Crocus Stamen & Stigmata: Photos

After following the commandment yesterday to, “Consider the Lilies”, I became more interested in considering the crocus, too. Emily called them the “vassal of the snow,” but today they’ll be free to worship the sun.

This morning I went out to observe the tenderest portion of the crocus, its reproductive element, the flower. While snooping inside this tender spot–early spring homes for gnats and bees–I did spy a few of these little creatures at work and rest.

The crocus is different from the lily in that its stigma is divided into three at the tip of the style. The lily’s stigma is a tri-bulbous unit; the crocus’ stigma is a separated threesome we refer to in its plural form–stigmata (Stig-Muh-Tuh). The stamen (male portion of the flower) is also different. The lily has 6 stamen, while the crocus has but 3.

There is a fall flower that looks very much like the crocus and is mistaken for crocus called colchicum (Kohl-Chick-Um). It is actually part of the Lily family (Liliaceae) and has 6 stamen as well. If you ever wonder–crocus or colchicum–just count the stamen–three equals crocus, six equals colchicum.

Here are my pictures from the garden from this morning, a beautiful early spring day–temps climbing to 65. The focus is on the pistil (stigma, style and ovary–female parts) and the stamen (filament and anther–male parts).

Enjoy a walk through my garden’s tenderest and most private early April places as the crocus slowly open themselves up to the day’s sun.

“Crocuses come up, in the garden off the dining room.” Emily Dickinson quote from a letter.

The Snow Crocus

The difference a day makes, yesterday,
Orange stamen reaching to the sun, 
Petals stretched out, almost falling,
But now, dark clouds, the cold,
The snow, as white as you are—
You’ve pulled tight your coat
Shut yourself and your secret from the world.

Emily Dickinson’s Garden, April 4th Snow Crocus, 2012

I thought about form with this poem and how it could mirror the crocus in sun and snow. The crocus opens up in the sun (free form), then closes itself up in cold (poetic form, rhyme). I changed up the poem above to play with that idea.

The difference a day makes, yesterday,
Your orange stamen reached up to the sun,
Your silky petals strained and stretched
As soft and open as new skin
But now, dark clouds, the cold
Bold snow, as white as you are
It obscures the sun so completely
You’d swear there is no sun, or ever will be
You’ve shut yourself up for now
But I know how, you’ll open again.

The Snow Crocus, Emily Dickinson’s Garden, April 4th 2012

April Crocus

,

Ah, deeper down cold, dark, and chill 
We buried our heart’s flower, 
But angel-like shall he arise 
In spring’s immortal hour. 

In blue and yellow from its grave 
Springs up the crocus fair, 
And God shall raise those bright blue eyes, 
Those sunny waves of hair. 

Harriet Beecher Stowe, excerpt from The Crocus

Crocus from my garden, April 3rd 2012. Beautiful, sunny day.  Cool.

Paul J Stankard: Man Who Can Bring Us A Bouquet of Indian Pipes

INDIAN PIPES

White mystical totems
in moist shaded woods
offered fluid folk cures
to those who understood.

Saprophytic flowers, cluster,
nodding in light
feed off decay
develop upright.

Black-spotted pods
drying pastel brown
stand erect through winter
Nature’s totems in the ground.

-Paul J Stankard

I’ve written on this blog many times about the most magical of fairy flowers, the Indian Pipe, sometimes called, The Corpse Flower. It adorns the front cover of Emily Dickinson’s work, yet, so few people have ever seen it in real life. If you try to pick one and bring it back to the land of the living, away from the shade of the forest, it will start to turn inky black, erasing its waxy, white mystery. If you find a fellow traveler who has, by chance, come across it in their own journey, it’s like talking to someone who finally gets you…understands what you have seen….understands what you have felt. A soul-mate.

When I visited the Museum of Glass in Tacoma last week, I would never have guessed my favorite exhibit would be paper weights.

Paper weights. Really?

