***
Sömntuta (Eschscholzia californica) är en vallmoväxt som växer vilt i USA och Mexiko men odlas på många håll i världen som trädgårdsväxt. Sömntutan förekommer som perenn och som ettårig. Den blir 35 cm hög och får gulorange blommor. Källa: Wikipedia
(ending lines of) california poppy, by D.A. Powell
(From Chronic. Minneapolis, Minnesota : Graywolf Press, 2012.)
(...) to ignore the grasping
fingers and bloated waxy face of the wildly surviving thing
that once was somebody's boutonnière, somebody's flash of light,
California Poppy (sleeping) Foto: Eugene Zelenko |
trail of phosphorescent streetlamps punctuating the homeless night.
***
Arten är sedan 1903 amerikanska delstaten Kaliforniens statsblomma. Sömntutan förekommer vilt i Californien, Oregon, Washington, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Sonora och nordvästra Baja California. I norra Los Angeles County ligger Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve som är ett naturreservat där blomman förekommer i stora mängder.
Källa: Wikipedia
*
To the California Poppy, by Ardelia Cotton Barton
(Published in blackcatpoems.com)
Fit emblem thou of our loved State,
With satin gown of golden sheen,
Thy glorious face reflects the sun,
Thou art of all our flowers the queen.
Majestic standest thou, erect,
Defying sun, defying heat,
California Poppy (sleepy) Foto: Eugene Zelenko |
But when the shadows on thee fall
Thy petals close, thou canst not meet
The gloom that now around thee lies;
For thou wert born for sunshine bright.
Thou sleepest when the shadows come,
And waken only to the light.
O golden flower, of golden State!
Thy mother now is proud of thee--
Hast placed thee on her banner bright,
Thou wilt her future emblem be.
***
Namnet sömntuta har den fått för att den "vaknar" sent på dagen, det vill säga att den inte öppnar sin blomma förrän framåt förmiddagen. Källa: Wikipedia
*
(From Selected poems of Gabriela Mistral. Translated by Ursula K. Le Guin. Albuquerque : University of New Mexico Press, 2003.)
To Eda Ramelli
California Poppy (awake) Foto: Eugene Zelenko |
hardly a hand high,
and edging the beech-alleys
in a homecoming of gold:
counter-poppy clothed
in color of spilled honey.
Trifle of a marvel,
gift of a few weeks,
and soul-like in your poverty
enough, more than enough
to bear witness
and to offer thanks.
Picked, you last no time,
gathering up
like indrawn lips
your four quick words
once the taut erectness
of your praise is broken.
Ardor of California,
sharp as a trumpet call,
four fiery blasts,
blown at the fleeing road
that you can't stop
or race to keep up with.
The Road runs frenzied
like an unleashed Fury,
and you who would save it
are left behind,
amber nourishing its sands,
feeding California.
Among tall orange groves,
in the breath of apple orchards,
patient of thirst and hunger,
alone, you offer praise
with four live tongues
and a burning throat.
Your praises greet the dawn,
and in the sleepy afternoon
and the slant light of evening,
their eyes closing already,
like the five senses,
your daughters speak and praise.
(...)
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