All About Ivy

To the Ivy

Dark creeping Ivy, with thy berries brown,
That fondly twists’ on ruins all thine own,
Old spire-points studding with a leafy crown
Which every minute threatens to dethrone;
With fearful eye I view thy height sublime,
And oft with quicker step retreat from thence
Where thou, in weak defiance, striv’st with Time,
And holdst his weapons in a dread suspense.
But, bloom of ruins, thou art dear to me,
When, far from danger’s way, thy gloomy pride
Wreathes picturesque around some ancient tree
That bows his branches by some fountain-side:
Then sweet it is from summer suns to be,
With thy green darkness overshadowing me.

John Clare

One of the revelations from my trip to Glasgow was visiting the Necropolis, the Victorian cemetery and sculpture garden, modelled on Pere Lachaise, and the second largest green space in the city.  High above the Cathedral, moody and aloof, it’s a remarkable place.  When I was there a piper was playing on the bridge below and the languid notes provided a suitably haunting soundtrack for my walk up and down and in and out of the graves and monuments.

Everywhere was draped with ivy, like a pall; evergreen and glossy, a sharp contrast to the strong draught of impermanence embodied in the memento mori of the tombstones and sarcophagi.  Richard Weddle of the Biological Records Office has documented various other plants and wildlife at the Necropolis:

Drifts of Bluebells (Wild Hyacinths) in the spring are one of the glories of these slopes. Some notable plants have also been found here in the past, including Heath Pearlwort and Stag’s-horn Club-moss. Though neither has been seen in recent years, we hope that a revised mowing regime on these slopes will allow them to reappear. In all, 180 species of flowering plants and trees, as well as nine ferns, a horsetail and the club-moss have been found here. These figures do not include some of the plants used in creating a wildflower meadow near the SE corner in September 2010…

There is also a rare species of lichen (Lecania cyrtella) to be found, along with at least fifteen other kinds of lichen growing on the tree-trunks or on the stones. Lichens are sensitive indicators of atmospheric pollution, so it is encouraging to see so many species flourishing in the city centre; no doubt in former years they would have been much scarcer…

Particularly on the old quarry-face, ivy is a fantastic wildlife resource; as well as providing a good nest-cover for birds, it is home to the hawthorn shieldbug and other insects, as well as numerous spiders and harvestmen. In the late autumn the ivy flowers are a valuable nectar source, particularly for moths. And of course it has a significant effect on the ‘atmosphere’ of any cemetery, as well as its symbolism (for the poet Byron) as ‘the garland of eternity’, and as such it can also be seen carved on some of the memorial stones.

Like a strange unbiddable postscript, this last paragraph is insisting on being small and creeping round the edges of things – unfathomable:

This week I’ve been enjoying the ivy in my garden, glittering in the erratic sunlight.  The starburst flowerheads are capped in yellow cupolas that wouldn’t look out of place among the architectural extravagances in the Necropolis.  The leaves have the sheen of polished leather, a good colour for a spring notebook.  Despite what John Clare says about it being dark and gloomy, I find ivy a cheerful plant, resilient and reassuring.

Dear Green Place

I’ve just returned from a wonderful week away in Glasgow.  The name is said to mean ‘dear green place’ and it is indeed one of the greenest cities I know. Despite February’s greyness and a fair few fallen trees after the new year storms (in the Arboretum and Pollok Park), there were lots of buds budding and even a camellia in full glory in a friend’s garden.  The smallest spaces were given over to growing things in the various community gardens I visited.

I also found lots of flowers indoors – all hinting at things to come…

At St Mungo’s Museum of Religious Life, there is a Zen Garden.  Austere in the drizzle the day I saw it, it’s a typical gesture of inclusiveness and tolerance just across the way from the city’s cathedral.

When I got home the iris reticulata had opened – deep purple and delicate, with striking yellow runways on their tongues.  Having been somewhere else, everything looks different and everything looks the same.  The rain and flowers will show us the way.

Irises

In a vase of gold

And scarlet, how cold

The flicker of wrinkled grays

In this iris-sheaf!  My eyes fill with wonder

At the tossed, moist light, at the withered scales under

And among the uncertain sprays.

The wavings of white

On the cloudy light,

And the finger-marks of pearl;

The facets of crystal, the golden feather,

The ways that the petals fold over together,

The way that the buds unfurl!

