beauty, hidden away in the corner of one of the upper parlours.

Friday Flowers: Temple of Love and Roses

Roses: French Lace (Floribunda)

Sonnet 55
(By William Shakespeare)

Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
Of princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;
But you shall shine more bright in these contents
Than unswept stone besmear'd with sluttish time.
When wasteful war shall statues overturn,
And broils root out the work of masonry,
Nor Mars his sword nor war's quick fire shall burn
The living record of your memory.
'Gainst death and all-oblivious enmity
Shall you pace forth; your praise shall still find room
Even in the eyes of all posterity
That wear this world out to the ending doom.
So, till the judgment that yourself arise,
You live in this, and dwell in lover's eyes.

We've skipped a few significant Shakespeare related dates over the past few weeks. So, here's a brief post to compensate. ;-)

Temple of Love in the Rose Garden at the Huntington Gardens

As for the roses, it's about time that we celebrated their return. Lovely, lovely flowers!!!

Friday Flowers: Clivia

Clivia: Baby Doll

Snow
(By Adrienne Rich)

when it comes down turning
itself in clusters before the flat
light of the shortest day

you see how all turns away
from us how we turn
into our shadows you can see
how we are tested

the individual crystal on the
black skirt of the maxi-coat
under the lens

was it a whole day or just a lifetime
spent studying crystals

on the fire escape while the 'Sixties
were running out
could you see

how the black ladder spun away from us
into whiteness
how over and over
a star became a tear

if no two are alike
then what are we doing
with these diagrams of loss


Adrienne Rich passed away this week. Given her age, it came as no great shock, but it is sad news nevertheless. She was an inspiration for generations of women poets. Her poetry went through many phases over the course of her long life, never growing stale or redundant.

Her distinct voice has made the world a better place. I will treasure her poems and will read them again to experience anew Adrienne Rich's unique insights.

Clivia: Bodacious

As regards the clivia, I attended the annual show at the Huntington Gardens. Many gorgeous flowers were on display. Here are a few lovelies to start the weekend right. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Spring Is Coming

A rose, pink and white, blossoms in the garden. Spring is almost here!


To a Child Dancing in the Wind
(By W.B. Yeats)

Dance there upon the shore;
What need have you to care
For wind or water's roar?
And tumble out your hair
That the salt drops have wet;
Being young you have not known
The fool's triumph, nor yet
Love lost as soon as won,
Nor the best labourer dead
And all the sheaves to bind.
What need have you to dread
The monstrous crying of wind?


It seemed only proper to spotlight an Irish poet tonight. ;-)

I'm not the biggest fan of Yeats, but his poems certainly have a compelling rhythm and evocative imagery. And, on the night before St. Patrick's Day, it feels just right.

A display of orchids

I couldn't settle on what type of flowers to feature. I might get soft with the poetry, but you'll not be finding any shamrocks or clovers posing for my Friday Flowers. Therefore, it's a mix this evening, which is probably the best way to anticipate the upcoming glories of Spring.

Friday Flowers: Orchids and Vespers

Purple Orchid

Vespers
(By Louise Gluck)

In your extended absence, you permit me
use of earth, anticipating
some return on investment. I must report
failure in my assignment, principally
regarding the tomato plants.
I think I should not be encouraged to grow
tomatoes. Or, if I am, you should withhold
the heavy rains, the cold nights that come
so often here, while other regions get
twelve weeks of summer. All this
belongs to you: on the other hand,
I planted the seeds, I watched the first shoots
like wings tearing the soil, and it was my heart
broken by the blight, the black spot so quickly
multiplying in the rows. I doubt
you have a heart, in our understanding of
that term. You who do not discriminate
between the dead and the living, who are, in consequence,
immune to foreshadowing, you may not know
how much terror we bear, the spotted leaf,
the red leaves of the maple falling
even in August, in early darkness: I am responsible
for these vines.


I think Louise Gluck may be my favorite contemporary poet. I was reminded of her amazing artistry in the January issue of Poetry Magazine. And then, she had a reading at the Hammer Museum. Many people don't realize it, but, if you love poetry, the Golden Age is today!

A cluster of purple orchids

As regards the orchids, aren't they beauties? I don't often feature flowers from my garden, but I so adored these lovelies that I had to give them some front page time. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Blueberry Thrill

Viola Wittrockiana: Blueberry Thrill Pansies


Oh, the Places You'll Go! (Stanzas 1-4)
(By Dr. Seuss)

Congratulations!
Today is your day.
You're off to Great Places!
You're off and away!

You have brains in your head.
You have feet in your shoes.
You can steer yourself
any direction you choose.
You're on your own. And you know what you know.
And YOU are the guy who'll decide where to go.

You'll look up and down streets. Look 'em over with care.
About some you will say, "I don't choose to go there."
With your head full of brains and your shoes full of feet,
you're too smart to go down any not-so-good street.

And you may not find any
you'll want to go down.
In that case, of course,
you'll head straight out of town.


Today marks the birth date of Theodor Seuss Geisel, born March 2, 1904.

