"Pay attention to the world." -- Susan Sontag
 

Discovering Zephyr Lilies (2 of 2)

From “Atamasco Lily” in The Native Flowers and Ferns of the United States (1879) by Thomas Meehan:

“In spite of its English common name, [this] beautiful plant… has nothing whatever to do with the Lily family, as this family is now arranged. The name has simply adhered to it because the old botanists erroneously classed it with Lilium, together with so many other plants which have now been removed to other genera. ‘Atamasco,’ we are told by [Robert] Morrison, an early writer, was the name given to our plant by the inhabitants of Carolina, from whence it was first sent to England. The word is in all probability of Indian origin, but we have no knowledge of its precise meaning….

“Various other names are mentioned besides by other writers. Thus [Stephen] Elliott tells us, in his ‘Botany of South Carolina,’ that the plant is called ‘Stagger-Grass,’ from a belief widely prevalent that a disease in calves, called the ‘staggers,’ is produced by the animals’ feeding on it…. It is the Swamp Lily of the Georgians, and is called
‘Toonau’ by the Creek Indians, who use its bulbous roots as an article of food in time of scarcity….

“The genus
Amaryllis, with which our plant was classed when its connections with Lilium were severed, was founded by Linnaeus in the year 1737; but so far as the name is regarded, it is as difficult in this case as it is in so many other cases to say precisely why it was chosen. Amaryllis is a Greek female name, derived from words signifying ‘splendor.’ Theocritus, the celebrated Greek bucolic poet, who was born about 300 B.C., gives the name to one of his shepherdesses; and the Roman poet Virgil, who was born in the year 70 B.C., makes a similar use of it. He sings of his return from the city to his country home as of a return to his first love, and personifies the former as a lady named Galatea, who had hitherto bound him fast by her unsatisfactory charms, while the home of his youth is introduced as a beautiful country girl, a shepherdess, — ‘my Amaryllis.’ The shepherdess, however, was not so easily won back….

“The whole genus
Amaryllis… seems to be of a poetical turn of mind; or, to speak more reasonably, seems to have excited the poetic fancy to an unusual degree. One of the species belonging to it has its flowers growing on a slender, curved stem, and therefore, whenever the wind blows, the mouth of the flower turns away from the breeze, as if the coy maiden desired to escape the kisses of Zephyr, the wild west wind….

“In our Atamasco Lily, however, there is no such bending of the flowers, no timid or coquettish turning away from Zephyr, and for this reason chiefly the plant was taken from
Amaryllis and transferred to a new genus, Zephyranthes, by [William] Herbert, a modern botanist. But it will be seen that Herbert still adheres to the ancient fancy, for Zephyranthes means ‘Zephyr Flower,’ thus implying that, while Amaryllis flies from the advances of her lover, Zephyranthes willingly suffers his embraces, and accepts his kisses.”


Hello!

This is the second of two posts featuring Zephyr Lilies (or Atamasco, Rain, Fairy, Swamp, Wild Easter Lilies, or STAGGER GRASS) from Oakland Cemetery’s Gardens. The first post is Discovering Zephyr Lilies (1 of 2). I’m especially fond of the first few photos where there are branches and thorns from a fallen rosebush behind and below the Zephyrs, as well as those where the delicate flowers contrast with architectural stone in the background. Lately I’ve been trying to pay more attention to how the background affects a photo’s composition, and I’m currently working on several batches of aster and mum photos (coming soon!) where the garden’s architectural elements are featured with equal importance as the flowers.

I included the (rather long) quotation from Thomas Meehan’s 1879 book The Native Flowers and Ferns of the United States because I liked its language and style, and it provides a nice overview of how a plant’s naming conventions change through refined and shared observations. That chapter also picks up on some of the Zephyr’s botanical and historical characteristics, and I was glad to see mention of the plants in the U.S. southeast states of North or South Carolina and Georgia — along with an additional explanation of the common name Stagger Grass, which, we now know, goes back to at least the eighteenth century. Those poor cows been staggerin’ a long time!

