The poppies are in bloom in what I call my sun garden. Though it’s actually more a haphazard collection of flora, thrown together on a stretch of land that’s half hill and part swamp. It’s a cutthroat kind of neighborhood for plants, and only the intrepid survive. But those that do — monkhead, monarda, shasta daises, blue lobelia, goose-neck loosestrife — tend to thrive. Like most toughs, they’re constantly angling for more territory, and I tend to just let them fight it out.
The sun garden in August
I’m not quite sure when the poppies took over their little corner, though I have a vague memory of being given a free packet of poppy seeds with an order of wild flower mix a few years back. I don’t think they flowered the first summer, but they’ve been a fixture in the June garden ever since: loud and louche, making everything around them look a little tame.
Here’s a wonderful poem about poppies and — like all good poems — about so much else.
POPPIES
by Jennifer Grotz
There is a sadness everywhere present
but impossible to point to, a sadness that hides in the world
and lingers. You look for it because it is everywhere.
When you give up, it haunts your dreams
with black pepper and blood and when you wake
you don’t know where you are.
But then you see the poppies, a disheveled stand of them.
And the sun shining down like God, loving all of us equally,
mountain and valley, plant, animal, human, and therefore
shouldn’t we love all things equally back?
And then you see the clouds.
The poppies are wild, they are only beautiful and tall
so long as you do not cut them,
they are like the feral cat who purrs and rubs against your leg
but will scratch you if you touch back.
Love is letting the world be half-tamed.
That’s how the rain comes, softly and attentively, then
with unstoppable force. If you
stare upwards as it falls, you will see
they are falling sparks that light nothing only because
the ground interrupts them. You can hear the way they’d burn,
the smoldering sound they make falling into the grass.
That is a sound for the sadness everywhere present.
The closest you have come to seeing it
is at night, with the window open and the lamp on,
when the moths perch on the white walls,
tiny as a fingernail to large as a Gerbera daisy
and take turns agitating around the light.
If you grasp one by the wing,
its pill-sized body will convulse
in your closed palm and you can feel the wing beats
like an eyelid’s obsessive blinking open to see.
But now it is still light and the blackbirds are singing
as if their voices are the only scissors left in this world.
So glad to have summer near at hand. Your blog has a great combination of observations and poems. Just read Jane Hirshfield’s habit–brilliant.
Thanks for bringing these glories to my attention!
Thanks, Patty. The wind and rain of the last few days knocked the stuffing out of the poppies, I’m afraid. So happy I was able to take their photo when they were still in their glory.
Liza,
You greatly understate the beauty of your garden and the abilities of your guiding hand.
I’m thinking I could use some of those poppies about now.
You’re very kind — and thoughtful — Roger. Thank you!
Wow, what a marvelous poem . And your beautiful poppies remind me of the ones my late grandmother had in her yard in Hamden, Connecticut. A wonderful pop of vivid orange next to her gray shingled home.
I, too, love the look of poppies against gray shingle. Flamboyant color and shape vs. staid solidity. Good to hear from you, as always, Cheryl.
Looking from my window at concrete and traffic and a little ivy growing out of sidewalk enclosures, your Summer Garden reminds me that there IS a beautiful world out there. Poppies and poems bring Nature into a small city apartment.
Thank you, Jackie, for your kind words. I’ll be thinking of you this week and hoping all goes well!
Liza, this is an amazing garden full of so much beauty! I have always loved how bright and cheerful poppies are. I hope you have a great summer. I look forward to seeing more pictures!
Wishing you a happy summer, too, Jenn. More photos on the way for sure!
Dear Liza,
Oh my goodness what an extraordinary poem.
I remember years ago going with Don to Tuscany driving through the wonderful countryside in the month of May, and then all of a sudden there was this wonderful field of poppies. Sun shining on them, just breathtaking.
What a great reminder. Thank you.
Beata
Thanks Liza. Wonderful post, and poem. =p.
I just planted poppies for the first time in my garden, inspired by several Diana Felber had in a vase in her gallery the other day. I had a wonderful relationship with someone years ago — before Gary — who called me Poppy. I never thought about it, but I guess he thought I was colorful and special — a lovely thing to think about in retrospect! The poem is really lovely.
Beautiful Poem! Thanks, Liza. I always love your posts.