Not the Glimmering Gone, the enchanted glass forest that inspired so many beautiful poems?

No, for me, it was the art of Paul J. Stankard, considered the Dale Chihuly of the glass paper weight, that most inspired and most intrigued.

As my friend and I wandered in and out of one exhibit and another, we found ourselves unwittingly part of a tour group who had just entered, “Beauty Beyond Nature: The Glass Art of Paul J. Stankard.” As I gazed into the small round orbs, delighting in wildflowers and magical insects and elves, wholly brought forth from Stankard’s imagination and memories of his walks in nature, I also got to listen to the story of his life and art–his transition from industrial glass maker to artist working from his garage, his love of Walt Whitman and poetry, his love of nature, and his appreciation of transitions.

And, that is where Paul Stankard and I converged spirit to spirit, mind to mind. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve never met or talked to him, but as the tour guide told us which piece, of all the beautiful pieces exhibited, was his favorite, and why, I couldn’t help but think I knew him. Kindred thoughts, make kindred minds.

His favorite piece was a melting ice cube: “Experimental Departure From Paperweight Form, 1979.” This is the piece where he challenged a traditional idea, drew from internal inspiration, and deviated from the standard, spherical form of paper weight. The tour guide quoted him, “The only real growth as human beings is when we think outside the box.” I would go further and say that when you’re growing it is the only time you feel like you’re really living–being 100 percent vital and authentic. The opposite of growth, in the world of flowers (and people), is decay, even if the decay seems to be put off for a while. It’s the difference between a cut flower and one still attached to its roots, like the flowers suspended in his paper weights.

Experimental Departure from Paperweight Form, was not, by any stretch, viewed by itself with no understanding of what it meant, his most beautiful work of art exhibited that day. Its beauty came from knowing that without it, none of the others would exist. It was the bridge between two levels of seeing and, a bridge between two worlds. The world of Paul Stankard is a world I have visited many times. When I looked through the first glass window I knew he was a visitor, too, come back to show the rest of the world the magic.

You see, in this exhibit, he, in a sense, defied nature. He brought back the flowers in their living form–no black ink, no decay–just vital, growing flowers suspended forever in a glass universe–inviting us to peer in and see, too.

“Did you ever know that a flower, once withered and freshened again, became an immortal flower,–that is, that it rises again?” (Emily L91)

One of my other favorite flowers and the one I’m most looking for now is the crocus. This is called Honeycomb and Crocuses.

Stages of a Crocus

This diagram is from A Handbook of Crocus and Colchicum for Gardeners by E. A. Bowles Ma.A., F.L.S., F.r.E.S., V.M.H. published by The Garden Book Club, 121 Charing Cross Road, London WC2. in 1955. I found this on a wonderful British site: Ivy Dene Gardens.

“She opens the paper wrappings,
hands delicate as a crocus unfolding
in the morning light. Little hands working
to part the frail chapter of circumstance
where histories float like clouds on an untouchable scrim.”

From, The Vistor, by Anya Russian

Here are the stages of the Crocus, in pictures, taken from my own garden Spring 2011.

1. Leaves push up from the ground.

2. Spathe emerges. You can see the purple of the flower cocooned within. This is like the birthing phase and the spathe is like the womb. It almost looks alien.

3. Bloom pushes out of the spathe.

4. Bloom begins to unfold.

And unfold…

And unfold.

More crocus in The Garden:

Karin Gottshall from her book: Crocus

To read entire book, click on link above.

I was in bed all day with the sun

and a heavy dictionary.
I watched the cat fall asleep
on the wove rug. Outside

a bird unspooled its song in wide,
round loops: drifting off,
coming back. Memory is like that—

words loosed like dust motes,
a dream I slip into: this cat’s
green-eyed mother, her grave

under licorice root and money trees.
Then come the angels of the afternoon
with their wings of flame.

one day language will unbind itself
from me—even to the barest
particulars: the first time

I heard the word crocus, the new
spring sun on my shoulder, smell
of mud—quick freshet
working itself free. At last
to release this word I
into the long blue currents of the sea.

