Thursday, April 10, 2008

Poppies or weeds?



More than swallows, poppies are for me the symbols of spring. As long as I do not see these red dots in the landscape, spring remains an abstraction.


P. S. Ten minutes after I photographed them with my cell phone (mobile for Europeans) they were no more. The gardener came and started weeding.

26 comments:

neutrino said...

"Le myosotis, et puis la rose,
Ce sont des fleurs qui disent quelqu'chose !
Mais pour aimer les coquelicots
Et n'aimer qu'ça... faut être idiot !

T'as p't'être raison !... seulement voila :
Quand j't'aurai dit, tu comprendras...
La première fois que je l'ai vue,
Elle dormait, à moitié nue,
Dans la lumière de l'été,
Au beau milieu d'un champ de blé.
Et, sous le corsage blanc,
Là où battait son coeur,
Le soleil, gentiment,
Faisait vivre une fleur
Comme un p'tit coquelicot, mon âme,
Comme un p'tit coquelicot.

C'est très curieux comme tes yeux brillent
En te rappelant la jolie fille !.
Ils brillent si fort qu'c'est un peu trop
Pour expliquer les coquelicots ..."


Hello there,
i know it's not in english, but at least it's the right alphabet -hopefully it will be accepted.
It's nice you're still around. We missed the poppies of our spring.

athanasia said...

Three things I like about poppies (apart from the fact that they announce that spring is here):

(a) Poppies are among the very few plants that grow on battlefields.

(b) Red anemones look very much like poppies, until you learn to see and feel the difference.

(c) "Poppy fields in Argenteuil" (Monet). [I regret I cannot upload a good reproduction.]

Stavros Katsaris said...

All the gardeners make the same thing!
This is the reason that i am an artist!!!
:))

Good morning!

giant13 said...

The poppy

Summer set lip to earth's bosom bare,
And left the flushed print in a poppy there:
Like a yawn of fire from the grass it came,
And the fanning wind puffed it to flapping flame

Francis Thompson

Ηλεκτρολόγος said...

.
.
.
Poppies
.
.
.
Is the answer i prefer

doodler said...

neutrino

thanks for Mouloudji - song of my youth...

delta_mike said...

to elaborate on Athanasia's comment about poppies and battlefields, here's a anonymous poem circa WWI that's been haunting me for years:

"In Flanders fields
where poppies grow
between the crosses row on row
if you break faith with us who die
we shall not sleep
though poppies grow
in Flanders fields"

Welcome back!

ladybird said...

These red spots and the ladybird beetle with it's black dots...
and then the red eggs and the red cheeks you suddenly saw in more faces...
it seemed like something magical was about to happen such days!
Then,it seemed more like some kind of conspiracy...And that it is,an earthly conspiracy for nature to bloom.
PS:The "gardener's" need to put things in order is what blossoms for him the most.

viewokto said...

This sweet bitter tone in every writing, in every comment has become so familiar, so dear…

I’ve just found out about this blog...

No unfortunate poppies will ruin the moment for me.
After all, you were there and you’ve brought them in my house, on my desk, among my blotted papers
Spring at last!

Dion.M. said...

There is still a reason, why I admire poppies. In contrary with anemones, that so much resembles, do not live in vases but only in nature. Cropped poppies wither immediately.

We could say that poppies are born to live only in the wild, and open areas, not under the constrictions of civilization .

..........

“The gardener came and started weeding.”

He must be “The constant gardener” :-)

Dion.M. said...

In Flander's Field
by John McCrae

In Flanders Fields the poppies blow,
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky,
The larks, still bravely singing, fly,
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the dead.
Short days ago,
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved and now we lie,
In Flanders Fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe
To you, from failing hands, we throw,
The torch, be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us, who die,
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow,
In Flanders Fields.

Rallou said...

Red in green!
It is probably the most intense contrast one can find in nature.

It's so wonderful to find all of you, here, again!

Besides Nick, of course..

Thought this "doodling" should stay silent, but then, again, why should it?

