#pages again dyed with loquat | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

wallpapernifty · 4 years

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Five Thoughts You Have As Yellow Hibiscus Flower Approaches | Yellow Hibiscus Flower

This is how I apperceive I’ve been cooped up with downcast distance-learning adolescence for too long: I spent assorted canicule dyeing T-shirts and bittersweet napkins with aliment debris and foraged plants from my neighborhood.

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As sheltering-in-place continues and the canicule accept become indistinguishable, I bare a aberration from my abandoned work-from-home routine. I absitively to agreement with accustomed dyes application what I had on hand, and after spending any money.

First, I accomplished out to Los Angeles-based cilia artisan Niki Tsukamoto of Lookout & Wonderland for some tips.

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“There are so abounding things that you can agreement with at home,” Tsukamoto said. “Wild oxalis, avocado pits, onion skins, loquat and eucalyptus leaves all accept their own tannins, so they assignment as a acerbic [which bonds blush to fabric].”

A hand-dyed absolute by cilia artisan Niki Tsukamoto for Lookout & Wonderland.

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(Lookout & Wonderland )

Tsukamoto went on to explain that allotment of the fun of experimenting with accustomed dyes is the transformation process. Colorless avocado pits can aftermath hasty shades of pink, while onion banknote transform baptize into saturated chicken and orange hues.

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“I consistently allocution to bodies about what it is that they are aggravating to accomplish with their accustomed dyeing,” said Tsukamoto, who hosts accustomed dye workshops beneath accustomed circumstances. “Are they aggravating to accomplish article that stays, or fades abroad in the sun? If you aloof appetite to see what happens with altered plants, again there are no rules. You can agreement with aggregate and annihilation in your kitchen.”

Purple cabbage, for instance, doesn’t accept

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poetsdieadolescents · 7 years

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Songs to Survive the Summer by Robert Hass

These are the dog days, unvaried except by accident,

mist rising from soaked lawns, gone world, everything rises and dissolves in air,

whatever it is would clear the air dissolves in air and the knot

of days unties invisibly like a shoelace. The gray-eyed child

who said to my child: “Let’s play in my yard. It’ OK, my mother’s dead.”

Under the loquat tree. It’s almost a song, the echo of a song:

on the bat’s back I fly merrily toward summer or at high noon

in the outfield clover guzzling Orange Crush, time endless, examining

a wooden coin I’d carried all through summer without knowing it.

The coin was grandpa’s joke, carved from live oak, Indian side and buffalo side.

His eyes lustered with a mirth so deep and rich he never laughed, as if it were a cosmic

secret that we shared. I never understood; it married in my mind with summer. Don’t

take any wooden nickels, kid, and gave me one under the loquat tree.

The squalor of mind is formlessness, informis,

the Romans said of ugliness, it has no form, a man’s misery, bleached skies,

the war between desire and dailiness. I thought this morning of Wallace Stevens

walking equably to work and of a morning two Julys ago on Chestnut Ridge, wandering

down the hill when one rusty elm leaf, earth- skin peeling, wafted

by me on the wind. My body groaned toward fall and preternaturally

a heron lifted from the pond. I even thought I heard the ruffle of the wings

three hundred yards below me rising from the reeds. Death is the mother of beauty

and that clean-shaven man smelling of lotion, lint-free, walking

toward his work, a pure exclusive music in his mind.

The mother of the neighbor child was thirty-one, died, at Sunday breakfast,

of a swelling in the throat. On a toy loom she taught my daughter

how to weave. My daughter was her friend and now she cannot sleep

for nighttime sirens, sure that every wail is someone dead.

Should I whisper in her ear, death is the mother of beauty? Wooden

nickels, kid? It’s all in shapeliness, give your fears a shape?

In fact, we hide together in her books. Prairie farms, the heron

knows the way, old country songs, herbal magic, recipes for soup,

tales of spindly orphan girls who find the golden key, the

darkness at the center of the leafy wood. And when she finally sleeps

I try out Chekhov’s tenderness to see what it can save.

Maryushka the beekeeper’s widow, though three years mad,

writes daily letters to her son. Semyon tran- scribes them. The pages

are smudged by his hands, stained with the dregs of tea:

“My dearest Vanushka, Sofia Agrippina’s ill again. The master

asks for you. Wood is dear. The cold is early. Poor

Sofia Agrippina! The foreign doctor gave her salts

but Semyon says her icon candle guttered St. John’s eve. I am afraid,

Vanya. When she’s ill, the master likes to have your sister flogged.

She means no harm. The rye is gray this time of year.

When it is bad, Vanya, I go into the night and the night eats me.”

The haiku comes in threes with the virtues of brevity:

What a strange thing! To be alive beneath plum blossoms.

The black-headed Steller’s jay is squawking in our plum.