And So, The Crocus Come

Crocus, almost like blades of grass, making their way toward the world.

My Crocus are pushing themselves up out of the ground. I’m hovering over, watching their every move. I told my husband, as we planted our fall bulbs, This is like giving gifts to ourselves now, we will receive in spring.

When you give a gift ahead of time, and let it go, you don’t know what circumstances will surround the recipient when it arrives. How can you? I wondered, as we planted, What will pass in our lives before the crocus emerge? Will there be trials and tragedies? Huge shifts of life? Or, will so little change that we barely see the separation from then to now?

At this point, I can answer it–I can barely see the separation from then to now. If you told me we planted them a week ago, I would not be surprised, even though I know they were planted last October. That must be a good thing.

I’ve written here, at The Garden, about the Crocus in poetry and symbol even when I didn’t have Crocus in my own garden. Through poetry I learned that the air can be heavy with the odor of crocuses and that there can be drifts of crocuses in the damp grass.

If you want to learn about the Crocus through poetry, please click on this link to last year’s blog post where I compiled all the poems about Crocus I could find, two of which are by Miss Emily Dickinson. There’s also a link to another post, the Crocus post for the year before that.

For 2011, the meaning of the Crocus, for me, is the gift we give without knowing what will come of it. Basically, the gift we lift up to the world and release. It’s investing in the future not knowing what that future will hold, yet looking ahead with hope.

Two Worlds
by Raymond Carver

In air heavy
with odor of crocuses,

sensual smell of crocuses,
I watch a lemon sun disappear,

a sea change blue
to olive black.

I watch lightning leap from Asia as
sleeping.

my love stirs and breathes and
sleeps again,

part of this world and yet
part of that.

Since we’re also looking at “form” this year. I want to include an analysis of this poem by Wendy Bishop:

“In the Poem ‘Two Worlds,’ Raymond Carver uses repetition vertically down the poem’s stanzas, repeating the word “crocuses.” Even though no other exact words repeat across the first three stanzas, the s and c alliteration does: crocuses, sensual smell, sea, crocuses and change. He links stanzas 4 and 5 with ‘sleeping’ and ‘sleep’ and stanzas 5 and 6 with repetition of the word ‘part.’ The s sounds continue in the last three stanzas: Asia as, sleeping, stirs, breathes and sleeps. The t sounds links together the lines of the final couplet, creating a sense of closure with ‘this and ‘that.’ Although this is a couplet poem, the sounds and repeated words ring down the lines randomly but satisfyingly. The poet is playing by ear–but with a highly trained ear.” Wendy Bishop, Thirteen Ways of Looking for a Poem: a Guide to Writing Poetry

The Crocus: In Poetry & Symbol

I had 200 hits last week on my 2009 blog post about the Crocus, which makes me think there must be a lot of interest in this flower in early spring, but little information. And why not, its emergence signals the end of Winter and the ushering in of Spring–something, that by March, we’re all yearning for. For that reason, I want to dedicate a whole post to it–the poetry surrounding it, both Emily Dickinson’s and others, and the symbology associated with it. I’ll call this, Crocus Day at Emily Dickinson’s Garden.

First, it appears in the book, The Poetry of Flowers as the symbol of “Smiles”. Here is the poem which accompanies it by Miss H. F. Gould:

Down in my solitude under the snow,
Where nothing cheering can reach me;
Here, without light to see how to grow,
I’ll trust to nature to teach me.

I will not despair–nor be idle, nor frown,
Locked in so gloomy a dwelling;
My leaves shall run up, and my roots shall run down,
While the bud in my bosom is swelling.

Soon as the frost will get out of my bed,
From this cold dungeon to free me,
I will peer up with my little bright head,
And all will be joyful to see me.

Then from my heart will young petals diverge,
As rays of the sun from their focus;
I from the darkness of earth shall emerge,
A happy and beautiful Crocus!

