Plants Poems

Let America be America again.
Let it be the dream it used to be.
Let it be the pioneer on the plain
Seeking a home where he himself is free.
...

FROM off a hill whose concave womb reworded
A plaintful story from a sistering vale,
My spirits to attend this double voice accorded,
And down I laid to list the sad-tuned tale;
Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale,
Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain,
Storming her world with sorrow's wind and rain.
...

You're in this dream of cotton plants.
You raise a hoe, swing, and the first weeds
Fall with a sigh. You take another step,
Chop, and the sigh comes again,
...

desert sucks upper water to store in the deep
trees, plants, herbs and grasses are about to die
sunshine reflects on mirages there
mirages elude and mislead the travelers,
...

having the low down blues and going
into a restraunt to eat.
you sit at a table.
the waitress smiles at you.
...

when God created love he didn't help most
when God created dogs He didn't help dogs
when God created plants that was average
when God created hate we had a standard utility
...

My father is a quiet man
With sober, steady ways;
For simile, a folded fan;
His nights are like his days.
...

Always for the first time
Hardly do I know you by sight
You return at some hour of the night to a house at an angle to my window
A wholly imaginary house
...

Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
...

I love to rise in a summer morn
When the birds sing on every tree;
The distant huntsman winds his horn,
And the skylark sings with me.
...

The flowers are the 'ears' of plants
Listening for the buzz of bees.
The plants take comfort in the chance
Of increased opportunities
...

There were liberal field, golden paddy, mild touch of south breeze
And there were you, your beautiful smiles with opening mind

There were jackfruit, plum, mango, palm, and betel-nut trees on the bank of the pond.
...

Think about those worms, that wiggle through the land,
they loosen up the soil, so the roots of plants, can expand,

Those plants give off oxygen, to support life on this earth each day,
...

At all the pretty plants, they did stare.
But of these plants, they had best beware.
They were about to go on a death ride.
By plants sprayed with a mysterious pesticide.
...

Rain is the kiss of Sky with its lips of clouds to Earth to live;
Live all beings on Earth with its plants giving energy to all;
All live long by the love between Sky and Earth by rains of kiss;
Kiss is the seal of love with rain to produce off springs ever!
...

- Thanks, Isabel, for the insert on "Dung Beetles in the New South Africa: Is There No Way Forward?" But now back to this morning's programme on how to improve your garden, brought to you live here in Randburg. I figured we'd take a bit of a different angle this week, so I've got with me Mkhomazi Dindi, known to his friends as Dick - here he is - and he's a chap who really knows his stuff! - he's working on a Ph.D. on African Knowledges and Biome Diversity at Wits, so I'm going to ask him to share his experiences with us because we're looking at herbs and plants usually associated with African traditional medicine, some of them probably unknown to you out there. I'd then like Dick to name the plants I show you in his language. Mkhom, um, Dick, so which do you speak? Southern Sotho or Xhosa might be best.

- I don't speak either, to be honest. I grew up where they knew a lot of things. My mother was Tsonga and my father was Zulu, but he had lived in Polokwane as a boy, so I speak a few things all mixed up together . . .

- Polokwane?

- You used to call it Pietersburg.

- Oh, really? Well, Dick, we've begun to fathom that we probably haven't given nearly enough attention to the wealth of tribal lore on plants. One of the most exciting things in the New South Africa is that it's becoming available to us, don't you think?

- Yes, sure. I first came across these things when my parents sent me away from Soweto to my uncle in KwaZulu, who was a herbalist. He went out gathering plants all the time, which then seemed strange to me. I asked him why did he do that, and he explained about the situation. I remember . . .

- yes, I see, okay. But let's get to the point. Here's an example of Helichrysum odoratissimum. Your people know it as Imphepho, isn't that correct?

- You're right. xiTsonga-speakers on the other hand call it . . .

- you listeners out there probably know it as ‘Everlasting', or by its Afrikaans name, ‘Kooigoed'. It's a member of the Asteraceae family; and is sometimes confused with this other plant I have here, Achryocline steoptera. It's . . .

- yes, that one, it's also Imphepho: we burn it in potsherds when we have to . . .

- very aromatic, and used mainly for bedding because it's a strong repellent . . .

- but wait: in my opinion, I can say this is not correct. Maybe, a little, but we also use the leaves and twigs for coughs and for putting on wounds and women who perfume themselves. My uncle said . . .

- no, Dick, not actually. Your uncle was thinking of Helichrysum nudifolium. Mind you, to be fair, I do know that once in a while it's used in ritual incenses to invoke the good will of the ancestors - or what you people call the izindlozi -

- amadlozi . . .

- amadlozi, sorry. As I was saying, used for ritual cleansings . . .

- and for trances . . .

- and for trances, of course; an informant in Maputaland once told me that. Apologies to all of you out there, who'll maybe understand our dilemma when you grasp that there are over two hundred species of Helichrysum in our country. The silvery leaves and little yellow flower-heads don't look like much, but they are attractive in a bowl and gosh they smell exquisite.

- My uncle would cure fevers and headaches with it . . .

- really, Dick? Yes, well, if you say so, of course . . .

- We also use the roots. Anyway, for myself I came to realise . . .

- these species grow all over, and usage depends more on local availability than on any preference for a particular species . . .

- but there are other things . . .

- goodness, have we run out of airtime so soon? So, friends, here it is: use it as a decorative plant but be careful because it spreads quite rapidly. Well-drained soil, please, mixed with a scoop of ordinary sand. Plant it in full sun or partial shade but never, never, never over-water, unless you want to fuss with old man fungus! . . . that's our hour of chat and inserts flown by again. Watch out for next week's slot when I'll be discussing "How to Landscape Small Townhouse Gardens in the Tuscan Style". For now, all Isabel and I - and, of course, our special guest - can do is wish you - as always - a relaxing weekend as you potter about in God's fresh air. Only remember: think indigenous!
...