Thief! Thief! A hard, indifferent bird, he’d snatch your life.

The love of books is for children who glimpse in them

a life to come, but I have come to that life and

feel uneasy with the love of books. This is my life,

time islanded in poems of dwindled time. There is no other world.

But I have seen it twice. In the Palo Alto marsh sea bird rose is early light

and took me with them. Another time, dreaming, river birds lifted me,

swans, small angelic terns, and an old woman in a shawl dying by a dying lake

whose life raised men from the dead in another country.

Thick nights, and nothing lets us rest. In the heat of mid-July our lust

is nothing. We swell and thicken. Slippery, purgatorial, our sexes

will not give us up. Exhausted after hours and not undone,

we crave cold marrow from the tiny bones that moonlight scatters

on our skin. Always morning arrives, the stunned days,

faceless, droning in the juice of rotten quince, the flies, the heat.

Tears, silence. The edified generations eat me, Maryushka.

I tell them pain is form and almost persuade

myself. They are not listening. Why should they? Who

cannot save me any more than I, weeping over Great Russian Short

Stories in summer, under the fattened figs, saved you. Besides

it is winter there. They are trying out a new recipe for onion soup.

Use a heavy-bottomed three- or four-quart pan. Thinly slice six large

yellow onions and sauté in olive oil and butter until limp. Pour in

beef broth. Simmer thirty minutes, add red port and bake

for half an hour. Then sprinkle half a cup of diced Gruyère and cover

with an even layer of toasted bread and shredded Samsoe. Dribble

melted butter on the top and bake until the cheese has bubbled gold.

Surround yourself with friends. Huddle in a warm place. Ladle. Eat.

Weave and cry. Child, every other siren is a death;

the rest are for speeding. Look how comically the jay’s black head emerges

from a swath of copper leaves. Half the terror is the fact that,

in our time, speed saves us, a whine we’ve traded for the hopeless patience

of the village bell which tolled in threes: weave and cry and weave.

Wilhelm Steller, form’s hero, made a healing broth.

He sailed with Bering and the crew despised him, a mean impatient man

born low enough to hate the lower class. For two years

he’d connived to join the expedition and put his name to all the beasts

and flowers of the north. Now Bering sick, the crew half-mad with scurvy,

no one would let him go ashore. Panic, the maps were useless,

the summer weather almost gone. He said, there are herbs that can cure you,

I can save you all, He didn’t give a damn about them and they knew it. For two years

he’d prepared. Bering listened. Asleep in his bunk, he’s seen death writing in the log.

On the island while the sailors searched for water Steller gathered herbs

and looking up he saw the blue, black-crested bird, shrilling in a pine.

His mind flipped to Berlin, the library, a glimpse he’d had at Audubon,

a blue-gray crested bird exactly like the one that squawked at him, a

Carolina jay, unlike any European bird; he knew then where they were,

America, we’re saved. No one believed him or, sick for home, he didn’t care

what wilderness it was. They set sail west. Bering died.

Steller’s jay, by which I found Alaska. He wrote it in his book.

Saved no one. Still, walking in the redwoods I hear the cry

thief, thief and think of Wilhelm Steller; in my dream we

are all saved. Camping on a clement shore in early fall, a strange land.

We feast most delicately. The swans are stuffed with grapes, the turkey with walnut

and chestnut and wild plum. The river is our music: unalaska (to make bread from acorns

we leach the tannic acid out– this music, child, and more, much more!)

When I was just your age, the war was over and we moved.

An Okie family lived next door to our new country house. That summer

Quincy Phipps was saved. The next his house became an unofficial Pentecostal church.

Summer nights: hidden in the garden I ate figs, watched where the knobby limbs

rose up and flicked against the windows where they were. O Je-sus.

Kissed and put to bed, I slipped from the window to the eaves and nestled

by the loquat tree. The fruit was yellow-brown in daylight; under the moon

pale clusters hung like other moons, O Je-sus, and I picked them;

the fat juices dribbling down my chin, I sucked and listened.

Men groaned. The women sobbed and moaned, a long unsteady belly-deep

bewildering sound, half pleasure and half pain that ended sometimes

in a croon, a broken song: O Je-sus, Je-sus.

That is what I have to give you, child, stories, songs, loquat seeds,

curiously shaped; they are the frailest stay against our fears. Death

in the sweetness, in the bitter and the sour, death in the salt, your tears,

this summer ripe and overripe. It is a taste in the mouth, child. We are the song

death takes its own time singing. It calls us as I call you child

to calm myself. It is every thing touched casually, lovers, the images

of saviors, books, the coin I carried in my pocket till it shone, it is

all things lustered by the steady thoughtlessness of human use.

#robert hass #songs to survive the summer #poem #poetry #lit

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