Thanks for taking a look!









Discovering Zephyr Lilies (1 of 2)

From “Zephyranthes” (Zephyr Flower)” in The English Flower Garden by William Robinson

โ€œThis beautiful flower has been termed the Crocus of America. There are about fourteen species — low-growing bulbous plants, with grassy leaves, which appear in spring with or before the Crocus-like flowers, which are white or rosy pink, large and handsome. Zephyranthes require rest during winter, and at that season are best kept dry. In spring they should be planted out in the full sun in sandy soil….

โ€œ
Z. candida (Swamp Zephyr-flower): The hardiest and best of the group, making tufts of evergreen Rush-like leaves, and glistening white flowers with golden stamens, opening flat in the sunshine from August to October. The buds are prettily shaded with rose on the outside. In warm sandy soils the bulbs do well, planted like the Belladonna Lily in narrow borders against a greenhouse or any place — even a gravel walk — where they get a thorough baking and plenty of moisture from time to time….

โ€œCool and heavy soils do not suit the plant at all, nor does it seem to do so well in the west as in the drier climate of E. and S.E. Britain, often failing to flower when it does not die out. In the light soils of Surrey and at Kew it is charming, ripening seeds which germinate and grow readily, spreading into groups of beautiful effect as an edging to warm borders, or even as a carpet plant.
Z. citrina is a scarcer kind allied to candida, but distinct in form and in its golden flowers. A cross between these two species has given Z. ajax, which is like candida in character and time of bloom, but quite new in its soft yellow flowers, over 2 inches across, prettily flushed with rose on the outside.โ€

From “Dear Atamasco Lily” in My Dear, Dear Stagger Grass: Poems by Susan Meyers:

Nothing else in the swamp rises beyond
the surprise of you
and your sweet repetition.

Your boldness I’d expect of the cottonmouth
sunning by the bald cypress,

your plenitude matched only
by last year’s
tent caterpillars, whose droppings
when they fell ticked a steady shower.

And what of the music in your name,
hiding your poison?

You are danger, deep-throated cup
lipping the stippled light,
brightening the leaf mold.

Dear red-stained lily. Rain lily.
Zephyr lily. Dear fairy lily.
Wild Easter lily.
My dear, dear stagger grass.


Hello!

It seems that there are always new plants and flowers to discover.

In the first three photos below, you can see a row of Zephyr Lilies — some of each of the color combinations (white, yellow, and white with pink swatches) described in the quotation from The English Flower Garden at the top of this post. There are several similar patches of Zephyr Lilies at Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, and — having walked by them previously when they weren’t in bloom, thinking they were clumps of grass to be stepped over — I caught these at the right time when plenty of the flowers had just opened. This is the first of two posts with photographs of these diminutive delights.

Zephyr Lilies are members of the plant genus Zephyranthes — whose name sounds like it might refer to a Greek god, because (like lots of plants) it does. I got this from Wikipedia (of course), where I learned that Zephyranthes is derived from the name of Zephyrus, the god of the west wind combined with anthos, a word for flower. The name may reflect an observation of the plant’s behavior (and two of its common names, Rain Flower and Rain Lily), as it’s known to often bloom en-masse shortly after rainstorms, especially (though this may be speculation) those driven by a west wind. Coincidentally, I photographed these a couple of days after some thunderstorms, where the clouds still remained and gave me that favorite kind of filtered sunlight I like for flower photography.

I was amused to find the poem I excerpted above (from My Dear, Dear Stagger Grass: Poems by Susan Meyers), because it includes just about every common name for Zephyr Lilies, including Atamasco Lily, Rain Lily, Fairy Lily, Swamp Lily, and Wild Easter Lily. But I didn’t understand the references to “hiding your poison” and “stagger grass” so once again I asked my imaginary research assistant ClaudeAI for a little help, and here’s what it told me:

Based on the botanical characteristics of the Atamasco Lily (Zephyranthes atamasco), I can provide some insights into the poem’s references:

“Hiding your poison” likely refers to the toxic properties of Zephyranthes bulbs. Like many plants in the Amaryllidaceae family, these lilies contain alkaloids that are poisonous if ingested. This toxicity is a defense mechanism that protects the plant from herbivores.