Many, perhaps, from so simple a flower,
This little lesson may borrow,
Patient today, through its gloomiest hour,
We come out the brighter tomorrow.

From this poem, I would associate the Crocus with hope.

Emily Dickinson’s poem:

The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go-
The Crocus-till she rises
The Vassal of the snow-
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practise bore
Till bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.

Pearls are the Diver’s farthings
Extorted from the sea-
Pinions-the Seraph’s wagon
Pedestrian once-as we-
Night is the morning’s Canvas
Larceny-legacy-
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.

My figures fail to tel me
How far the Village lies-
Whose peasants are the Angels-
Whose Cantons dot the skies-
My Classics veil their faces-
My faith that Dark adores-
Which from its solemn abbeys
Such resurrection pours.

Emily Dickinson, 1858–#7

And, Louise Gluck, my favorite modern poet who often evokes the imagery of flowers in her work:

Nostos

There was an apple tree in the yard –
this would have been
forty years ago — behind,
only meadows. Drifts
of crocus in the damp grass.
I stood at that window:
late April. Spring
flowers in the neighbor’s yard.
How many times, really, did the tree
flower on my birthday,
the exact day, not
before, not after? Substitution
of the immutable
for the shifting, the evolving.
Substitution of the image
for relentless earth. What
do I know of this place,
the role of the tree for decades
taken by a bonsai, voices
rising from the tennis courts –
Fields. Smell of the tall grass, new cut.
As one expects of a lyric poet.
We look at the world once, in childhood.
The rest is memory.

– Louise Gluck

And another Gluck poem from her book, The House on Marshland:

For Jane Myers

Sap rises from the sodden ditch
and glues two green ears to the dead
birchtwig.  Perilous beauty–
and already Jane is digging out
her colored tennis shoes,
one mauve, one yellow, like large crocuses.

And by the landromat
the Bartletts in their tidy yard–

as though it were not
wearying, wearying

to hear in the bushes
the mild harping of the breeze,
the daffodils flocking and honking–

Look how the bluet falls apart, mud
pockets the seed.
Months, years, then the dull blade of the wind.
It is spring! We are going to die!

And now April raises up her plaque of flowers
and the heart
expands to admit its adversary.

Gluck’s work is the closest modern day comparison I know to Emily Dickinson’s, especially her book, The Wild Iris.  I want to highlight many of her poems throughout Spring and Summer. I have another reference book, Spiritual Gardening, which says the crocus is a symbol of spiritual renewal, a longing and theme of Gluck’s.

If you know of any mention of the crocus in literature, please add to this post in the comments section.  Or, if you have any thoughts about the crocus and what it means, please feel free to add that as well.

For more poetry and flower meanings, you may want to check out, The Bouquet–a book from Victorian America that focuses on poetic meaning in the garden. Follow this link.

Or this one–Emblems and Poetry of Flowers

In my opinion, the best way to become intimite with your garden is to paint it. I took an online watercolor course to help get a start doing this myself. I started a flower watercolor journal. This wonderful book of watercolor instruction can help you do that, too. It takes you step by step through the techniques of watercolor and the actual painting of many common flowers. Each flower is accompanied by poetry.

click here for details.

First Day of Spring and First Flowers: Crocus & Snowdrops

The first day of Spring was a few days ago and it went unnoticed, I’m sad to say, on this blog.

I think today we should celebrate Snowdrops and Crocus–the earliest of bloomers; yet, almost the only types of flowers I have not had the privilege of planting. I went to a local store a few weeks ago to get bulbs, but they didn’t have Snowdrops and they had sold out of Crocus. My husband’s daughter, however, had beautiful Crocus and Snowdrops in her garden when we drove to see them yesterday.

The Crocus:

The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go-
The Crocus-till she rises
The Vassal of the snow-…

Emily Dickinson (further reading click link to my blog post about The Crocus)

Interesting note: The Greek word “krokos” means “saffron”.

