Perhaps lazily, I considered the woody vine growing before my front porch as the "clematis," not really caring which of the nearly 400 species of clematis it might be.
But when I paused, admiring the particularly lusty bloomage this week, I decided to pin down its exact variety. So I plugged a shot of the little white starbursts into Google Image, and, after an initial scare that it might be a Confederate Jasmine Vine ("the past isn't history, it isn't even past...") decided mine had to be either a Virginia Bower or a Sweet Southern Clematis.
My initial inclination was to pull for the former, as my son is a loyal Wahoo alumnus. And while the flowers look almost exactly the same, the Sweet Southern is considered invasive, because the seeds get everywhere, though they're so similar it seems almost a silly distinction.
The difference being the leaves. Serated = Virginia Bower = good. And smooth = Sweet Southern = bad. Of course I have the bad variety, though it's been there for years, doesn't seem to be spreading and while I cut it back every fall, I'm not about to dig it out. Let the Invasive Species police come get me.
I was more interested in the literary ramifications of "clematis," which comes to us unchanged from ancient Greek, κληματίς, meaning "a climbing plant." My assumption was that pickings would be slim — my Bartlett's "Familiar Quotations" has no entry for "clematis" ("rose" has 79).
Because what rhymes with "clematis"? Arthritis? Bursitis? That's the making of a lovely sonnet for sure.
Plug "rose" into the Poetry Foundation web site and you get over 10,000 results. Plug "clematis" in and you get 63, and upon investigation, not all of those actually contain the word.
Robert Frost's "The Wood-Pile" does. Here he comes upon a neglected store of firewood, set aside by someone long ago, Clematis are part of nature reclaiming its property"
Robert Frost's "The Wood-Pile" does. Here he comes upon a neglected store of firewood, set aside by someone long ago, Clematis are part of nature reclaiming its property"
The wood was gray and the bark warping off itIn a more recent poem, "America," German-born Aria Aber is trying to adjust herself to a "country of cowboys and fame" that tells her, "to keep quiet about certain things." And that was four years ago. To her:
And the pile somewhat sunken. Clematis
Had wound strings round and round it like a bundle.
I feared what had happened in your forest, the words that pursued the soft silk of spidersIf Aber's scared of considering the past of America's forests, she ought to visit Germany's. She's at Stanford now, so I hope feels more sanguine about the place.
The verbs were naturalize, charge, reside
The nouns were clematis, alien, hibiscus
The classics never let us down. The word's Greek origin made me suspect I'd find it there, and I wasn't disappointed. Pliny the Elder — who we saw being killed by the eruption of Mount Vesuvius after saying, famously but incorrectly, in his case, "Fortune favors the brave," gives the flower an in-depth consideration in his "Natural History."
Old Pliny finds the leaves are good for cleansing leprous sores, and the seeds cure constipation. The Greeks, he notes, eat the leaves as a vegetable, with oil and salt. They must have been hungry.
I was just about ready to wrap this up and call it a day, when I decided to do the Full Boy Scout Try and check Shakespeare for clematis. Coming immediately upon this piece, written exactly two years ago.
Two few things stand out — first, the author, delving into clematis in a fashion identical to my own, comes up with material entirely different from what I found, including the plant that inspired his rumination, which belonged to a neighbor.
And second, I am the author.
Which is vaguely terrifying. Usually I snap to recall something I wrote 40 years ago. Or at least to consider the possibility and check. Yet I could plunge into clematis without a shiver of reluctance that I afflicted you with the topic a scant 735 days ago. But also comforting in that, given the entirely different result, I can still post this. Answer me honestly: how many of you began this piece and thought, "Heyyyyy, wait a minute. Didn't we read about clematis in 2023?"
You may want to install the iNaturalist app which enables you to identify most any plant or animal you encounter (at least to genus).
ReplyDeleteYes. At the start, word “clematis” had more familiarity to me than expected.
ReplyDeleteI was not a subscriber in 2023 and cannot give you grief or a pass on duplicating the topic of clematis.
ReplyDeleteTo be fair, Greeks will eat just about anything with enough olive oil and salt.
ReplyDeleteMy wife plants clematis every spring, and every spring, just as the climbing gets good, some bunny comes along and chomps through most of the stems.
ReplyDeleteDon’t cut it down. Don’t replant! Many clematis grow on old wood ( stems) and the vines you leave in place will produce leaves the bunnies can’t get to.
DeleteIn our case, they just turn brown and wither away.
DeleteI don't know why I felt the need to go down this rabbit hole but this is the first thing I stumbled upon:
ReplyDeleteThe United States and the Holocaust | Holocaust Encyclopedia https://share.google/EfhUSPRbH7RQFyAte
Our past and present is not so much different.
At the time we were led by someone considered to be one of the greatest Presidents in history.
As a people we certainly were not exemplary. We shouldn't be surprised that many of these characteristics of American citizens still carry into the present they are deeply embedded in our history
I didn't remember reading the column from 2 years ago, but re-reading it was a reminder. Which is totally par for the course as to how my mind functions these days. I think its pretty cool that your seasonal timing was so spot-on, and coinciding perfectly with the start of Fall.
ReplyDeleteI can't say I recall reading your post about clematis in 2023, though I feel a bit guilty admitting it. When I think of clematis my mind goes to “pretty flower but I am never sure where the accent goes -- CLEM - a - tis? Cle - MA - tis?” -- and then my mind wanders off.
ReplyDeleteI often have a great deal of difficulty with poetry. I’ve spent the last half hour trying to understand what Ms. Abers means and the best I came up with is:
"When people planted clematis and hibiscus in the forests in the US, instead of this being seen as a good thing other people called these plants invasive species and said their presence is bad. This frightens me because as an immigrant I am worried about being seen in a similar negative light."
Since invasive species genuinely do upset the ecosystem the comparison doesn't make sense to me, so I probably have it wrong. I did read the whole poem, but still can’t even guess how spider silk comes into it. If someone wanted to explain it to me -- either the whole poem or the excerpt -- I’d be most grateful.
As always, reading EGD pushes me into new territory. In the 1950s, my grandmother gave my dad a purple clematis that he planted on a trellis at the end of the front porch of our small house. It thrived and outlived all of them. Invasive? I had no idea. All I know is that it was something that came back every year, along with the june bugs, crickets and fireflies that fascinated me as a child. Neil, assuming it has been there for years, I'd love to know what your sons think of that plant.
ReplyDelete