Back in the 1990s, I caught a bad case of gardening deficit syndrome (GDS). I couldn’t do enough gardening. The Dutch Gardens catalog would arrive in the mail – and I was suddenly $400 poorer and 400 bulbs richer. The local gardening centers, with all their perennials and annuals, were my hangouts. Our local suburb had a massive leaf mulch site, and I would drive with my green trash bags and shovel to my heart’s content.
But there was nothing like roses. I was addicted. I planted almost 70 rose bushes around our house – hybrid teas, climbers, floribundas, antique roses, carpet roses, and David Austin roses. I read books on roses – their history, propagation, famous rose gardens. I sprayed, I watered, I fertilized, I inhaled. By late May each year, our garden (the house is on a corner) was a traffic-stopper.
Little did we know that far to the north – Iowa, to be exact – a biological (natural) control of a weed called multiflora rose had been introduced. It worked. It worked well. It worked so well that it not only controlled the multiflora rose, it controlled just about every other kind of rose.
And it spread. South. One day, I noticed my Ballerina rose sporting a really weird stalk – reddish in color, softer than a regular stalk, with thick thorns and deformed looking flowers.
It was Witches’ Broom, aka Rose Rosette Disease. That natural control of the multiflora rose that had succeeded so well in Iowa cornfields.
The hybrid tea roses died – every single bush. The climbers succumbed. Two David Austin roses and two antique roses seemed to have resisted it. Two out-of-the-way carpet roses missed it. Instead of 70 roses, I had six. And a devastated, empty landscape.
The moral of the story is: roses, like beauty and youth, are fleeting and short-lived. Enjoy their glory while you have it. And don’t overdo it.
The poems submitted for our Rose Month theme in May, however, will be longer lasting.
Lane Arnold wrote of rosy sunrises, faded damask roses “shimmering/ in an / old cut glass / vase, ” reminders of an old love. Roses always seem to inspire thoughts of love – no one thinks to give marigolds or petunias on Valentine’s Day.
Maureen Doallas and I got carried away with a discussion about two roses named Betty Boop and Dick Clark. Maureen did what you would expect Maureen to do – an extraordinarily fine and literary approach. I did what those who know me would expect me to do – I went vaudeville and mixed Robert Frost and an imaginary conversation between Mr. Clark and Ms. Boop (yes, I’m hopeless, I know).
Nancy Rosback went the minimalist route, with a short poem (and large art) entitled “May.” Like Nancy does, she uses few words to convey large meanings:
one rose
not without thorns
petals of Love
blossom
open
give
Jennifer Liston captured the beauty of the rose and the agony of the thorn in one compact poem entitled (surprise!) “Roses:”
three, fresh-picked
extended to you,
hands clenched
bloodied
beneath scarlet undershade
uncertainty
scabbing
settling with familiar fragrance;
contempt streaks us,
you and I;
needing another name
for you
for me
for us.
Maureen Doallas then did a kind of grand finale, a poem called “Color Theory, ” in which she briefly and concisely explored the meaning – or un-meaning – of not receiving roses of a certain color. It’s wonderful:
You did not send white
roses; what innocence
protested you sore denied.
You did not send peach
roses, hope for the future
flagged. And no, you did
not send red roses. No
emblem of the heart you stole
with words could fix what
passion spent in petals picked.
The best thing about all of these poems is that they will withstand the onslaught of time – and they are immune to Rose Rosette Disease.
Photo by Vinoth Chandar, sourced via Flickr. Post by Glynn Young, author of Dancing Priest: A Novel
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Buy a year of Every Day Poems, just $5.99— Read a poem a day, become a better poet. In June we’re exploring the theme Trees.
- Poets and Poems: Alfred Nicol and “After the Carnival” - May 8, 2025
- Poets and Poems: Kelly Belmonte and “The Mother of All Words” - May 6, 2025
- An Anthology on Reading and Writing Poetry - May 1, 2025
Maureen Doallas says
Loved the lead-in to all the poems, Glynn. To have lost so many roses. . . and not even be able to save the petals to dry: how awful.
I still blush (a bit) at “Beautiful Varieties”; that “literary approach” you mention is on the risque side. Thank you for that second and completely unexpected mention of “Color Theory”. Exploring the meaning of colors in flowers has long been an interest of mine.
SimplyDarlene says
Sir Glynn,
it a sad
day
when ballerinas have
been stricken
with really
weird
socks;
I’m not talking
’bout
just your
GDS botanical-
related
stalks
and velveteen roses,
but real ladies
with petite
noses
(‘Cause have you ever,
seen a ballerina
with a huge-oid
honker? Nope.
Me either.)
Back to the
elite
dancers
in sheer skirts
with super
strong
girding toes…
It’s been told
that the horrid
sock-ish maladies
are
often “reddish in
color,
softer than a
regular”
sock,
“with
thick thorns
and
deformed
looking flowers.”
It’s a dreadful sight,
indeed.
Indeed?
Oh, indeed!
Their tie-up
the-leg
shoes
no linger fit
right (or left)
and
ensuing
ballet leaping
laboriously births
another pair
of socks.
When this
occurs,
strikes,
splats! A sloppy
flight
ensues. Onlookers,
ushered
from
their chairs,
grab tight
of their underwears
and flee
into the street,
because who
wants a viral sock
disease
to spread upward
from their
red, horny
feet?
Because we all
know
those blasted deformed
flowers
look
good on cheeks
one sees
only
alone,
in the
shower.
(Uh, sorry ’bout that. My imagination gets away with me. Sometimes. Okay, most of the time. Obviously I had a hard time getting past this part: “And it spread. South. One day, I noticed my Ballerina rose sporting a really weird stalk – reddish in color, softer than a regular stalk, with thick thorns and deformed looking flowers.” In this poetical rendering case, the disease spreads north to assorted cheekilary regions.)
Glynn says
I love this poem, Darlene!
Jennifer says
Thank you for the reference, quote and trackback, Glynn.
The idea of ‘a rose by any other name…’ was actually the driver for this little piece but I had to be careful to avoid the clutch of that cliché!
Thanks again.
Jennifer
davis nancy rosback says
harsh business with your roses…i am so glad that you chose a few that made it through. it gives me a big smile to see my little poem here on tweetSpeak! thank you for that.
speaking of vanishing roses; yesterday, i left my car at the ford dealer and and walked home. on the way there was a rose bush that has survived where once there was a house. the roses were beautiful and i took a few pictures of them.
when i got the shots onto the computer, i saw a few that i really liked, and as i was looking through and deleting some of the other shots…i mistakenly deleted all the rose shots and was left with only my grass shots (which i posted today). i had already deleted all from my camera as well. gone gone gone with few clicks.
L. L. Barkat says
Fascinating story of how it actually happened. So was it some kind of natural disease that had been introduced to the fields to kill the wild roses?
Monica Sharman says
Maybe because I considered
them girly, I never was a rose
person. But now the gardener turned
to trees, something I can set
my feet on, I’m there, climbing.