‘Michael Field’

(Katherine Harris & Edith Emma Cooper)

From the Rose Museum

I have been immersed in the world of Andrew Miller’s Costa-prize-winning novel, Pure. Set in 1785, just before the French Revolution, it is the account of what happens when engineer Jean-Baptiste Baratte is commissioned to clear the overbrimming cemetery at the church of les Innocents. It doesn’t sound a particularly appealing scenario and there is indeed no shortage of bones and odours but the unfolding story is deeply involving, haunting and dramatic. The characters are beautifully drawn, distinctive and convincing. And the central character is Paris  – stylish and colourful, driven by social protocols and bristling with political tensions.

Perhaps it was because I was half in the eighteenth century that I was so enchanted by Mme de Sombreuil – the woman and the rose – when I made her acquaintance this week.  The rose is a classic double gallica with heavy cream blooms and a fine tea scent.  The woman it is named after – Jeanne Jacques Marie Anne Francoise de Virot (1768 – 1823) – was a heroine of the French Revolution.  She saved her father, the Marquis de Virot, from the guillotine  by drinking a glass of ‘aristocratic blood’.  She became known as the ‘Heroine of the Glass of Blood’ even though she insisted later it was just red wine.  Apparently Victor Hugo wrote a poem about her but I haven’t been able to unearth it.

I came across the details of her life in a report on a soon-to-be-published book called Women in My Rose Garden: The History, Romance and Adventure of Old Roses by Ann Chapman, who curates the Living Rose Museum in New Zealand.  I like the sound of it, the bold bringing together of different disciplines – horticulture and women’s history.  And I’ve always been fascinated by the business of how a plant gets its name.  Quoted in the introduction Brent Dickerson says:

The Dutch and the Flemings, who grew the first roses, sent them to us with names which were emphatic and often ridiculous. Soon flower growers called to their aid mythology, history both ancient and modern; sovereigns, ministers, magistrates, men of war, illustrious men of all nations, celebrated women – all gave their names to many varieties of roses. Now that the number of varieties increases each year by hundreds, nurserymen and fanciers go to the route of dedicating their newcomers to kin and friends. 

You can hear Ann Chapman talking about her book here.

You can also read a new rose poem  – Rugged Rose by Cecelia McCulloch – just added to the ‘Anthology’ page, if you click the link up at the top.

Musing & Gathering

rain with ambitions

to be snow

Today I have added a new page to my blog, which you can find under ‘Anthology’ up at the top.  This is a space where I will be collecting and sharing unpublished work by other writers and artists around the theme of the garden.  As time goes on I hope you will find something there to enjoy.

I’ve also included a copy of a new/old essay on the ‘Compost’ page.  I wrote it in 2007 as part of a project conceived by Alec Finlay called Mesostic Remedy, published as a book with drawings by Laurie Clark.  It is a consideration of the world of Bach Flower Remedies, their and our relationship to health – which Emerson called ‘The First Muse’. Again, perhaps you will find some small seeds of interest to you.

Japanese Horseradish

Today it was so cold outside that the air felt like a thousand tiny needles on my face.  On such a chilly day it’s good to think about something hot…After my last post on the scent of hyacinths, I was aware that the sense of taste is also difficult to write about and doesn’t appear in poetry often enough. Most writers, like most people, tend to focus on the visual, with an occasional excursion into the world of sound.

I’m not very fond of strong flavours so I got more than I bargained for when this week I tasted some wasabi peanuts for the first time.  I had an idea that wasabi was a sort of seaweed and so the instant hit of heat took me by surprise.  A characteristic of this heat is that, unlike chilli, it is experienced more in the nose than the mouth.  It brings a real sense of the nostrils burning and clearing, just momentarily; again unlike chilli, it quickly passes.  Words for how it feels – pungent, piquant, strong, tangy, caustic, powerful?  I was most interested to see that the green colouring used in the coating for these peanuts was chlorophyll.

Wasabi japonica is sometimes known as Japanese Horseradish and is in the Brassica family (as are mustard, horseradish and cabbages).  The leaves are very similar to the horseradish I’ve seen growing here in friends’ allotments. In Japan it grows naturally alongside stream beds in mountain valleys.  It is hard to cultivate and therefore very expensive – around £70 per pound.  Most of the wasabi we might come across is generally ersatz, made from a lurid cocktail of horseradish, mustard and green colouring.  Wasabi was listed on my peanuts’ ingredients so I presume it was the real thing making the back of my throat and nose sting, my tongue and eyes tingle.  Of course, since trying it, now I’m seeing it everywhere – in the papers and on TV, often in quite unexpected contexts.  Is it flavour of the month?

