A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

A Hibiscus But Alas No Salvia!
Friday, August 23, 2019



Hibiscus 'Cherry Choco Latte' 26 August 2019

I have written twice about D.H. Lawrence, here and here. Since then my idea of feeling depressed when I think or read Lawrence has not changed.

A few days ago I scanned a hibiscus that is much too big for our garden. It somehow survived out in our lane from last year even if these plants are iffy in our Vancouver weather. Perhaps I can convince my son-in-law to transfer it to his Burnaby garden.

When possible I try to find some sort of reference, essay or poem to my plant scans. The idea of simply placing a plant scan with no relevant information is anathema to me.



Hibiscus 'Cherry Choco Latte' 1 September 2019

Imagine that when I placed hibiscus into Google the only poetic reference was a long poem by Lawrence. He wrote it in the 20s while in Italy so the poem is about the political overtones of the time. It seems that libertarian Lawrence (he changed his tack many years later) did not like leftists or commies.

Hibiscus 'Choco Latte' 1 September 2019

The other plant in his poem is salvia. I asked my Rosemary if we had any blooms. She told me that for reasons she did not understand our Salvia patens has not done so.

Salvia patens 29 June 2016


Hibiscus and Salvia Flowers – D.H. Lawrence

_Hark! Hark!
The dogs do bark!
It's the socialists come to town,
None in rags and none in tags,
Swaggering up and down_.

Sunday morning,
And from the Sicilian townlets skirting Etna
The socialists have gathered upon us, to look at us.

How shall we know them when we see them?
How shall we know them now they've come?

Not by their rags and not by their tags,
Nor by any distinctive gown;
The same unremarkable Sunday suit
And hats cocked up and down.

Yet there they are, youths, loutishly
Strolling in gangs and staring along the Corso
With the gang-stare
And a half-threatening envy
At every _forestière_,
Every lordly tuppenny foreigner from the hotels,
  fattening on the exchange.

_Hark! Hark!
The dogs do bark!
It's the socialists in the town_.

Sans rags, sans tags,
Sans beards, sans bags,
Sans any distinction at all except loutish commonness.

How do we know then, that they are they?
Bolshevists.
Leninists.
Communists.
Socialists.
-Ists! -Ists!

Alas, salvia and hibiscus flowers.
Salvia and hibiscus flowers.

Listen again.
Salvia and hibiscus flowers.
Is it not so?
Salvia and hibiscus flowers.

_Hark! Hark!
The dogs do hark_!
Salvia and hibiscus flowers.

Who smeared their doors with blood?
Who on their breasts
Put salvias and hibiscus?

Rosy, rosy scarlet,
And flame-rage, golden-throated
Bloom along the Corso on the living, perambulating bush.

Who said they might assume these blossoms?
What god did they consult?

Rose-red, princess hibiscus, rolling her pointed Chinese
  petals!
Azalea and camellia, single peony
And pomegranate bloom and scarlet mallow-flower
And all the eastern, exquisite royal plants
That noble blood has brought us down the ages!
Gently nurtured, frail and splendid
Hibiscus flower--
Alas, the Sunday coats of Sicilian bolshevists!

Pure blood, and noble blood, in the fine and rose-red veins;
Small, interspersed with jewels of white gold
Frail-filigreed among the rest;
Rose of the oldest races of princesses, Polynesian
Hibiscus.

Eve, in her happy moments,
Put hibiscus in her hair,
Before she humbled herself, and knocked her knees with
  repentance.

Sicilian bolshevists,
With hibiscus flowers in the buttonholes of your Sunday suits,
Come now, speaking of rights, what right have you to this
  flower?

The exquisite and ageless aristocracy
Of a peerless soul,
Blessed are the pure in heart and the fathomless in bright
  pride;
The loveliness that knows _noblesse oblige_;
The native royalty of red hibiscus flowers;
The exquisite assertion of new delicate life
Risen from the roots:
Is this how you'll have it, red-decked socialists,
Hibiscus-breasted?