Why silence anyway...

2000man said...

One question: Why do you keep repeating "with my mobile phone"? It doesn't really give any important information to the story. It's like saying "while wearing my green trousers".
No hard feelings, just a question...

doodler said...

2000man

maybe because I want to excuse myself for the low quality of the photos...

...but no - I want to remind readers of the improvised nature of this blog. It is not prepared in an office. The photographs are mobile snapshots, the text is also jotted down on the mobile phone. Only when I want to add a quotation, I go back to the computer. I try to create a spontaneous sort of diary.

Aphrodite said...

Spring Massacre
----------------


"What?!

Who's that monster?

Who's that Ugly Human?

Who does he think he is?

God Almighty bashing in this Spring Parade?!

Reaper of wild flowers' heads, arms and stems...

They're not just crappy "weeds"!

They are beauties!

"Off with their heads!" to every non-"Rose", the moron says...!

Arghh, the nerve!"


The flesh-eating plant in the poppy-field
ruffled its leaves
and the tiny vibration was code-red
to its mates in the garden.

Common knowledge my friends:
all flesh-eaters,
led by their devouring nature,
are suckers for blood-stained poppies.

How could they not?

As the vulgar Gardener
was steadily approaching,
the garden left behind
was greener and greener,
with only roses standing.

Cut! Cut! Cut!

(ouch! ouch! ouch!)

The flesh-eaters were all alert.

They waited and waited,
grinding teeth
watering mouths
spaying sweet smells all over.

And as soon as both the Gardener's ankles
were at a bite's length...

Ready, Steady, ...

... ki egine tis Poppies!

:))))

doodler said...

Venus

excellent dramatization - I will show it to my gardener. He may commit suicide after I translate your text...

Yannis H said...

feeting the spirit, from my mobile: funny, how these pictures (even the angle) look alike. I was in Filopapou the other day (I thoufgt I was in Acropolis, till I reached the top) and took an almost identical picture on the way up.

Yannis H said...

psdid I write 'feeting'?? well, I did climb by foot. But I guess I ment fitting :)).

annaf said...

poppies...

their firey red platelets, turn to dust so... easily, when touched...

elias said...

Poppies are like old blogs
they cant stay underground
for long
so in springtime
they try to see the sun


welcome back

harrylogy said...

As a blogger u can hide

be a Jeckyl or a Hyde

but a username with "harry "

may be hard for one to carry

if he ain't the well known Harry...



Roses r red

violets r blue

wait to see

what I've got for u...

Churchwarden said...

Let me get this straight, Doodler...so, your gardener actually favors the abstract nature of spring?

He must be a republican (for Americans).

Reactor69 said...

Spring not far,
though still a field away,
lonely round a hidden way,
in old memories to lay

Round a field far,
still not away,
hidden though in to a lonely way,
memories of an old spring blossom

On a field that's still no more,
where once lonesome crept in copies,
memories-to-be shall hit the shore,
for now bloggers pop like poppies...



(P.S: Always in a while crocodile...)

doodler said...

churchwarden

my gardener is a "law and order" man - as far as plants are concerned...

Churchwarden said...

Law and order? I know a couple of bushes that can be described like that. Trouble is-no gardener for them.

Maybe you can lend yours to Europeans.

elias said...

Poppies are the blood of Adonis
As he laid dead in the fields

In springtime life and death are so near
«Οδός άνω κάτω μια και ωυτη»
The road that leads up is the same that leads down
Said the dark philosopher of Ephesus

In Mediterranean women wept for Adonis or for Christ

I WEEP for Adonais—he is dead!
O, weep for Adonais! though our tears
Thaw not the frost which binds so dear a head!
And thou, sad Hour, selected from all years
To mourn our loss, rouse thy obscure compeers,
And teach them thine own sorrow!
Say: ‘With me Died Adonais; till the Future dares
Forget the Past, his fate and fame shall be
An echo and a light unto eternity!’

From Percy Bysshe Shelley