I’ve just finished reading Julie Otsuka’s wonderful and original The Buddha in the Attic (Fig Tree, 2012).  It’s a novella –  a form I admire for the few words and intensity it shares with poetry.  Reviewing it for the Guardian, Ursula Le Guin had this to say: The tone is often incantatory, and though the language is direct, unconvoluted, almost without metaphor, its true and very unusual merit lies, I think, in that indefinable quality we call poetry.

It was an absolute revelation to me – both in terms of the writing, which is flawless, and the subject matter, which was new to me.  The book tells the story of the Japanese ‘picture brides’ who travelled by boat, enduring all manner of discomfort, to the West Coast of America in the early twentieth century, lured by exchanged photographs with Japanese men who had already emigrated to the United States and looking for suitable wives from the home country.

ON THE BOAT we could not have known that when we first saw our husbands we would have no idea who they were.  That the crowd of men in knit caps and shabby black coats waiting for us down below on the dock would bear no resemblance to the handsome young men in the photographs.  That the photographs we had been sent were twenty years old.  That the letters we had been written had been written to us by people other than our husbands, professional people with beautiful handwriting whose job it is was to tell lies and win hearts.  That when we first heard our names being called out across the water one of us would cover her eyes and turn away – I want to go home – but the rest of us would lower our heads and smooth down the skirts of our kimonos and walk down the gangplank and step out into the still warm day.  This is America, we would say to ourselves, there is no need to worry.  And we would be wrong.

This unusual first person plural voice is sustained right the way through as the women endure various rites of passage: the crossing itself; the first night with their new husbands; being put to work in fields, orchards, laundries, restaurants and kitchens, where they attract suspicion and prejudice, at best ambivalence; giving birth and caring for their children – and then, the perilous moment after Pearl Harbour, when they wait to know their fates, before being summarily dispossessed and evacuated to inhospitable corners of the country until the War was over.

I was deeply moved by this insight into a slice of history I knew so little about.  It has been nominated for several prizes and honours in America and deserves to be widely read.  Otsuka’s writing is utterly convincing – measured and elegant, brave and playful.  I’m sure it won’t be long before I read her previous (also award-winning) book When the Emperor was Divine, which picks up the history where The Buddha in the Attic ends, in a more traditional third person narrative.

Here, in the final section, the first person plural is switched to that of the Americans left behind, witnessing the unexplained disappearance of their Japanese neighbours.  The change of where the voice comes from is violent and disorientating, expunging the gentle singing rhythms of the Japanese women whose story the reader has become so absorbed in.  It’s a sad, shocking ending, full of loss and shame, filtered through a bland righteousness.

WITH EACH PASSING DAY the notices on the telephone poles grow increasingly faint.  And then, one morning, there is not a single notice to be found, and for a moment the town feels oddly naked and it is almost as if the Japanese were never here at all.

The Scent of Hyacinths

For over a fortnight I have been sleeping in a bed of hyacinths!  Not literally of course – a Christmas gift of a basket of six blue hyacinths coming into bloom has been filling my bedroom with a fragrance that is as beautiful as it is hard to describe.  Floral.  Light.  Open.  Delicate.  Old-fashioned.  Sweet.  Sensual. Fresh.  Spring-like.  Surely part of its beauty is that no word can really catch it?

I can’t turn a smell

into a single word;

you’ve no right 

to ask…

From Jo Shapcott’s  Rosa odorata

The common hyacinth (Hyacinthus orientalis, in the family Asparagaceae) grows wild in Turkey and Israel, Northern Iran and Turkmenistan.  Wouldn’t that be a sight?  I remember being totally disorientated by scarlet amaryllis growing by the side of the roads in Kalimpong, at the foot of the Himalayas.  Rather like when you come across someone you know in a different setting – sometimes it’s hard to place them out of their familiar context.  I bumped into Billy Connolly the other day in Newcastle Arts Centre Café and spent far too long trying to remember which one of my friends he was married to…

In the language of aromatherapy, the fragrance of the hyacinth is soothing, calming, centring and sensual.  So it seems my instinct was right in choosing to put them on my bedroom windowsill.