If it be so, I fly to join you,
And if it be not so, brutes to pull down hibiscus flowers!

Or salvia!
Or dragon-mouthed salvia with gold throat of wrath!
Flame-flushed, enraged, splendid salvia,
Cock-crested, crowing your orange scarlet like a tocsin
Along the Corso all this Sunday morning.

Is your wrath red as salvias.
You socialists?
You with your grudging, envious, furtive rage,
In Sunday suits and yellow boots along the Corso.
You look well with your salvia flowers, I must say.
Warrior-like, dawn-cock's-comb flaring flower
Shouting forth flame to set the world on fire,
The dust-heap of man's filthy world on fire,
And burn it down, the glutted, stuffy world,
And feed the young new fields of life with ash,
With ash I say,
Bolshevists,
Your ashes even, my friends,
Among much other ash.

If there were salvia-savage bolshevists
To burn the world back to manure-good ash.
Wouldn't I stick the salvia in my coat!
But these themselves must burn, these louts!

The dragon-faced,
The anger-reddened, golden-throated salvia
With its long antennae of rage put out
Upon the frightened air.
Ugh, how I love its fangs of perfect rage
That gnash the air;
The molten gold of its intolerable rage
Hot in the throat.

I long to be a bolshevist
And set the stinking rubbish-heap of this foul world
Afire at a myriad scarlet points,
A bolshevist, a salvia-face
To lick the world with flame that licks it clean.

I long to see its chock-full crowdedness
And glutted squirming populousness on fire
Like a field of filthy weeds
Burnt back to ash,
And then to see the new, real souls sprout up.

Not this vast rotting cabbage patch we call the world;
But from the ash-scarred fallow
New wild souls.

Nettles, and a rose sprout,
Hibiscus, and mere grass,
Salvia still in a rage
And almond honey-still,
And fig-wort stinking for the carrion wasp;
All the lot of them, and let them fight it out.

But not a trace of foul equality,
Nor sound of still more foul human perfection.
You need not clear the world like a cabbage patch for me;
Leave me my nettles,
Let me fight the wicked, obstreperous weeds myself, and put
  them in their place,
Severely in their place.
I don't at all want to annihilate them,
I like a row with them.
But I won't be put on a cabbage-idealistic level of equality
  with them.

What rot, to see the cabbage and hibiscus-tree
As equals!
What rot, to say the louts along the Corso
In Sunday suits and yellow shoes
Are my equals!
I am their superior, saluting the hibiscus flower, not them.
The same I say to the profiteers from the hotels, the money-
  fat-ones,
Profiteers here being called dog-fish, stinking dog-fish,
  sharks.
The same I say to the pale and elegant persons.
Pale-face authorities loitering tepidly:
_That I salute the red hibiscus flowers
And send mankind to its inferior blazes_.
Mankind's inferior blazes,
And these along with it, all the inferior lot--
These bolshevists,
These dog-fish,
These precious and ideal ones,
All rubbish ready for fire.

And I salute hibiscus and the salvia flower
Upon the breasts of loutish bolshevists,
Damned loutish bolshevists,
Who perhaps will do the business after all,
In the long run, in spite of themselves.

Meanwhile, alas
For me no fellow-men,
No salvia-frenzied comrades, antennae
Of yellow-red, outreaching, living wrath
Upon the smouldering air,
And throat of brimstone-molten angry gold.
Red, angry men are a race extinct, alas!

Never
To be a bolshevist
With a hibiscus flower behind my ear
In sign of life, of lovely, dangerous life
And passionate disquality of men;
In sign of dauntless, silent violets,
And impudent nettles grabbing the under-earth,
And cabbages born to be cut and eat,
And salvia fierce to crow and shout for fight,
And rosy-red hibiscus wincingly
Unfolding all her coiled and lovely self
In a doubtful world.

