[Note to poetry fans: it’s a good collection, spanning the ins and outs of the genre
over the last century. The thumbnail biographies, although annoyingly freighted
with prizes, awards, and past or present teaching positions, are particularly
fascinating. Almost a third of the poets represented either committed suicide
or died in bizarre circumstances. For example, Frank O’Hara was struck and
killed by a dune buggy on Fire Island. Weldon Kees is presumed to have leapt
from the Golden Gate Bridge. Randall Jarrell stepped into the path of a oncoming car in
Chapel Hill, NC. Hart Crane jumped off a steamship into the Gulf of Mexico. Craig Arnold disappeared while clambering
around volcanoes in Japan. And we all know how Sylvia Plath ended up.
See how
these digressions proliferate? Keep reading—it gets worse.]
Anyway. Ray
Bradbury said writers must read poetry every day, so I do. This morning The Open Door opened to the William Carlos
Williams snippet, “Of asphodel, that greeny flower,” from the fifth volume of his epic dense and largely unintelligible Paterson. It goes like this:
“Of asphodel, that greeny flower, the least,
that
is a simple flower
like
a buttercup upon its
branching stem, save
that
it’s green and wooden
We’ve
had a long life
and many things have happened in it.
There
are flowers also
in
hell. So today I’ve come
to talk to you about them, among
other
things, of flowers
that
we both love, even
of the poor, colorless
thing
which no one living
prizes
but the dead see
and ask among themselves,
What
do we remember that was shaped
as
this thing
is shaped? as their eyes
fill
with
tears. By which
and by the weak wash of crimson
colors
it, the rose
is
predicated.”
 |
| Asphodelus ramosus, branched asphodel |
All new-to-me-plant sensors aquiver, I lumbered into the kitchen for coffee and to type “asphodel” in the Google search bar. Ninety minutes later, I knew that there are 17 species of tuberous Asphodelus, and as many, if not more, genera with the common name “false asphodel.” Taxonomists, apparently bored now that Aster has been successfully rechristened Symphyotrichum, recently moved asphodel from the lily family, Liliaceae, to the much harder to pronounce Xanthorrhoeaceae (zan-thor-REE-uh-cee-ee, I’m guessing, from the Greek for yellow—xanthos—and flow—rheo—referring to the resin the plants may or may not excrete), which also contains the daylily and the single-species Australian grasstree sub-families. All of them originate in Mediterranean-like environments.
[For a
graphic look at how those wacky taxonomists operate, check out the phylogenic
tree in Wikipedia’s Xanthorrhoeaceae entry.]
 |
| When is an asphodel not an asphodel? When it's a de affodil. |
Another
interesting lexicographic wrinkle is that the word “daffodil” may have come
from a corruption of asphodel, “affodil”; specifically, from the bulb-loving Dutch
de affodil. This in turn might explain why the blog UrbanArt Wallpapers offers a picture of a mini-daff to
beautify your computer screen and calls it asphodel.
 |
| Asphodel tubers, yummy when boiled |
Asphodels have an impressive recorded history. As Williams tells us, they are the flowers of Hades. In The Odyssey, Homer blankets the Elysian fields of the Isles of the Blessed with them. Ancient Greeks believed they were the favorite food of the dead, and planted them near graves. This belief was reinforced by the fact that poor Greeks boiled and ate the tubers. In case you’re interested (or hungry), most parts of the plant are edible when cooked.
 |
| Asphodelus aestivus/ramosus/microcarpus |
My research leads me to believe Williams’ “greeny flower” refers to Asphodelus
ramosus, or branched asphodel, pictured above. In yet another example of
taxonomic love of confusion, A. ramosus
(“branching”) is synonymous with A. aestivus (“of summer”) and A. microcarpus (“small fruit”),
depending on which Linnaean descendant you personally rely upon.
This is how I’ve blown a
perfectly lovely mild and sunny January Saturday. I am in good hopes that further
cyber-digging will bring me to a source for asphodels—the real ones, not the fakes—to
plant in my yard. Should I ever turn off the computer and go out to dig in the yard instead. I’ll let you know how that works out.
Thanks for dropping by.
Kathy
 |
| Prunus mume 'Peggy Clarke' |
P.S. -- Look what was blooming on our deck this morning! Why, it's spicy-scented 'Peggy Clarke' ornamental apricot!
