|Upper left Rosemary's unidentified Eucaliptus, R. - Crambe maritima, bottom L. - Senecio cineraria & R - Artemisia ludoviciana 'Valerie Finnis' 12 August 2021 |
Today I have been thinking of the colour gray. To begin with I have problems figuring out if I should write it gray or grey. When I write in a blog that I like Earl Grey Tea I invariably have to look it up. Grey for me reminds me of the terrible, damp and grey days of the Buenos Aires winters of my youth. And now in Vancouver grey is a colour no different from my Buenos Aires grey.
For Rosemary grey was a colour that she looked for in her plants besides the ones that might have blue or white flowers. I never did discuss with her the fact that many of her grey plants have yellow flowers, a colour she disdained with the exception of the yellow of Rosa ‘Mrs. Oakley Fisher’ and last year, a few months before she died the lovely English Rose, Rosa ‘Buttercup’. We both shared a fondness for the little yellow patio rose Rosa ‘Emily Louise’.
I never did tell her that the last colour that Jorge Luís Borges was able to discern before he went blind was yellow.
Borges wrote sparingly and he described many of his story protagonists as having grey eyes and a grey beard as he does of Doctor Stephen Albert in his The Garden of Bifurcating Paths. In the story one finds out that Albert is an eternal man who lives endless repetitive lives. Some see grey as a vague and indefinite colour.
I believe that Rosemary saw in grey plants a colour that would not clash and would blend in with plants that had bright colours. Or it could have been that my Rosemary saw grey as an elegant colour. She was an elegant woman.
Who was the Valerie Finnis in the cultivar name of Artemesia ludoviciana? Here is her Wikipedia citation.
This poem by Emily Dickinson is one that Rosemary would find as fun as it is positive (certainly not vague or uncertain) and a happy one.
A slash of Blue by Emily Dickinson
A slash of Blue --
A sweep of Gray --
Some scarlet patches on the way,
Compose an Evening Sky --
A little purple -- slipped between --
Some Ruby Trousers hurried on --
A Wave of Gold --
A Bank of Day --
This just makes out the Morning Sky.
More Emily DickinsonIt's full as opera
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
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
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
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
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