Never, bolshevistically
To be able to stand for all these!
Alas, alas, I have got to leave it all
To the youths in Sunday suits and yellow shoes
Who have pulled down the salvia flowers
And rosy delicate hibiscus flowers
And everything else to their disgusting level,
Never, of course, to put anything up again.

But yet
If they pull all the world down,
The process will amount to the same in the end.
Instead of flame and flame-clean ash
Slow watery rotting back to level muck
And final humus.
Whence the re-start.

And still I cannot bear it
That they take hibiscus and the salvia flower.





I find my feet have further goals
Thursday, August 22, 2019






I could not prove the Years had feet—

Yet confident they run

Am I, from symptoms that are past

And Series that are done—



I find my feet have further Goals—

I smile upon the Aims

That felt so ample—Yesterday—

Today's—have vaster claims—



I do not doubt the self I was

Was competent to me—

But something awkward in the fit—

Proves that—outgrown—I see—
Emily Dickinson

My grandmother (Abue) raised me with aphorisms and advice from the Don Quixote. There were two that I remember that involved feet. One was:

Se me cae el alma a los pies.

Or my soul falls to my feet.

This was about total depression and disappointment. But there was another less so:

Se le pasea el alma por los pies.



This had to do with one’s soul having a day of leisure in one’s feet. This was about postponing stuff and doing nothing.

Feet are in my mind these days as soon in mid-September my Rosemary and I will be going to Buenos Aires to attend the wedding of niece, Milagros O’Reilly. She is getting married in a beautiful church almost around the corner from our downtown Hotel Claridge. But was is very exciting is that the reception is going to be in the ultra-baroque 30s palace, el Círculo Militar. It is my guess that when the Argentine Army had power (this was through most of the 20th century) they probably planned their coups and uprisings in that lap of luxury.

What that means to us is that we have to dress most elegantly.  We have found a couple of dresses for Rosemary. I have one, dark wool, Bill Blass suit that somehow the Athlone silverfish did not like as it has no holes. I went to a good Kerrisdale taylor to shorten sleeves, narrow the shoulders, shorten the pants (have I been shrinking?). The repairs will cost a fortune but buying a new suit would make this 77 year-old man look like a wannabe in slim fitted pants, etc.



In order to correctly judge the length of the pants I took my black, leather brogues which I purchased in Sears Roebuck in Mexico City in 1972. When I put them on I told Rosemary, “These are really comfortable and the fit me well.” To which she countered with, “Normally people walk with leather shoes.” The reason for her sarcasm is that I have been wearing plastic/rubber Native Shoes for the last five years.



All shoes have always fit me as I have a poor man’s feet and body. I can buy suits that fit well and the same with shoes. I not only inherited my mother’s lovely legs but also her perfect swimmer’s feet. I am not the best of swimmers but my feet have no creases, no corns. My toes are straight. They are truly lovely feet!




More Emily Dickinson
A melancholy of a waning summer
Just as green and as white
It's full as opera
I cannot dance upon my Toes
a door just opened on the street 
Amber slips away
Sleep

When August burning low
Pink Small and punctual
A slash of blue
I cannot dance upon my toes
Ah little rose
For hold them, blue to blue
The colour of the grave is green
 Her Grace is not all she has  
To know if any human eyes were near
Linda Melsted - the music of the violin does not emerge alone
The Charm invests her face
A sepal, a petal and a thorn
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman
T were blessed to have seen
There is no frigate like a book
I pay in satin cash
Emily Dickinson's White Dress & a Hunter of Lost Souls
El vestido blanco - The White Dress
Water makes many beds
 The viola da gamba
 But sequence ravelled out of reach
 A parasol is the umbrella's daughter
 Without the power to die
 Lessons on the piny
Ample make this bed
How happy is the little stone
 Sleep is supposed to be
The shutting of the eye
I dwell in possibility
when Sappho was a living girl
In a library
 A light exists in spring
The lady dare not lift her veil
 I took my power in my hand
 I find my feet have further goals
 I cannot dance upon my toes
The Music of the Violin does not emerge alone
Red Blaze 
He touched me, so I live to know
Rear Window- The Entering Takes Away
Said Death to Passion
 We Wear the Mask That Grins And Lies
It was not death for I stood alone
The Music in the Violin Does Not Emerge Alone
I tend my flowers for thee
Lavinia Norcross Dickinson
Pray gather me anemone! 
Ample make her bed
His caravan of red 
Me-come! My dazzled face  
Develops pearl and weed