On Monday man created an image of heaven and earth.
The heavens were high, the earth vast and dangerous.
Chaos entered his spirit and emptiness floated in his belly.
The man spoke: Let there be a border. And he drew a border.
That which lay on one side of the border, he called garden.
And that which lay on the other side, he called wilderness.
And the evening and the morning were the first day.

The man spoke: Let the animals and the plants in the wilderness
be cared for by God, for he has made them.
But the animals and plants in the garden are mine.
I will cherish them and care for them, they will enrich my garden.
And it was so. He called the plants and the animals in the garden food.
And he called the plants and the animals in the wilderness nature.
And the evening and the morning were the second day.

The man spoke: The animals and plants belong to me,
but they are obedient to time. They bloom in the spring
and give fruit of their seed in the Autumn. The birds lay eggs
according to their kind, but in the winter they lay nothing.
I will give the plants a house of glass and in the henhouse
I will install a bright light. I will eat eggs in December.
And the evening and the morning were the third day.

The man spoke: My garden is obedient to me the whole year,
but it doesn't work half as hard as I do. The slow plants
feed themselves from the slow earth. The animals grow slowly
like the plants that they eat. Let there be fertilizers and concentrates!
And there were fertilizers and concentrates. And the cabbages
and cows sped up their growth. And the man saw that it was good.
And the evening and the morning were the fourth day.

The man spoke: let my garden be fruitful
whenever I so want. For the plants and animals
reproduce themselves at random, without thinking of my needs.
I will take the calves away from the cow. I will collect the seed
of bulls in my own hand. I will put the male chicks in the shredder.
Therefore no animal will be born unless I say so.
And the evening and the morning were the fifth day.

The man spoke: From nesting time to slaughter animals and plants
are obedient to me. But there is still anarchy hidden in the seed.
It mingles according to its own nature and blows out of the garden.
I shall break open the seed and change it. And it will be
my seed from generation to generation. And it was so.
And the man saw that everything he had made,
was very good. And the evening and the morning were the sixth day.

Now the garden of the man was finished.
And on the seventh day when he saw all the work
that he had made, he rested and he looked out over his garden.
He ate seedless grapes and swam in a pond of milk.
He saw the bees dying in swarms in his garden.
The soil had become bitter. And he saw that it was …
Oh well, he said. Tomorrow is another day. There is still time.
...

Suppose I emptied my flat of everything,
everything but my books? The elephants
would have to go. They'd be the first to go
- being the youngest - and the last, the plants
perhaps, relics of early motherhood.
I'd keep the piano, all my files and photos.

I'd keep my grandmother's chest to keep my photos
in, in and not on top of, everything
swept absolutely clear of motherhood.
Nothing shall move: no herd of elephants
proceed down my mantel-piece, spider-plants
produce babies, carpets moths, moths shall go

into the ether where all bad spells go.
I'm sick of the good. Of drooling over photos
that lie, lie, lie, breaking my back over plants
for whom - Oh! for whom? Not everything
I thought green greened. Not even elephants
consoled me for the bane of motherhood.

Therefore motherhood must go. Motherhood
must go as quietly as prisoners go
and all her things go with her, elephants
troop behind her, tapestries drown her, photos -
OK photos can stay but everything
dust-collecting goes the way of the plants.

Everything shall live in name only. Plants
now extinct shall be extolled, motherhood
shall be blessed but not mothers, everything
everywhere being their fault though they go
to the dock protesting, producing photos
of happy toddlers, citing elephants,

rashly, as preceptors since elephants,
however vicious they may be to plants
or photographers with blinding flash photos,
are the very model of motherhood.
Such are the myths of nature. They shall go.
There shall be room, time, space, for everything:

room in the wild for elephants and plants,
time to go rummaging a chest for photos,
space for everything cleared of motherhood.



Reproduced by kind permission of the author and Carcanet.
...

Today we have naming of plants. Yesterday
we had raising the flag. And tomorrow morning
we shall have what to do with the prisoners. But today,
today we have naming of plants. Lilly-pilly
sets pink saucers of sweetness all around Botany Bay
and thus we revive the glory of jam.

These are Grevillea, Hakea. And these,
Brunonia, Blandfordia, whose use you will see
when the Endeavour commands. And these are Calandrinia,
which the natives call para-keel-ya. Bu-jor
is Melaleuca the people here use for mattresses
and dressing wounds, swaddling newborns.

This is Hibbertia, named after George Hibbert,
London merchant, one of our most generous patrons.
I don't want to hear anyone call it its common name - Climbing
Guinea Flower. This is our land, paid for with our coins.
Most of the blackfellas die of smallpox. Some just disappear.
Those that survive learn the King's English.

And this little beauty is Darwinia. I don't need
to tell you who it celebrates. No, not that one -
his grandfather. Isn't botany a system based on class,
the natural order of dynasty and empire?
We will remove the Cabbage Tree Palms and lose the emu,
ship the rebels' heads back home.

Back home to Sir Joseph Banks, the reason we're here today,
naming the plants, in our own image - Old Man Banksia,
Swamp Banksia, Acorn Banksia, Cut Leaf Banksia -
stubborn, ambitious. Note their spikes and cones, exotic blooms
in his Florilegium - wiri-ya-gan, wad-ang-gari -
for today we have the naming of plants.
...