IN THE CLOVER

 

 

Everything is coming up clover. And I don't need to return to Iran, where I once viewed super-abundant fields of clover to see this spring flower blooming. My front yard is a field of white blossoms buzzing with fat bumblebees. Many of my neighbors have mowed their clover crops, but I'm loathe to see my front yard lose its snowy blossoms. I'm currently reading Basho, the haiku master, who glimpsed clover in bloom and was inspired to write: "Bush clover in blossom waves/without spilling a drop of dew."

Yesterday afternoon when I went outdoors to get the mail, I lingered in the front yard clover field longer than I wanted when the neighbor's hunting hound got loose and ran over for his perceived playtime. He jumped on me, pushed me into the clover field thrice before I was rescued by my friend Vickie who held back the dog until I could regain use of my 85-year old legs. The clover cushioned me nicely, but the playful dog that has had no canine training must have thought I wanted to look for lucky four leaves amid the field of white blossoms. I have several deep claw marks on my arm and hand as evidence of what he felt was a playful encounter.

As for the clover, I've given up looking for four-leaf specimens as I've heard that there are 5,000 three-leaf clovers for one four-leaf sample. Three-leaf clover symbolizes some notable theological virtues to which I aspire: faith, love, and hope.

 

As an administrator in Girl Scouting, I wore the traditional badge of this organization: a trefoil badge fashioned after a three-leafed clover plant for which Juliette Low gained the patent in 1914. When she stepped down from being the head of Girl Scout operations, GSUSA asked for this trefoil's patent. Clever Juliette Low agreed to do so only if the organization would keep her name on the Girl Scout constitution, stationery, and membership card. I have that evidence on a Certificate of Lifetime Membership card awarded me when I retired from the Bayou Girl Scout Council's administrative staff in Lafayette, Louisiana. I keep it in my wallet next to my driver's license.

I know that old maxims refer to wealth as being "in the clover," a saying that doesn't always mean a field of this plant in your yard symbolizes financial prosperity. However, I remain resistant to the idea of mowing my front yard patch and would search for a four-leaf specimen if I were assured that the hound next door wouldn't escape and throw me into the clover patch.

Photographs by Victoria Sullivan

 

 

SPRING BRINGS MESSAGES OF AZALEAS

When Basho, the celebrated Haiku poet, was eating lunch at an inn at Lake Biwa, Japan, he saw our favorite spring flower blooming and wrote: “Azaleas arranged in a pot/Chopping cod in the shade/A woman.”

In New Iberia, Louisiana, and most southern states—Georgia, South Carolina, Alabama—azaleas are blooming apace, not in pots but in yards where these lovely plants have been growing for years. And, alas, their delicate petals will last only a few weeks during warm southern springs. But while those red, white, and pink shades bloom, we celebrate their proliferation. 

Azaleas probably carry more meaning than Basho’s reference to a woman chopping cod in the shade while azaleas bloom nearby in a pot. According to Apocrypha, the meaning associated with this beautiful flower is femininity and mother’s love. But if you have one blooming in your yard now, you’re probably anticipating good luck and sudden happiness. Red azaleas symbolize the magic of life, but woe be to those who receive gifts of yellow azaleas as these symbolize hypocrisy and are sent to people who have insulted you. Also, don’t taste this beautiful flower because it’s poisonous. However, for those who like an evening glass of wine, Koreans tout a non-poisonous wine made from azaleas called dugyeonju.

Azalea bushes are seldom bothered by insects. (If they’d only bloom all year and repel mosquitoes here in Louisiana). They seem to get enough water while blooming in swamp country, and although their reign is short, they’ll always bear the name of “Royalty of the Garden.” 

Then there are the “Late Bloomers,” an orange ground cover azalea, and the yellow flowering azalea called “Weston’s Lemon Drop,” both of which bloom in late summer. Later, in the early fall, look for a variety called “Sweet September,” which bears a pink blossom. 

While Coronavirus rages, we continue to trust the predictions of good luck and happiness associated with the flowering of this beautiful plant. And we continue to search for more haiku some ancient Japanese poet may have written about this sweetly scented shrub we southerners enjoy with the advent of a Louisiana spring.

 

Photograph by Victoria Sullivan

 

 

 

 

WHAT’S IN THREE LINES

Painting by Paul E. Marquart

Spring inspires most of us in various ways—perhaps the mild weather causes us to write poetry, paint, or plant flowers. The advent of spring inspires me to search my shelves for books about haiku, those three elegant lines of aesthetic verse written by the great Japanese poets. The major ones include Basho, Buson, and Issa, for whom haiku was a way of life, sometimes, as in Basho’s case, a wandering way of life that required focused attention to details of nature, primarily flowers, trees, mountains, lakes…

When I looked for books about this art form, I discovered Natalie Goldberg’s observations about three-line verses and her visits to Japan to study haiku further in a book entitled Three Simple Lines. However, Sam Hamill’s Pocket Haiku, published by Shambala Press in 1995, actually ended up in a pocket of my Covid-wear (slouch pants). The book satisfied my envee for haiku and sent me outdoors several times yesterday.

