Poppies

Flowers. It was William Blake who wrote:

"To see a world in a grain of sand and heaven in a wild flower, hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour. "

I let my back garden run a bit wild this year. The much heralded revamp is on hold. It was heaven for the insects (bees in particular) to have a range of wild flowers to enjoy, even if it all looked a bit scruffy and haphazard. 

I love wild flowers and the illustration below is a glass panel I had made for me a few years ago to hang in the conservatory, because unlike paintings or posters the colours don't get bleached by the sunshine. Stephanie Bowen is a local Lancashire glass artist with a studio, Morpheus Glass, in Wigan. 

Meadow Flowers - glass panel art by Stephanie Bowen, 2019 

Given that we are close to Armistice Day, I thought I'd focus this flower blog on poppies in particular, since the red poppy (papaver rhoeas ), or red-flowered corn poppy to give its full title, has become the symbol of remembrance for those fallen in battle, in no small part  because of the way it colonised the disturbed soil of the First World War battlefields in the wake of all that bloodshed - although there are deeper connotations as described further on.

But poppies come in a variety of species and colours (yellow, orange, purple, blue, white, pink). As with many cultural practices, the first recorded instance of poppies being cultivated and used for culinary, medicinal, recreational and religious purposes dates back to the Sumerians (in what is now southern Iraq) some time in the fifth millennium BC. They were the first to grow opium poppies (papaver somniferum ), a practice that continues to this day across the region of the Middle East and Asia, providing the world with a precariously regulated source of opium and analgesic opiates (including codeine, heroin and morphine).

From Sumeria, poppy cultivation and poppy folklore spread west around the Mediterranean and east along the silk road to China. Juglets containing opium have been found in Ancient Egyptian tombs and poppies feature in their jewellery and paintings of the second millennium BC. In Crete, Minoan culture of the same period celebrated the Poppy Goddess and later, both Greek and Roman cultures regarded the poppy as a symbol of sleep and dreams (narcolepsy - the Morpheus connection) and of death (repose in everlasting sleep). Poppies featured in funeral rites and as tokens of remembrance even three thousand years ago. There is also some evidence that other pagan religions came to regard the poppy as a symbol of resurrection.

Of course to most of us poppies are appreciated for their vibrant colour, whether growing as wild flowers in the countryside or as ornamental plants in our gardens, and the bees love them. There will be poppies as well as geraniums in my garden after the revamp.

They also retain their culinary and cosmetic uses. Poppy seeds (the non-opioid varieties) are rich in oil, calcium and protein. The oil can be used in salads and in cooking, and many bread products are baked with poppy seeds mixed in the dough or sprinkled on top. Poppy extracts feature in beauty products and are used in the manufacture of some paints and varnishes.

The poppy is the national flower of both Albania, North Macedonia and Poland and is the state flower of California. Poppy has also regained currency in the 21st century as a girl's name and several rock bands have featured it, including (with incisive Scouse humour) Liverpool's Dead Poppies.      

Girl in a Field with Red Poppies - by Frank Buchser, 1878

To conclude, here's a poem I've just written in that eternity of an hour the clocks have given back to us tonight. Its title is from a quote by Dr. Joel Warsh, an American paediatrician. In full, the quotation reads:

"Let’s raise children who can name plants and animals, not celebrities and brands. In a world full of screens and pop culture, let’s encourage our kids to connect with nature and appreciate the beauty around them. Teaching them about the natural world helps foster curiosity, responsibility, and a deeper understanding of our planet. "

Let's Raise Children Who Can Name Plants And Animals

Belcher's Factory tea room

Monday mid-morning break

women in pink nylon overalls

sit drinking tea 

at tables with plastic flowers

scrolling on their phones 

or chatting

about weekend dates or TV

when one exclaims 'there's a bird'.

A rare sight indeed.

They crowd to the dusty window

and gaze at the tiny thing

bobbing and dipping

in the gutter of the factory opposite.

'That's a pied wagtail' says the youngest

who's never seen one before

but has the book at home.

'It's probably searching for water

or insects.'

They watch its jerky little movements

with fascination until with a last flick

of its black and white tail it sails off

leaving them to stare wistfully after

without knowing why.

Come on girls! Mugs away!

That sinking feeling,

back to the production of wealth.

And so to bed, as Zebedee said...or was it Samuel Pepys? (Don't answer, I know it was the latter.)

Thanks for reading, S ;-)

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Wonderland

Wonderland! No contest, as far as I'm concerned. It's bookshops and what you find within, which is books (obviously) and what you find within them, which in turn is entry into a limitless world of imagined experience.

I love books, have done since I was very young. I can still remember a time when I couldn't read (aged three plus). I have a vivid memory of looking at a book with pictures of tigers and rows of black symbols. I was intrigued by the latter, for they meant something to people who could decipher them. I also felt thwarted. It was fun to be read to, but how much more convenient to be able to do it for oneself without having to ensnare a grown-up or wait until bedtime! Being a determined little fellow, and with the help of the recently published series of Janet And John reading primers, soon I was reading for myself, taking the first steps on a lifelong adventure that is the love of literature. My favourite Christmas present, aged four, was  A.A. Milne's 'Winnie the Pooh '.