But peers beyond her mesh
Surgeons must be very careful
Water is taught by thirst
I could not prove that years had feet
April played her fiddle
A violin in Baize replaced
I think the longest hour
The spirit lasts
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/03/i-left-them-in-ground-emily-dickinson.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2014/01/i-felt-my-life-with-both-my-hands.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/currer-bell-emily-dickinson-charlotte.html

http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/03/and-zero-at-bone-with-dirks-of-melody.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/05/charm-invests-her-face.html

http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/i-could-not-see-to-see.html 
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2011/06/blonde-assasin-passes-on.html
http://blog.alexwaterhousehayward.com/2012/12/you-almost-bathed-your-tongue.html





Very Argentine in Spite of Being English, Mexican, Texan, Filipino & Canadian
Wednesday, August 21, 2019





On June 2, 1953, when I was 10 years old I remember exactly what I was doing noontime. I was living in the Buenos Aires neighbourhood of Coghlan, named after an English engineer involved in the early 29th century helping to build railroads.

My mother called me to lunch also saying, “and wash your hands and knees.  This was because I wore short pants. My answer was precisely this, “Not yet because I am listening to the coronation of my queen.”

My youngest daughter Hilary’s godfather was Raúl Guerrero Montemayor. He may have been born in California but he was hermetic about it. His mother was Mexican and his father was Filipino. Raúl had been educated in Switzerland and spoke at least 9 languages with variations such as speaking Hungarian with a Russian accent or (my fave) Spanish with a Filipino one. One day as we were conversing in both English and Spanish he told me, “Soy híbrido, no tengo país.” It seems that he felt he belonged in no country and used that strange word, hybrid.

Those of us who were born in Buenos Aires in the 40s were told that Argentina faced Europe and our connections were with it and not with other countries of Latin America. To this day many parts of Buenos Aires resemble London or Paris. And in our Argentine Spanish we use a few words from Italian, English and French. The financial district of Buenos Aires is called “la city”. Until at least the 60s a football infraction  involving the touching of the ball was called “hands” and the ultimate infraction was the “penálty”. Until the late 50s trams were tranvais (pronounced tranvi)

I remember leaving the cavernous Victoria Station- style railway station of Retiro in my early youth and seeing a huge ad that said, “Cemento Portland (USA)". To be cool then was to wear genuine, black market Levis or Lee jeans. I bragged to my friends at school that I had access to Bazooka chewing gum.

Jorge Luís Borges deprecated in most of his writings the ethnic culture of the original inhabitants of Argentina. He is on the record at being amazed (negatively) that Canada would send a totem pole to Argentina as an example of Canadian culture. The totem, at the Retiro Train Station was my first glimpse of the Canada I would inhabit years later. In the last 40 years in Argentina there has been an explosion in interest in music (not tango) called and spelled “folclore”. At long last music that incorporates much of that almost long lost influence of the original inhabitants of Argentina.

Not so much now but “la hora del thé” or tea time (Argentines, especially the Frenchified ones like to use the French word for the Spanish ) was an important custom in my Buenos Aires.

In the late 60s during my stint as a conscript of the Argentine Navy I took advantage of an unwritten custom that if you donated blood and brought the proof you would have the next day off. I made it a rule to go to the British Hospital to be bled. This included a “thé completo” of tea with scones and little sandwiches. Since I would donate on a Thursday I would have a long weekend away from my desk job. It was during those two years in the Argentine Navy that I felt most Argentine especially when thousands of conscripts and I lined up to swear allegiance to our flag. Participation in a military coup months later dampened that idea of what patriotism and nationalism really is.

