(Do clink to get to a larger image, which is worth the effort, if I may humbly assert.)

I adore your name, Narcissus poeticus, and how you fold back your petals as if you’re getting a drink of water or facing the wind. How you open yourself to the bee.

The earliest mention of Poet’s Daffodil is likely in the botanical writings of Theophrastus (371 – c. 287 BCE), who wrote about a spring-blooming narcissus that the Loeb Classical Library editors identify as Narcissus poeticus. The poet Virgil, in his fifth Eclogue, also wrote about a narcissus whose description corresponds with that of Narcissus poeticus. In one version of the myth about the Greek hero Narcissus, he was punished by the Goddess of vengeance, Nemesis, who turned him into a Narcissus flower that historians associate with Narcissus poeticus. The fragrant Narcissus poeticus has also been recognized as the flower that Persephone and her companions were gathering when Hades abducted her into the Underworld, according to Hellmut Baumann in The Greek Plant World in Myth, Art, and Literature. This myth accounts for the custom, which has lasted into modern times, of decorating graves with these flowers. Linnaeus, who gave the flower its name, quite possibly did so because he believed it was the one that inspired the tale of Narcissus, handed down by poets since ancient times.

Go to the Wiki article for citations.

Related posts:

1. signs of spring in early winter or love letters to my frozen friends
2. more on hiking the Lewis River
3. flowers so lush they don’t seem real

Chew your way into a new world.

From Amy Gerstler’s new book Dearest Creature, which I read at Mark Doty’s blog. Must get my hands on this book of poems. (Sounds like another resolution, maybe one I can keep.)

Related posts:

1. Poetry x 12

My mental processing over this has been reflected in my poetry as of late, particularly for the A Body of Work, series, and even in my last ditty for a Read Write Poem’s visual prompt, Dried Fruit. (I was thinking about my dried up ovaries, not hot wet sex for that one.  But I do like it when my poetry is vague enough to allow different meanings for other people.)

I’ve gotten to the age when I realize a few of my dreams probably won’t  be fulfilled. No climbing to the peak of Mount Hood with these knees. I’m not likely to see the weight scale under a certain measure again. Age-appropriate clothing is not as fun as it once was. A glisten of a gem won’t sparkle from my nose (It would sink into my widening pores and disappear)!

I’ve been wanting a tattoo for ages, too. For at least twenty-five years I have thought about what I wanted and where it would be. A unicorn on my shoulder. A hummingbird on my right (or left) breast.  Japanese woodcut waves on my arm. A geometric ho-patch above my crack. A Celtic pattern creating a wedding band on my left hand.

Sometimes it is a good idea to let time filter out stuff that shouldn’t be permanent. But this summer my real and virtual friend Carolee Sherwood started talking tattoos (I think it was in an email before she came out to Portland for the Tin House Summer Workshop) and one thing led to another along the lines of  ”I’ve always wanted a tattoo”  and “If not now, when?” and “Let’s do it at the same time.” (I have 80 email threads about tattoos!)

Then came the “What do I really want to have as a constant companion for the rest of my life?” question.

It had to be an abstract graphic. I needed to be able to cover it with clothes if need be. I wanted to be able to see it without looking in a mirror. It had to be attractive.  It had to have some meaning, yet be a little like my poems: Obscure or open enough for broad definition so it could age with me.

I had once thought I’d give it to myself for my 50th birthday. I was 28.5 months late. But due to the influence of a good buddy system and a fabulous tattoo artist in Portland, Oregon here it is:

This photo was right after I had it done September 1, 2009. (Shiny and new on the back of my right calf!) I hinted about it in a post asking what people thought this graphic was.

It is a trillium. A native northwest plant (and many other places, too) that tells me spring has arrived. My birthday is in April and that is also the Trillium Festival at one of my favorite accessible walking places, Tryon Creek State Park. It means courage and honesty. Herbalists use it as a “tender yet strong support during times of birth, death and re-birth. Helps one develop the courage and flexibility to flow with life’s changes and cycles. Coming home to oneself. Peaceful centeredness, knowing that is enough.”

And that is what I want to carry with me the last half of my life, or whatever is left of it.

Here’s Carolee’s side of the story!

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Process notes:

I thought I was going to have to design my own art, but found it in the logo for an Ontario, Canada horticulture association newsletter. Luckily, it had the proper amount of white space so the black didn’t bleed. I wanted a sharp image! Serendipity, I think.