“Stagger grass” is a traditional folk name for Zephyranthes, derived from the plant’s toxic effects. If livestock consume the bulbs, they can experience symptoms like disorientation or stumbling — hence “stagger.” This name appears in some ethnobotanical literature about plants native to the southeastern United States.

The poem beautifully captures the lily’s unexpected emergence in swampy environments, using multiple common names that reflect its various regional and cultural identifications. The references to cottonmouth snakes, bald cypress, and leaf mold create a vivid ecosystem context for the plant.

The multiple names in the poem — Rain Lily, Zephyr Lily, Fairy Lily, Wild Easter Lily — illustrate the rich vernacular tradition of plant naming, each name capturing a different aspect of the plant’s character or habitat.

So it turns out “Stagger Grass” is yet another common name for this plant. And should you ever encounter a herd of cows or mob of sheeps stumbling about in a field: look around for some Zephyr Lilies; the livestock may have chawed too many bulbs!

Thanks for reading and taking a look!









A Collection of Zinnias (3 of 3)

From “The Essence of a Garden” in Ambiguous Dancers of Fame: Collected Poems 1945-1985ย by James Erwin Schevill:

Between form and force of color to find
the illuminating place of order
where fruit trees soar no longer bare
and brandish oranges, figs, mangos
above Birds of Paradise sailing in place,
orange flower-ships of natural grace,
gladiolas pointing bluntly through green blades
above red zinnias buttoning up their patch…

until luscious fruits and flowers are too much
and the fertile garden shrivels, picked, dead,
dazed in silent time of sun and stone,
waiting dumbly for the sacred time of rain
when nature and man kindle care
into color-bursts again, and rejoicing air
crystallizes with bright, dying revelations
to teach our eyes wonder, art of glory.


Hello!

This is the third of three posts with photos of zinnias from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, taken in late October and early November. The first post is A Collection of Zinnias (1 of 3) and the second post is A Collection of Zinnias (2 of 3).

We have only red ones here (though you might see some soft swatches of orange or pink) so I found a poem about red zinnias and posted it up-top.

Thanks for taking a look!









A Collection of Zinnias (2 of 3)

From “Of Marigolds, Dahlias, and Zinnias” in A History of Zinnias: Flower for the Ages by Eric Grissell:

“From a botanical and evolutionary perspective, there is no doubt whatsoever that zinnias have grown in Mexico for eons. After all, species of this genus are endemic to the region and, having evolved in the area, would have been known to any peoples who viewed and valued the countryside in which they lived. If a plant had any use at all, whether ornamental or material, the inhabitants would have explored the possibilities of making it service their needs. [A] question is whether the Aztec peoples [cultivated] these zinnias in their gardens. The answer is almost certainly ‘yes,’ but… there appears to be little written evidence from the period….

“As with zinnias, multiple species of dahlias and marigolds are also endemic to regions of Mexico and are found growing under similar conditions — hot, dry, and even somewhat hostile. These are all members of the family
Asteraceae (once better known as Compositae), and in their original wild or natural forms each group of plants was attractive enough to warrant attention: a common dahlia (Dahlia coccinea) with single red flowers, marigolds (Tagetes of several species) with yellow or orange flowers (some mixed with burgundy petals), and zinnias (of several species) with pink, yellow, or reddish flowers. Thus, the trio — dahlia, marigold, and zinnia — may be taken as a unit with regard to their potential inclusions in Aztec gardens. Certainly they all find their place in todayโ€™s gardens, but these plants were viewed in different contexts in their own times….”