When I was looking for poems about hyacinths, I was surprised to find only one – Louise Glück’s Hyacinth – a narrative sequence following the ancient Greek myth.  Hyacinth was a beautiful boy, beloved of Apollo and Zephyrus, the West Wind.  Apollo took great pleasure in teaching Hyacinth all the arts appropriate for a growing young man, including throwing the discus.  One day Hyacinth was badly injured by the discus and died.

Tiepolo’s The Death of Hyacinth, 1752

Some versions say Zephyrus was responsible for blowing it off course, jealous that Hyacinth favoured Apollo.  In his grief Apollo transformed his beloved into a flower to save him from death.  The petals are said to be marked with the god’s tears.  So the plant stands as a symbol of rebirth and as such is used to decorate the table at Persian New Year, which falls on Spring Equinox.

Beauty dies: that is the source

of creation.  Outside the ring of trees

the courtiers could hear

the dove’s call transmit

its uniform, its inborn sorrow –

They stood listening, among the rustling willows.

Was this the god’s lament?

They listened carefully.  And for a short time

all sound was sad.

I was away last weekend and when I returned and opened my front door, the whole house smelled of hyacinths.  It hit me in a great draught, like a faithful dog welcoming me home.  After weeks in full blossom the flowers are starting to lean with their own weight and I can detect a change in their scent, a ripe edge to their sweetness – intimations of decay.  Even as the boy dies, so must the flower.  I will save the bulbs and plant them in the garden to return if they will.  Though I haven’t had much luck with that strategy in the past.  If I had Apollo’s magic, at one stroke I would transform all my hungry rabbits into gorgeous scented flowers.

Nine Moons

 

Yesterday a small group of us gathered at Tea Sutra, the very lovely tea house on Leazes Park Road in Newcastle, run by my friends Akuppa and Yoshi, to write a 20-verse renga inspired by the spirit of the place.  As Renga Master, I’d made a schema to guide us based on the season, the moon and love, as is traditional, and various themes the setting suggested – the space itself, the five senses and lots of opportunities to write about tea!  We sampled many fragrant varieties between us throughout the day and these trickled their way into the renga at regular intervals.

It’s always strange making a renga in a ‘public’ place.  I remember our 24-hour 100- verse rengas at Baltic, Gateshead, and in the Camelia House at Yorkshire Sculpture Park – extra-strange because of the stretched time frame.  At Tea Sutra, we sat on a raised platform at one end of the room, only a little concealed by a bamboo screen and plants.  The hubbub of conversation in the cafe rose and fell as the day unfolded but we stayed where we were for six hours and wrote the renga below.  Read it slowly, preferably with a cup of your favourite tea beside you, and savour.

Nine Moons

Sunlight pierces

the wet skin

of city streets

 

‘tea sutra’

painted in shadows

 

steam curls from cup

warm breath

in winter

 

Sencha Kyoto Cherry Rose

scent of a new moon

 

a dark-clad figure

comes and goes

behind the orange curtain

 

your Assam leaves

in the metal strainer

 

the long narrow room

seven eastern windows

a floating island

 

something adventurous?

spicy citrus

 

clink of china

slow voices

the pour of water

 

falling in love again

never wanted to

 

facing the same direction

by accident

two elephants

 

steal me away

Oolong dragon

 

tracing the braille

of the blinds

their lost garden

 

she sips Yunnan

the queen’s favourite

 

1940s Newcastle

Carrick’s

before the trolley-bus home

 

a ‘quite large’ chocolate cookie

fissured like rock

 

with one finger

he circles nine moons

on the steamed glass

 

bamboo leaves

a shoal of green fish

 

how will Percy Street look

ledges splashed

with tulips?

 

when tomorrow comes

it will taste of sweet tea.

 

 

A genius loci renga

at Tea Sutra,

Leazes Park Road,

Newcastle upon Tyne,

on 21^st January, 2012.

 

Participants:

Akuppa

Birtley Aris

Linda France

Enid Lee

Ellen Phethean

 

More rengas, from various places and poets, have recently been added to the dhamma moon site – with a note about the shift from classical nijuuin towards ‘spirit of place’.  You can find these here.

Painting the Rainbow

Give me some mud off a city crossing, some ochre out of a gravel pit and a little whitening and some coal dust and I will paint you a luminous picture if you give me time to gradate my mud and subdue my dust.

