I have never been one to notice roses. I know the names of wildflowers by the score, particularly the alpine sort, and love to sit in mountain meadows counting petals and contemplating the sweet shine and attitude of shooting stars and Indian paintbrush. But roses—roses are the poodles of the vegetable kingdom—domesticated, fretted over, too precious for their own good.
They have their uses, of course. When my mother turned 75, my brothers and I rustled up that many red roses and surprised her with them—a whole cartload. And my wife, Sharon, seems to appreciate a dozen or so on special occasions as proof of my unwilted love. Then there was the time in college that a beautiful and breathy young woman, two years my senior, received a dozen anonymously. “Who could have sent these?” she asked in my presence. I, who had not sent them, stammered and blushed. Thus began a rather interesting few weeks, until I was disastrously found out.
My interest in roses took a turn three years ago, however, when Sharon and I lost our home to a wildfire on the outskirts of Santa Barbara and temporarily rented a place in town near the old mission. We jogged to the mission with our dog almost every day, which also meant jogging past our spreading municipal rose garden.
There is something about loss that dulls the senses; as I recall, our stomachs were knotted with the trauma of the fire, and life passed as a distant dream. But there is also something about loss that allows one to notice things. What I noticed about these roses is that they had names. Lots of names, announced for us on knee-high placards that lined the beds.
Rainbow Knockout, First Light, Wind Chimes, Buff Beauty, Hot Cocoa, Bishop Darlington, Red Coat, Child’s Play, Innocence. Nice, I thought. Some, of course, were a little much: Sunshine Daydream, Perfect Moment, Honey Perfume, Tahitian Sunset, Mellow Yellow, Over the Moon.
Overlooking these, however, I began to take a certain delight in reading off the names aloud and repeating them as I bounced across the grass after our golden retriever. There was a literary flavor to some: Clytemnestra, Penelope, William Shakespeare, Wise Portia, Fair Bianca, The Dark Lady.
There was also, of course, a whole French Quarter: Duchesse de Brabant, Etoile de Lyon, Marie Van Hautte, Monsieur Tillier, La Sylphide, and—my favorite—Beaute Inconstante. Since I had never bothered to learn French, I ran around the garden mispronouncing these in Pig-Latin as I pleased: BE-U-TAY IN-CON-STAN-TAY, music to my ears alone.
Then there were the racier varieties—Playboy, Playgirl, X-Rated, Sheer Bliss, Sweet Surrender—reminding me that of all flowers, roses may be the most suggestively erotic. Before there was first base, second base, third base, and home, there was the French medieval Romance of the Rose, the whole point of which was to penetrate the rose in the center of the walled garden.
It is no surprise, then, that many of the roses were simply named after women—or vice-versa: Rosaleen, Kathleen, Felicia, Brandy, Kristin, Cynthia—these the approachable girls next door when compared to the distant Madame Lombard or Lady Ann Kidwell.
A surprising number of roses were named after real or imagined goddesses of recent times: Betty Boop, Marilyn Monroe, Audrey Hepburn, Elizabeth Taylor, Barbra Streisand, Sweet Diana, Maria Shriver, Julia Child. (Julia Child?)
And some were even named after men—which, I thought, represented an almost complete failure of the imagination: William R. Smith, David Austin, Mr. Lincoln, Henry Fonda, Dick Clark. Please, I thought. Dick Clark may be many things. But he is not a rose. He has only faded like one.
Nevertheless, I’m sure some resourceful person could find a poem in the Dick Clark rose. Maybe Clark could meet Betty Boop at the center of a walled garden. It might even be amusing to write it in broken French.
Photo by AudreyJM Creative Commons, via Flickr. Post by Paul Willis, author of Rosing from the Dead.
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Paul, I totally loved all these names!
(And I’m secretly waiting for a one Maureen Doallas to make something of them.)
I find it interesting that you were drawn to rose names after the fire. Maybe that’s not exactly how it went (you thought you were just walking through a garden), but it seemed to me almost like a process of reconstruction of the world, this name-noticing.
Take a look at the Dick Clark rose. It is simply amazing.
http://www.weeksroses.com/rose_dick_clark.htm
Sir, thank you for sharing this story. You didn’t mention the fragrances…
(As a side note, my husband & son bought me birthday roses in Jan. and they smelled not. Two weeks later I read an ad for the store and it said $2 more for roses that smell. How weird is that?)
Blessings.
