the names of flowers
when i'm a bit down in the middle of the day and there's no time to have a nap and start over, i go to the bookstore. bookstores have always quieted that place in me the needs quieting when i've gone and gotten all worked up about something as silly and yet, all-important as my schedule. but in recent years i've discovered another balm: flowers.
not just any old flowers, but the flower stand at the university market. the flowers that the little shop manages to get are beautiful, but the thing that hypnotizes me is their names. each little bucket of flowers has the name of its occupant printed neatly on a tiny rectangular chalkboard label at the base of the container. black-eyed susan and peonie and hypernicum. later, i only recall the names of the most striking flowers, but i read each hand-written label several times. i wonder about which syllable to stress. whether this variety comes in other colors. i happen upon amaryllis and speculate about whether there is a good reason that i do not know each one of these beauties in their perfect phonetic distinction? tulip, fritillaria, or avalanche narcissus(!). the names of flowers are ready made poetry. i move my lips, even though i am too self-conscious to roll the rich sounds in my mouth, which is what i really long to do. hydrangeas (the japanese call the thick stemmed, fat explosion of petals, agisai. they were everywhere in the kochi springtime), marigolds and zinnias, too.
there is a lovely rhythm embedded in these soft signs--sometimes lyrical, sometimes playful, sometimes sorrowful. one way or another, it seems the words attached to these blossoms always hint at a story. for me, the bonus that comes with the mini-narratives that the newly-known-names inspire is the actual sensual pleasure (all five really) of the blooms.
in any case, it's always worth the trouble of dragging myself a few blocks so that i can clap my eyes on a calla lilly the color of mango sherbert or taste the name dahlia as it twirls briefly, silently, on the tip of my tongue.
not just any old flowers, but the flower stand at the university market. the flowers that the little shop manages to get are beautiful, but the thing that hypnotizes me is their names. each little bucket of flowers has the name of its occupant printed neatly on a tiny rectangular chalkboard label at the base of the container. black-eyed susan and peonie and hypernicum. later, i only recall the names of the most striking flowers, but i read each hand-written label several times. i wonder about which syllable to stress. whether this variety comes in other colors. i happen upon amaryllis and speculate about whether there is a good reason that i do not know each one of these beauties in their perfect phonetic distinction? tulip, fritillaria, or avalanche narcissus(!). the names of flowers are ready made poetry. i move my lips, even though i am too self-conscious to roll the rich sounds in my mouth, which is what i really long to do. hydrangeas (the japanese call the thick stemmed, fat explosion of petals, agisai. they were everywhere in the kochi springtime), marigolds and zinnias, too.
there is a lovely rhythm embedded in these soft signs--sometimes lyrical, sometimes playful, sometimes sorrowful. one way or another, it seems the words attached to these blossoms always hint at a story. for me, the bonus that comes with the mini-narratives that the newly-known-names inspire is the actual sensual pleasure (all five really) of the blooms.
in any case, it's always worth the trouble of dragging myself a few blocks so that i can clap my eyes on a calla lilly the color of mango sherbert or taste the name dahlia as it twirls briefly, silently, on the tip of my tongue.