Those three lines of an art form in poems by the aforementioned Japanese poets—Basho, Buson, and Issa—peaked in the 1700s and spanned only 100 years of Japanese literature. This brief period brought listeners and readers poignant and lasting metaphors in three short lines of 200 poems in Hamill’s translation. The book is small enough to fit into a pocket of slouch pants, robes, or blue jeans, any casual wear that allows haiku readers to relax and think about images of beauty.

Most contemporary poets fail to compose poignant insights in three lines of verse, and Hamill cites Gary Snyder, Richard Wright, and Richard Wilbur as leading the enlightened few to produce memorable haiku.

 

Many wannabe poets attempt to write in this form but fail to explode the top of my head, metaphorically, as Emily Dickinson describes her feeling from reading good poetry. The work of a master does not reflect brief surface thoughts but records a single moment of deep spiritual contemplation.

When I look at my brother Paul’s painting above, I think of haiku and wish that I could write a “three-liner” that captures a single moment of appreciation for this lovely piece of art. I dare not! However, I allow Basho to say what I feel:

Come out to view

the truth of flowers blooming

in poverty.

Painting by Paul Emerson Marquart, photo by Lori Marquart

SOMETHING FROGGY

In Japan, frogs are revered as creatures 200 million years old that bring prosperity and abundance and have appeared in haiku poetry for centuries. Consider the most famous haiku penned at a haiku gathering by Basho in the 17th century: “The old pond/a frog jumps in/the sound of water.” Simple lines about a critter in the Amphibian family that often evokes in humans a fascination with movement. 

My entire family, dating back to my mother, who painted a watercolor of a frog posing in the woodlands beside an elf, was fascinated with these long-legged, webbed-toed/fingered creatures. I’ve had a long-time interest in frogs, especially bullfrogs, one of which bellows under the bushes beside my bedroom window in New Iberia, Louisiana. It has a vibrant bass voice that field guides describe as “jug-a-rum,” and I miss its sonorous songs when I sojourn here on The Mountain at Sewanee, Tennessee. I was excited when I thought I heard a frog singing last week, but my mid-80 ears often deceive me; most of the time I hear the incessant buzz of insects.

At seven, my youngest daughter, Elizabeth, spent hours during summer vacations catching frogs at water’s edge of a camp in Toledo Bend, Louisiana that we once owned. And Elizabeth begat Joel who developed an abiding interest in frogs and other reptiles. He was preceded by Martin, my oldest grandson who, at nine, became fascinated with the different songs frogs sang when he put on boots and walked into a small swamp near my home in New Iberia, Louisiana.They included the grunts of pig frogs, bleats of sheep frogs, the chuckling trill of southern crawfish frogs who resided in holes where the usual chimneys atop them had disappeared, and, of course, the bass notes of the singing bullfrog.

Joel is the family member who inspired me to write a long poem about the Beelzebufo frog or devil frog, the largest frog ever to live on earth. This frog’s fossil remains were found on the island of Madagascar, according to an article I discovered through NSF News. The poem I wrote was not average book-length but was made so by the illustrations of Ben Blanchard. Ben is a talented young friend who, at the time of my discovery about the Beelzebufo frog, had just graduated from a Raw Food Preparation and Organic Gardening School sponsored by Tree of Life and was living in Sedona, Arizona. He had returned to Louisiana to visit his mother, then residing in the Ginger House next to us, and had just treated us to his “Third Eyes Cream,” a dessert made with frozen bananas, raw chocolate, and Goji berries.

The story of the Beelzebufo frog inspired Ben, and we later exchanged ideas about a book we’d name The Beast Beelzebufo at a meeting in Starbucks, Broussard, Louisiana. Ben’s illustrations were entirely his interpretation of the poem inspired by the giant frog, and his art work aptly embellished this story about a creature with thick-armored skin. The illustrations in this blog showcase Ben’s talent, and I was sorry to see him forego his interest in illustrating children’s books (he later wrote and illustrated his own, Willameena Moonbeam, while living in Austin, Texas) to follow a career in film. 

For those interested in catching frogs, Roger Conant outlines the slapping down process in A Field Guide to Reptiles and Amphibians: “Slap your flattened hand over the frog, pinning him down while you grasp a leg, or legs, with your other hand. Don’t slap too hard or casualties will occur. You will have the best success in stalking your quarry if you don’t look directly at it. Move in at an angle, watching it out of the corner of your eye.” I can’t imagine Elizabeth or Martin, my amateur herpetologists, being so cautious about stalking a frog and wish I’d observed them in the act so I could recount their methods. However, I did get a firsthand look at some slippery bullfrogs before advising my intrepid frog lovers to let them go as the innocent critters needed to leap about spreading the good luck attributed to them. 

I look forward to hearing the bullfrog’s serenade when I return to New Iberia in October. I’ve read that the songs of frogs symbolize the rebirth of self. “Jug a rum, jug a rum.”

Artwork by Benjamin Blanchard, the ultimate “renegade and road scholar,” now living in Austin, Texas. 

Photographs by Victoria I. Sullivan