But it was the presence of my father (he was born in Buenos Aires in the beginning of the 20th century) who was very English that made me feel English. His parents and older brother had been born in Manchester. He talked like someone from that city. Because he drank a lot he would sing in bed (with me) all kinds of English drinking songs. Two I remember most well was “My Bonnie Lies Over the Ocean” and “Onward Christian Soldiers”. My parents took me to see lots of Gilbert & Sullivan. During the summer holidays (after Christmas) I was sent to the camp (an Anglo/Argentine variation of the Spanish word campo). One I remember well was called Glen Rest.

While my father was so English my mother threw me into confusion. She had been born in Manila of a Basque father and a Manila-born mother who had been raised in Spain. To top that, she taught physics and chemistry at the very private American School in Belgrano R. She brought all kinds of goodies that made me the king of the street. Stuff like peanut butter, lime Jell-O, a pair ofTexan cowboy boots, Gene Autry cap pistols, and best of all, an Erector Set much cooler than the English Meccano.  

In 1955 we moved to Mexico (the height of the Mexican cultural explosion into film and music). I became Mexicanized as I was too embarrassed to keep my different Argentine accent. In 1957 I was shipped to Austin, Texas as a boarder (4 years) in a Catholic high school. Because my teenage years were in Austin, I feel that there is a lot of Texan still in me.

By the time I married Rosemary (I spoke in a complete Mexican accent when I spoke Spanish) in 1968 and moved with our two Mexico City (Tacubaya) daughters to Vancouver in 1975 I was a confusion of nationalities.

For a while I proudly kept my blue leather Argentine passport until it became a lot easier to travel to the US, and even Argentina, with the Canadian alternative.

In 1991 I decided that I wanted to go to Lima to interview and photograph Mario Vargas Llosa who was running for president. To prepare I read his complete literary output of the time in Spanish. It was not difficult to switch from English to Spanish as I had always kept Borges books on my nightstand. But my Vargas Llosa trip made me understand that I could not hide my Latin American heritage.

Going on press junkets to England in the 80s gave me nostalgia for the English colours of Buenos Aires. I rode English trains, all on the wrong side of the tracks just like in Buenos Aires. I felt at home.

Many visits to my former school in Austin made me aware on just how American and Texan I was.
The end to all this happened when I met a couple of Argentine painters  (Nora Patrich and Juan Manuel Sánchez) in Vancouver and we worked on a project called Argentine Nostalgia.

It was then that I had this wonderful Eureka moment. Nostalgia is a feeling one has for a place where at that particular moment you are not. It seems to be self-evident. For me it was not.

Now I embark from one country to another and glory at the fact that I belong to all those countries and that Raúl used the wrong word when he said hybrid implying he did not belong anywhere.

And I cannot finish this without saying that some years ago the UBC School of Architecture invited me to participate in a show of Vancouver architecture. My infrared photographs of UBC and Shaughnessy, and portraits of Ned Pratt and Arthur Erickson were up on the wall with photographs from local photographers from the beginning of the 20th century. I was part of that, I was and am a Canadian from Vancouver.

A hint of all that occurred when sometime in 1975 I told Rosemary, “I just heard on CBC Radio that Newfoundland is pronounced Nufen – land.”




     

Previous Posts
You cannot make Remembrance grow

Competing for Excellence in the Last Century

Latency in Dicontinuance

November was finishing when I found you

You cannot put a fire out

making November difficult

Fiddling & Whiling Away Time

Viviendo engañas y muriendo enseñas

The Chambered Nautilus

The VSO - The Usual Suave Suspects



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4/26/09 - 5/3/09

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12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

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1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

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4/24/11 - 5/1/11

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5/22/11 - 5/29/11

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11/27/11 - 12/4/11

12/4/11 - 12/11/11

12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

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1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

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2/24/13 - 3/3/13

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1/8/17 - 1/15/17

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1/22/17 - 1/29/17

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