My goal: Get Crocus and Snowdrops in 2010. In fact, I’ll make a list of plants I want to acquire so that I won’t forget at the end of the growing season.

I’ve seen a lot of poems referring to crocus as the first flower of spring, but isn’t the snowdrop the first flower of spring? So, those poems should read, Ah, the crocus, second flower... Check out the weekend gardener for confirmation of this fact and a list of the earliest blooming flowers.

Now, to what is growing in my garden–the mid-Spring bloomers: tulips and daffodils.

The beginning of Columbine’s return–a good memory for me now.

I believe these are the beginnings of my chives, but at this point, I would be very much afraid to “taste” that theory.

Fern:

Leopard’s Bane

Hosta:

What I’m getting ready to plant:

I have a very large rock planter in front of the house that I didn’t get to last year.

I’m getting ready to plant it as soon as we get the top soil brought in and mixed with the wonderful, aged cow manure we got from our neighbor the other day.

This will be a colorful assortment of flowers arranged around, what I think may be a quaking aspen. I’m not positive, though, about the tree choice. Here are some of the bulbs–peony, echinacea, lilies, clematis:

And some hollyhock seeds my dad gave me at the end of last year. I’m not sure how I’ll start them.

Maybe like my son did. These are his flowers and herbs he grew in school and gave to me a couple of weeks ago with the request: please keep them alive. So far, so good.

Any crocus in your part of the world? Snowdrops? Any plants from last year coming to life?

Happy Spring gardening adventures!

What is the Crocus?

The feet of people walking home
With gayer sandals go-
The Crocus-till she rises
The Vassal of the snow-
The lips at Hallelujah
Long years of practise bore
Till bye and bye these Bargemen
Walked singing on the shore.

Pearls are the Diver’s farthings
Extorted from the sea-
Pinions-the Seraph’s wagon
Pedestrian once-as we-
Night is the morning’s Canvas
Larceny-legacy-
Death, but our rapt attention
To Immortality.

My figures fail to tel me
How far the Village lies-
Whose peasants are the Angels-
Whose Cantons dot the skies-
My Classics veil their faces-
My faith that Dark adores-
Which from its solemn abbeys
Such resurrection pours.

Emily Dickinson, 1858–#7

March 28
Weather: 40s partially cloudy

What a beautiful poem. “Death, but our rapt attention/To Immortality/My figures fail to tell me/How far the village lies….” Honesty–that’s Emily Dickinson. “The Crocus–till she rises/The Vassal of the snow.”

So, what does it mean to be a vassal or slave/subject/subordinate to the snow until you “rise”? And, “pinion”–that is a loaded word. The flight feathers of a bird–if you cut them off, they can’t fly. The “Seraph” who sits next to God’s throne.

I get so much longing, and even hope, in this poem–and the Crocus is such a powerful image in the poem–I believe, of these two things. And every year, Emily gets to look forward to the Crocus emerging in her Early Spring Garden.

During the Victorian era, people often gave gifts of flowers to represent some symbolic meaning that most everyone understood. Emily Dickinson did this a lot–sometimes accompanied by a poem. So, what did the crocus mean symbolically? From what I understand, to most, it represented cheefulness and gladness. But what about to Emily?

Here is a poem Emily sent to her cousin–accompanied by a Crocus:

She dwelleth in the Ground –
Where Daffodils — abide –
Her Maker — Her Metropolis –
The Universe — Her Maid –

To fetch Her Grace — and Hue –
And Fairness — and Renown –
The Firmament’s — To Pluck Her –
And fetch Her Thee — be mine –(Emily Dickinson, 744)

I must admit, I have no experience with Crocuses. I’m a Crocus dummy. It’s not a very elegant name for a flower–in fact, it’s kind of funny.

Do you have experience with it–in your garden, or arrangements you’ve put together or received, poetry or art? What are you thoughts about this flower?