I went to a highly regarded tattoo house (Infinity) in Portland, but got a new-to-there artist because the owner had an 8-month waiting list. That woman quit the house before my appointment and I rescheduled with another guy, Richard Cuellar, also fairly new to that spot, but who was supposed to be good at graphic tattoos. When I came in to consult with him, He assumed my ” Oh, I’m thinking of a flower tattoo, a trillium” meant small & feminine, because he seemed a little surprised at the size and style of the artwork I brought — and liked it. He suggested we go a little bigger and on the back of my calf rather than the side. Fine by me, I said, “You’re the artist, as long as it is above my hiking socks.” The day I came back for the appointment I was greeted with, “I’m kind of surprised to see you. I thought you would bail.” Hmm. Snotty? Big and bold won’t do for a middle-aged matron? “Well, I’ve already put it off 25 years. I wasn’t going to wait any longer.”

It took a solid hour, no breaks. I’d admit to being proud when he said, “You sat well.” It did hurt. Solid coloring (rather than shading) means a lot of cells get touched. But I had Mark Doty with me, Fire to Fire, and stumbled onto “Theory of Beauty (Tony),” and was grateful for sterilized pens and an artist marking my skin rather than Tony’s prison-made tattoo. There are benefits to being a middle-aged woman in Portland.

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PS. I love it. I have no regrets!

No related posts.

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Do go check out Hey Harriet. She creates galleries of some of the last week shots and takes you on a tour of her own. Terrific images nicely put together. This week she’s got three fantastic river shots herself! Serendipity: I love it. (Bink on the camera to go to  Hey Harriet.)

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New visitor’s first comments have to be approved. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it cuts down on spam. Thank you for stopping by.

Related posts:

1. Shadow Spot Sunday
2. Shadow Shot Sunday
3. Shadow Spot Sunday

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New visitor’s first comments have to be approved. Sorry for the inconvenience, but it cuts down on spam. Thank you for stopping by.

Related posts:

1. Shadow Shot Sunday
2. Shadow Spot Sunday
3. Shadow Shot Sunday

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“My analysis suggests that by blurring vision, tears lower defences [sic] and reliably function as signals of submission, a cry for help, and even in a mutual display of attachment and as a group display of cohesion,” he reports.

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I don’t cry very often, anymore. Maybe I should re-think, errr… feel that.

Actually, the last time I cried hard was August the 10th, when one of my cats (Boyo) went ballistic while in bed and chased (attacked) Sport. Mark got incredibly angry and insisted Boyo be kicked out of the house. For good. I wept (wailed) off and on for days. I wrote a Craig’s List “need a home” notice and posted it once. (No response.) Boyo eats outside now, coming home late at night, crying at the back door. He is afraid of Sport for some reason (we have coyotes around and I think Boyo mistakes Sport for one). Last week I slept little, dozing on the couch, letting him in and out of the house (into a closed off room) for several nights running. I’ve been leaving food out, and not responding to his 3 a.m. calls. I’m tearing up now. But not crying hard.

Mark and I have to sort this out once my parents leave. I don’t want them to know about it because my mom will get in the middle and make things worse. My family is famous for emotional hide-and-seek.

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Do you cry? Over what?

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The work Tuft (above) is made of 300 milled Madrona 2×2’s and was designed to be changed by how the wood reacts to the environment. It is just now starting to do that… so Gregory and Curator Lee Musgrave felt that it should be left in place for another year so that its transformation can become more apparent.

Gregory has been receiving a lot of media attention recently as an artist that specializes in “sustainable green art” and he will be conducting a panel discussion, Green Art: What Does Sustainable Design Mean In Public Art, for the Office of Arts and Cultural Affairs in Seattle on November 10 that will include references to this project.

Glynn’s piece is the backdrop for the mushrooms in one of Stoney Moss’s rotating headers. Look to the bottom left of the sculpture and you’ll see them. I love this work. I love everything about it.

(Isn’t this a better view than that P-guy? :-) )

Related posts:

1. wasps in receding fall light

You know I love half-naked world leaders. Especially Putin. Growl.

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Crashed out after a run

I really miss her. Deciding to let her go is one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, and I still harbor dreams of taking her back someday. She looks happy, though!

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