Stratoz took care of me with a photo of this Gazania flower for my Orange Tuesday. Gazania are from the Aster family and originally from South Africa. They like the sun, and open when it shines bright and then close up at night, looking as if they are dead. Also known as Treasure Flower, they are indeed like little pouches that contain the coin of vibrant color.
Over at Stratoz: 10 Groundhog Thoughts: Pondering in the Garden of Nutmeg Designs
This last strawflower in our garden caught my eye, as autumn fades, a beacon of hope in orange. My heart feels brittle like the dead leaves, with the grief of this world. To notice remnants of beauty is a hopeful act. To offer my sliver of beauty from my studio is what I will do right now, even as I continue to pay attention to the grief, to notice what I see and what I don’t see. Muriel Rukeyser’s poem the Ballad of Orange and Grape stays with me:
Ballad of Orange and Grape
After you finish your work
after you do your day
after you’ve read your reading
after you’ve written your say –
you go down the street to the hot dog stand,
one block down and accross the way.
On a blistering afternoon in East Harlem in the twentieth
Most of the windows are boarded up,
the rats run out of a sack –
sticking out of the crummy garage
one shiny long Cadillac;
at the glass door of the drug-addiction center,
a man who’d like to break your back.
But here’s a brown woman with a little girl dressed in rose
and pink, too.
Frankfurters frankfurters sizzle on the steel
where the hot-dog-man leans –
nothing else on the counter
but the usual two machines,
the grape one, empty, and the orange one, empty,
I face him in between.
A black boy comes along, looks at the hot dogs, goes on
I watch the man as he stands and pours
in the familiar shape
bright purple in the one marked ORANGE
orange in the one marked GRAPE,
the grape drink in the machine marked ORANGE
and orange drink in the GRAPE.
Just the one word large and clear, unmistakeable, on each
I ask him : How can we go on reading
and make sense out of what we read? –
How can they write and believe what they’re writing,
the young ones across the street,
while you go on pouring grape in ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE –?
(How are we going to believe what we read and we write
and we hear and we say and we do?)
He looks at the two machines and he smiles
and he shrugs and smiles and pours again.
It could be violence and nonviolence
it could be white and black women and men
it could be war and peace or any
binary system, love and hate, enemy, friend.
Yes and no, be and not-be, what we do and what we don’t
On a corner in East Harlem
garbage, reading, a deep smile, rape,
forgetfulness, a hot street of murder,
misery, withered hope,
a man keeps pouring grape into ORANGE
and orange into the one marked GRAPE,
pouring orange into GRAPE and grape into ORANGE forever.
Muriel Rukeyser, “Ballad of Orange and Grape” from The Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser. Copyright © 2006 by Muriel Rukeyser. Reprinted by permission of International Creative Management.
Source: Breaking Open (Random House Inc., 1973)
I hankered after Lantana after seeing the flowers at Longwood Gardens in Kennett Square, PA, and at the Philadelphia International Flower Show. Stratoz planted one small pot of them this spring, and they have burst forth into a kaleidescope of colors. It’s like watching the sun set, as the colors change from red to orange to pink, a surprise every morning. One plant has spread out to surround my mosaic bowling ball, which makes a fine backdrop to all this orange delight.