My dad, bless him, used to take me to a bookshop every month (aged five onwards) and let me choose a book from the Puffin range (the children's imprint of Penguin books). Consequently, I love bookshops too and will rarely pass up the chance to enter one, have a browse, often make a purchase. Books expect it. They don't read themselves, after all. They are all hoping to go to a good home and be a source of delight to whoever adopts them.

wonderful - Livraria Lello (Porto)

Some bookshops are splendid and stunning affairs in their own right. I think of Hatchards on Piccadilly in London (founded 1797), Livraria Lello in Porto (founded 1869 and pictured above), even Shakespeare and Company, located on the Left Bank in Paris (founded 1951). They are worth a visit for the ambience and the architecture.

Bookshops have been with us since the days of Ancient Greece. The founding of the first libraries in the 4th century BC was the catalyst for booksellers to spring up in Athens and other Greek cities. Rome and the key cities of the Roman Empire followed suit a few hundred years later. Possessing a personal library of books was quite the status symbol. Obviously in those times all books were hand-written, providing employment for skilled copyists and scribes. Moorish Spain saw the next wave of book-making and book-selling in the 10th century AD and this was followed by France, Germany, the Low Countries and England, and by this time (early 15th century) the invention of the printing press had revolutionised the production of books. The oldest extant bookshop in Europe was founded in Orleans in France in 1545. No doubt the Librairie Nouvelle d'Orléans has one eye on its 500th anniversary (if we're still here and books are still being sold in 2045).

Quite a lot of the books in my own library (if that's not too grand a term for a collection that doesn't have a room of its own) were acquired second-hand because they were no longer in print when I wanted to read them. Many is the visit I made to the cluttered second-hand bookshops that used to line the Charing Cross Road, absolute Aladdin's caves or treasure troves (pictured below), and as wonderful in their ways as the stylish repositories of new books mentioned earlier.

equally wonderful - Charing Cross Books (London)

Nowadays online sellers of second-hand books have changed the landscape. They are useful for the sheer range of what is available via the portal of a computer, but I miss the browsing experience along row after row of higgledy shelves and the possibility of alighting upon a true gem.

I am happy to have passed on my love of books to my own children. Everybody who is dear to me will be receiving at least one book this Christmas. 

To conclude just about on theme, here's the  latest (yet another narrative) poem, based on the recollection of a random surprise week-end visit I received early in the summer of 1972, because I happened to be in the right place at the time, owned  a copy of Stephen Stills' debut solo LP and was reading Herman Hesse. It comes with the usual caveat that I might revise it if I can see ways to improve how it reads. Let me know what you think...

Serenity (Between The Covers)

With a lived in skin like Janis Joplin's

and a daddy in the diplomatic corps

or so she claimed, Poppy drifted 

through my door from Lebanon

looking for the guy who had the room before,

was hoping maybe he'd score, give her

some cash, a bath and a floor to crash on.

So young to be so seeming worldly wise

with her trippy clothes and hippy bag,

she made herself at home, clearly knew 

the lie of the land, so had a bath

and then brewed us mint tea to accompany

a smoke or two. She looked all through

my records and books, loved that I read Hesse,

was thrilled to discover Stephen Stills.

She put him on repeat play while she spun

her life story (one version of it anyway)

as we lay nailed to the carpet contemplating

how I'd painted the ceiling rose to resemble

a lotus flower which complemented

the Buddha in the grate. Spying my camera,

she cajoled me into taking photographs

as she posed smiling, rolling, pouting

in various stages of coquettish undress.

Eventually the midnight munchies struck 

so we made cheese after cheese on toast 

topped with aubergine pickle, then sated

curled up cosily in bed like we'd been 

comfortable friends for years, still listening 

in the dark to Love the one you're with.

Next morning while she slept on, it being sunny

I sat out happily among the ranks of bright weeds

in our ramshackle back garden and read

The Glass Bead Game while plaintive strains 

of the Rolling Stones' Wild Horses sounded

softly from a neighbour's open window.

I was lost between the covers as Magister Ludi

told of the splendour of serenity: the secret 

of beauty and the real substance of all art.

It was past midday when I realised with a start

the hours I'd been sitting out, a neglectful host.

But my room was empty, unruly bed neatly made

and Poppy gone, along with my camera and

Stephen Stills LP. She'd left a scribbled thankyou

and a twist of stems and seeds. I could only smile.

As a bonus, here's a link to a blog from Boxing Day in 2015, containing a Lewis Carroll pastiche I wrote. Just click on the bold title to activate the link and take you down the hole: Alice's Adventures In Sunderland

Bless you, thanks for reading, Steve ;-)

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