From “The Tangled Garden” by Julie Dennison in Landmarks: An Anthology of New Atlantic Canadian Poetry of the Land, edited by Hugh MacDonald and Brent MacLaine:

I used to worship East to West, imbibing light,
air, water; forming seeds too heavy for the wind and,
sturdy, rough, a firm stalk, an unconscionable desire
to burst into the sky. Thick with ochre now, and umber,
thirsty for the water I no longer have the strength
to bear, leaves parch and rustle. Turn a countenance
that used to rival Sol’s from sunlight to the medium
on which I root: see zinnias, still scarlet, blooming.

Orchards bow and apples dream of falling. I am spent
and crackled, dry but full of seed; I hear the clamour of
a tangled germ of voices from within. The earth demands
ascetic posturings: I bend, but wryly — only from the neck —
not to the soil, but to the fallen smell of shrivelling leaves, to
summer’s end, its gathering, hiss and crumble — to necessity.


Hello!

This is the second of three posts with photos of zinnias from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, taken in late October and early November. The first post is A Collection of Zinnias (1 of 3).

Since these are close-up photographs, it’s not apparent that they grow in a garden space that resembles the “hot, dry, and even somewhat hostile” environment described in the quotation at the top. The stone wall shown in the first three photographs may give the impression of flowers popping up in a sweet, cool spot — but in August and September it’s one of the hottest sections in the gardens (which is why I’d rather photograph them on cloudy days!) The wall also belies the fact that they’re actually growing on a hill, one graded at about forty-five degrees and mostly filled with loose, sandy soil.

The first time I encountered this zinnia patch a few years ago, I didn’t quite understand why they didn’t just slide down the hill along with the grains of sand that would roll onto my feet every time the wind blew. But they’re more resilient than that — and it turns out that they have a fast-growing fibrous root system capable of wide horizontal spreads with additional root-shoots that help stabilize them (and the soil) under these conditions. And since the root system typically goes no deeper into the soil than a twelve inches, they’re able to snag plenty of water from any rainstorm (or gardener’s hose) before it runs into the nearby road. The bees, the butterflies, and The Photographer certainly appreciate that!

Thanks for taking a look!








A Collection of Zinnias (1 of 3)

From “Zinnia” in The English Flower Garden by William Robinson:

“Zinnia: Among the most effective of summer-blooming plants, they flower well until autumn, their blooms not easily injured by inclement weather, but retaining freshness and gay colour when many flowers present but a sorry appearance. In mixed borders, beds among sub-tropical plants, well-grown Zinnias are always attractive, but require a deep loamy soil and a warm open situation….

“Seed should be sown in gentle warmth. Nothing is gained by sowing before the middle or end of March, as, if the young plants have to stand before being planted, they become root-bound and seldom fully recover. If the tissues once harden so much as to bring the young plants to a standstill, there will be little chance of rapid progress when finally set out. It is not advisable to plant them out much before the second week in June, as they are sensitive to atmospheric changes, and are completely ruined by a few degrees of frost.”

From “On the Roundness of Everything” in Duties of the Spirit by Patricia Fargnoli:

At midnight
in the cooled air
there was the moon.

And before that, in the hot day, many were the moons of zinnias.

And the whole time there was the moon of my thoughts in its skull basket.

One was the color vermillion
and others the red and yellow of celebration.

One swallows the universe
like snow swallows a field…


Hello!

This is the first of three posts with photos of zinnias from Oakland Cemetery’s gardens, taken during the last few weeks. I’ve photographed and posted them once before (see, for example, Zinnia Elegance (1 of 4) from last year), and while these aren’t substantially different from the previous photos, they are new — which counts for something, too! After I took the first six photos, the sun slipped behind some clouds — so while those first six look a little like I used a camera flash (I didn’t), the rest are more to my liking because the lighting is more balanced yet the colors still shine through.

With temperatures remaining very high this fall — nights in the 60s and days pushing 80 — there hasn’t been a lot of traditional fall color (you know, red, yellow, and orange filling the trees) so far this year, so taking new photographs of zinnias, asters, mums, and daisies is fulfilling my autumn color needs instead. My favorites of the zinnias are the ones that resemble tiny pineapples, but the others are pretty sexy too — especially those with yellow threads stitched around the centers of the flowers.

Thanks for taking a look!