John Ruskin

At this time of year one of the things we specialise in in my neck of the woods is mud. I try to be philosophical and forgiving but can’t help noticing a certain revulsion. I shrink from the dirt that inevitably collects on my boots and clothes and hands, following me home. I suppose you could get interested in it as a subject – but there are not many synonyms for the sort of wet black-brown of this particular churned earth.

So it’s been a delight to watch my Sinningia coming into flower and relish its intense velvety scarlet, catching the light on my windowsill. I bought it at a Moorbank NGS Open Day last year when it was just on the point of flowering, a single stalk rising from the corm, kept visible above the soil. A native of Brazil, I was astonished to see it coming back to life in my slightly chilly house so far north.  It is named after Wilhelm Sinning who worked at Bonn University Botanic Garden during the 19th century. A member of the genus Gesneriaceae (like the more familiar Gloxinia), it is sometimes known as Cardinal Flower, presumably because of the colour it shares with a cardinal’s robes. Flowers in this plant family are designed to be pollinated by hummingbirds, bats or sphinx moths.

This month in the Poetry Room (the book group I co-host with Anna Woodford, at Newcastle’s City Library) we read John Burnside’s Forward Prize-winning collection, Black Cat Bone (Cape 2011). These are poems filtered through a painterly eye, prismatic, exquisite. Presided over by the spirit of winter (many mentions of snow and ice and the colour white), there is barely a page that doesn’t introduce another colour into the palette. Blood leaves its mark, streaked through the entire book, as well as lots of black, blue, green, grey and silver. There are shadows, mist and fog, degrees of darkness enlivened by light of various kinds and the occasional detail picked out in bronze, auburn, celadon and murrey. This direct appeal to the visual sense is luxuriant, hedonic, seductive. We see what the poet sees, a brief glimpse of another world, unsettling, violent and comfortless.

It seems a fable and perhaps it is:

we live in peril, die from happenstance,

a casual slip, a fault line in the ice;

but surely it’s the other thought that matters,

the sense that, now and then, there’s still a chance

a man might slide towards an old

belonging, momentarily involved

in nothing but the present, skating out

towards a white

horizon, fair

and gifted with the grace

to skate forever, slithering as he goes,

but hazarding a guess that someone else

is close beside him, other to his other.

From Pieter Breughel: Winter Landscape with Skaters and Bird Trap, 1565

(inscribed a hundred years after it was painted with the words which translate as –

Learn from this picture how we journey in the world

Slithering as we go, the foolish and the wise)

As someone who doesn’t paint but who loves the nuance of colour, I revelled in Burnside’s chromatic experiments and appreciated the prompt to go back to Victoria Finlay’s wonderful book Colour (Hodder & Stoughton 2002), charting her travels in search of the mineral origins of paints and dyes, full of fascinating facts about ochre in Arnhemland and indigo in Calcutta and all the colours and histories and countries in between. An almost edible pleasure.

Carving the light from the moon to dye the mountain stream

Xu Yin

I hear that the ceramicist Edmund de Waal (The Hare with Amber Eyes) is working on a book exploring the colour white, its history in the manufacture of porcelain and all our associations with it. The no-colour that all colour is born from, the visual equivalent of silence, the blank page. I’m looking forward to it very much.

Since beginning this posting a heavy frost has fallen over the past few days transforming the landscape, softening the stridency of the mud even as it hardens it underfoot. The light is pervasive but deceptive, looking much warmer than it is. A timeless beauty, stripped back to the bone.

For those colours which you wish to be beautiful, always first prepare a pure white ground.

Leonardo da Vinci

Bookish

There are so many books in my house it’s easy to lose track of them sometimes. I spent several days hunting for Germaine Greer’s Poems for Gardeners (Virago, 2003), an anthology of historical and contemporary garden-related poetry I’ve grown very fond of after rescuing it from someone’s recycling bin several years ago.

I finally found it ‘safe’ in one of the drawers of my desk, which I’ve recently moved downstairs so I can enjoy the view across to Stagshaw Fair and watch the light change. What I need is for some of the book fairies at Type bookshop in Toronto (click here for a rare sighting) to come and sort out my library. The light might take a while.

Epiphany

The Snowdrop

Already now the snowdrop dares appear,

The first pale blossom of th’unripen’d year;

As Flora’s breath, by some transforming power,

Had chang’d an icicle into a flower,

Its name and hue the scentless plant retains,

And winter lingers in its icy veins.

Anna Laetitia Barbauld

1743 – 1825

risking themselves, the first

snowdrops, a hellebore