Paul, what a wonderful way to start my week, with all those tantalizing names. I hope Maureen shows up to turn them into a poem. In the meantime, I’m feeling inspired to go play with them myself.
Wonderful post, Paul. I’m feeling the pressure!
A Tale of Two Roses: Boop-a-doopin on the bandstand
Narrator:
I’m mending my stone wall
or maybe stonewalling my mending
because fences make good neighbors
or maybe neighbors make good fences
I’m tending my stone wall,
my rose wall
I’m singing my rose wall
my stone wall
My two-rose stone wall
Dick Clark:
Were goin hoppin
Were goin happin
Where things are poppin
The philadelphia way
Were gonna drop in
On all the music they play
On the bandstand (repeat: bandstand)
Betty Boop:
I’m a little queen
of the animated screen
wait till you
get a view
of sweet Betty
There’s the moon, ‘way up high,
Here are you and here am I,
Oh, do, do, do, something!
Boop-oop-a-doop!
Dick Clark:
Were goin swingin
Were gonna swing in the crowd
And well be clingin
And floatin high as a cloud
The phones are ringin
My mom and dad are so proud
Im on bandstand (repeat: bandstand)
Betty Boop:
It’s been told and explained,
That nothing tried is nothing gained!
Oh, oh, come on, please, do something!
Boop-oop-a-doop!
Dick Clark:
The singers croonin
He aint the greatest but gee
My babys swoonin
In front of all of tv
So if you tune in
Youll see my baby and me
On the bandstand (repeat:bandstand)
Betty Boop:
It’s been told and explained,
That nothing tried is nothing gained!
Oh, oh, come on, please, do something!
Boop-oop-a-doop!
Narrator:
Looks like my roses
my two stone-wall roses
never the twain shall meet
on the bandstand (repeat: bandstand)
boop-oop-a-doop
By the way, the above poem uses the lyrics from both the American Bandstand theme and the Betty Boop song. Virtually verbatim.
Beautiful Varieties and Lots of Names
Betty Boop was Over the Moon,
found out Dick Clark
bounced a little too
suggestively when jogging
near the most erotic women
Julia Child sent to score
in Beaute Inconstante,
some place temporarily rented
in the nice French Quarter.
No surprise: a Perfect Moment
it was not! Sweet Marilyn Monroe
took a turn, said he faded
disastrously at First Light, simply lost
interest in counting a cartload
of rose petals in the center
of their beds. Breathy, racier
Elizabeth Taylor, contemplating
Child’s Play with poodles, fretted almost
every day over the dozen or so
occasions Dick went home
a complete failure. Honey Perfume,
X-Rated in Playboy, stammered
her delight in their Sheer Bliss
that time in college but blushed,
recalling a distant dream, too —
precious for their own good —
of love in alpine mountain meadows.
Audrey Hepburn, reminding me
that innocence dulls medieval senses,
never bothered. The Indian
Hot Cocoa, simply music to the ears
when she ran after men, was certain
of first base, second, base, and third;
however, mispronouncing Pig-Latin
aloud knotted our stomachs. Trauma
was not the mission. Life passed
then, no romance in the vegetable garden,
reading off the names. . . approachable
girls, imagined goddesses next door,
beautiful varieties, lots of names.
Editorial correction: That one long dash belongs before the word ‘too’:
recalling a distant dream — too
precious for their own good —
!!!
I love these poems, Glynn, Maureen. My, my
Thank you, all, for your rosy comments and adventurous poems!
Paul Willis
I’m not the wonderful famous writer as so many are that leave words in perfect order, so I would have to call myself a story teller instead, someone who learns knew words as I go along. I do know roses though, I love the way you entertained us with their names. Looking for Mr. Lincoln.
I planted Mr. Lincoln, a climber of red, he only blooms once a year but the number of blooms you can’t count in your head. His stage, a tall white arch that makes his entrance even more attractive so he’s a head turner just like the President. Two years ago we decided to move and all my roses I just threw, deep into woods and said my final goodbye. Spring came only to find us still in the same spot as I went into the woods there I saw, Mr. Lincoln along with tons of his friends and I bowed down to my knees with joy and glee. Somehow they didn’t die, they simply needed some light to which I carried them home by day and by night. So Mr. Lincoln is happy as can be, he’s on his white arch looking so lovely. Covered again in hundreds of blooms, I guess it will take a gun to kill that rose, it’s never going to die. Just bloom and bloom right before my very eyes.