In terms of profound and beautiful verse, it's hard to put his works alongside those of Emily Dickinson or Elizabeth Bishop, but these narrative poems, with their engaging rhymes and imaginative stories, had a profound impact upon my development as a storyteller and poet. As a child, I had committed to memory a few of my favorite works. They planted within me a lifelong love for reading and reciting.

So, I actually have no problem celebrating Dr. Seuss as one of the greatest of American poets. ;-)

Viola Wittrockiana: A field of pansies

As regards the pansies, they've always reminded me of Dr. Seuss' creatures, with expressive "faces" and vibrant, multihued colors. Maybe it's an association that was developed in childhood. Nevertheless, in my imagination, pansies are the official flowers of Whoville.

Friday Flowers: Anemones Purple and Red

Anemone Coronaria: Purple Buttercup

Afternoon on a Hill
(By Edna St. Vincent Millay)

I will be the gladdest thing
   Under the sun!
I will touch a hundred flowers
   And not pick one.


I will look at cliffs and clouds
   With quiet eyes,
Watch the wind bow down the grass,
   And the grass rise.


And when lights begin to show
   Up from the town,
I will mark which must be mine,
   And then start down!


I grew up under the shadow of Modernism, the Beats, and Confessionalism, all of which instilled within me a disdain for "old-fashioned" rhymes and meters, silly sing-song poetry. Although very well-regarded during her lifetime, Edna St. Vincent Millay was no longer an American literary luminary when I started to learn how to handle verse. But, as contemporary poetry sloughs off the automatic bias against traditional styles and forms, her reputation is again on the rise.

And, since I like her writing, I think this is a good thing.

Anemone Coronaria: Mona Lisa Wine

As for the anemones, I figured that they were too pretty to not share with you all. So lovely, even Adonis would have to gaze upon them with appreciation. ;-)

Friday Flowers: Birds of Paradise

Strelitzia Reginae: Bird of Paradise

What My Child Learns of the Sea
(By Audre Lorde)

What my child learns of the sea
of the summer thunders
of the riddles that hide in the curve of spring
she will learn in my twilights
and childlike
revise every autumn.

What my child learns
as her winters grow into time
has ripened in my own body
to enter her eyes with first light.

This is why
more than blood
or the milk I have given
one day a strange girl will step
to the back of a mirror
cutting my ropes
of sea and thunder and spring.
Of the way she will taste her autumns-
toast-brittle or warmer than sleep-
and the words she will use for winter
I stand already condemned.


Audre Lorde isn't one of my "go to" poets for inspiration or comfort, but she's got an interesting style and a distinct voice. One of the cool things about dedicating a post to a poet each week, usually in celebration of their birth date, is that I've taken the time to reexamine some writers. And that's the case with this Friday's featured poet, Audre Lorde, who is way more interesting than I remember from when last I read her work, nearly fifteen years ago.

Strelitzia Reginae: Birds of Paradise

And what of the Birds of Paradise? I often overlook them, ubiquitous as they are in the Los Angeles area. However, the Norton Simon Museum's sculpture garden had a beautiful enough collection of the Strelitzia that I figured it was about time they were featured.

Friday Flowers: Camellias Again

Camellia: Katie

Insomnia
(By Elizabeth Bishop)

The moon in the bureau mirror
looks out a million miles
(and perhaps with pride, at herself,
but she never, never smiles)
far and away beyond sleep, or
perhaps she's a daytime sleeper.

By the Universe deserted,
she'd tell it to go to hell,
and she'd find a body of water,
or a mirror, on which to dwell.
So wrap up care in a cobweb
and drop it down the well

into that world inverted
where left is always right,
where the shadows are really the body,
where we stay awake all night,
where the heavens are shallow as the sea
is now deep, and you love me.


Certainly, you didn't think that I was going to be content with just one day of celebration for Elizabeth Bishop? ;-)

Camellia: Nuccio's Bella Rossa

As for the camellias, they've been on deck for a few weeks now. We are around halfway through the camellia season, so I figured it was about time to share them with you all.

For Elizabeth

Elizabeth Bishop with her cat, Tobias, in 1954

Chemin de Fer
(By Elizabeth Bishop)

Alone on the railroad track
   I walked with pounding heart.
The ties were too close together
   or maybe too far apart.

The scenery was impoverished:
   scrub-pine and oak; beyond
its mingled gray-green foliage
   I saw the little pond

Where the dirty hermit lives,
   lie like an old tear
holding onto its injuries
   lucidly year after year.

The hermit shot off his shot-gun
   and the tree by his cabin shook.
Over the pond went a ripple.
   The pet hen went chook-chook.

"Love should be put into action!"
   screamed the old hermit.
Across the pond an echo
   tried and tried to confirm it.


Here, I'll demonstrate my equivocation on the matter of determining a favorite poet. ;-)

On the typical day of the year, if asked, I'd say that my most beloved of poets is Emily Dickinson, but today, on her birth date, born in 1911, my dearest admiration goes out to Elizabeth Bishop, who's verse can gently pull my heart through scenes of humor, horror, or heroism.

Elizabeth Bishop was born on February 8, 1911.

I can write about her poetic genius endlessly. I could start another blog dedicated to studying her words. But, I think the best way to honor Elizabeth Bishop is to let her poems speak for themselves.