Ash – The Daily Flower for 27 December

Cross-dressing and gender questioning are popular in Soho nightclubs and Sorbonnesque institutions; a modern reality that’s not usually prevalent in the arbours’ reality. But anyone acquainted with Fraxinus excelsior will know that the Euro Ash is just as forward thinking on this subject as devotees of Euro Trash.

Fraxinus excelsior
This photo is licensedFraxinus excelsior from Prof. Dr. Otto Wilhelm Thomé Flora von Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz 1885
(source: www.biolib.de)

You might encounter an ash tree sporting dark purple, petalless female blossoms one year, only to find that it’s donning drooping male blossoms the next… and a mixture of both the following year. How grand indeed! Although, somehow, I suspect that wasn’t a mitigating factor when the purportedly prude Victorians assigned the ash blossom the connotation ‘grandeur’.

Good for giving to: Transvestites, transsexuals, cross dressers and anyone with a grandiose sense of style.

Great ashes in literature: They certainly left an impression on one of the inhabitants of Sherwood Forest... or should that be the other way around?

“I have hit an ash twig at forty yards,” said Little John.
Robin Hood by J. Walker McSpadden

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Bear's Breeches – The Daily Flower for 23 December

It’s difficult to picture any ursine creature sporting overalls. Even anthropomorphised chaps like Pooh and Paddington settle for jumpers and jackets rather than trousers. How on earth, then, did Acanthus mollis come to be called Bear’s Breeches?

Acanthus mollis
This photo is licensedAcanthus mollis by Zornitsa

The same question arises when one discovers the plant’s other common name: Sea Holly. There’s very little in the racemes of bilaterally symmetrical whitish flowers that suggest any resemblance to the spiky Scottish emblem, even one in an oceanic incarnation.

Artist’s Acanthus, a third common name for today’s flower, seems to hold most promise. There’s a proviso, of course… it holds most promise if one makes a minor adaptation of the name to Architect’s Acanthus.

Anyone with who knows Doric isn’t just an ugly girl from their fourth-grade class and Ionic isn’t the cousin of a Shakespeareian baddie will recognise the leaf of today’s flower on the adornments of Corinthian columns.

Good for giving to: Bears with sore heads (acanthus mollis is said to connote misery in floriography).

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Petunia – The Daily Flower for 22 December

Not as proud as you are pretty – that’s what they say petunias mean. But I’m not so sure. Perhaps there was a case for that connotation back in Victorian times, but, in the more recent annals of history, petunias have become the motif de rigeur for groups and individuals who, although far from epitomes of hubris, certainly have a high sense of self worth.

Without much effort, one can think of Petunia Pig (not very beautiful, and certainly too proud to return poor Porky’s affections), Revolutionary Petunias (‘resistence is fertile’) and the Cult of the Rabid Petunias (OK, that last one took quite a bit of effort).

Petunias
This photo is licensedPetunias by byrdiegyrl

But, while self-importance may oftentimes be associated with petunias, there’s no denying the flowers themselves are mighty fine specimens of prettiness.

These funnel-shaped South American natives (plundered from Argentina by arrogance himself, Napoleon, it seems) embrace colour like an addictive habit (a simile inspired by their close connections to the tobacco plant) and, as easy-to-grow flowers that bloom throughout the summer months, are pretty irresistible inclusions in gardens and window boxes.

Good for giving to: Ice queens with melted hearts.

Great petunias in literature: In this well-known ditty (original author remains a mystery), one wonders if it is pride or shyness that stops them from finding all the friends in life they’d like to?

I'm a lonely little petunia in an onion patch,
oh won't you come and play with me

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Japonica – The Daily Flower for 21 December

I've got your picture of me and you
You wrote "I love you", I wrote "me too"…
…I want a doctor to take your picture
So I can look at you from inside as well
You've got me turning up and turning down
And turning in and turning 'round

I'm turning Japanese
I think I'm turning Japanese
I really think so…

The more I hear that song, the more I suspect that the Vapors may secretly have been singing about Camelia japonica, the gorgeous Japanese native cultivated for its showy flowers and glossy leaves.

Why so? Well, there’s more to it than the repeated references to the origin of today’s flower’s species epithet. Let’s start at the beginning.

Whether red, pink, white or multi-coloured, japonicas are exceedingly beautiful; little wonder the persona in the song has their picture.

Camellia japonica
This photo is licensedCamellia japonica by poesie

Then comes a line about shared love: in floriography, japonicas are said to connote excellence, but, in more modern times, they’re displayed at Korean weddings to symbolise faithfulness.

Next, the singer longs to see his love from the inside, too. Given the multilayered petals of japonicas, and their striking yellow centres… well, it can’t just be coincidence, can it?

Good for giving to: Contortionists. And Alabamans (camellia japonica is their state flower).

Great japonicas in literature: Nobody can help but remark on their excellence:

“She admires a flower (pink camellia japonica, price half-a-crown), in my button-hole.”
From David Copperfield by Charles Dickens

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Cardinal Flower – The Daily Flower for 20 December

Below are three cardinals. See if you can work our which of the following bits of trivia relate to which cardinal:

Lobelia cardinalis
This photo is licensedLobelia cardinalis by notafish

Cardinal bird
This photo is licensedCardinal bird by mikebrsm

Thomas Wolsey
Thomas Wolsey

 

  1. Connections with the tobacco family
  2. Can induce vomiting, cause pain and even sentence one to death
  3. Known as the ‘second king’
  4. Known as America’s Favourite
  5. First spotted in Canada
  6. Sport distinct scarlet ‘plumage’
  7. Connotes distinction and splendour
  8. Sometimes called Indian Pink

Good for giving to: People who like red (anything more helpful would be too much of a hint to the answers).

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Poison Ivy – The Daily Flower for 18 December

Pamela Lillian Isley and Kristy Wallace are two names that might not ring any bells – apart from alarm bells, that is. For those are the given names of a redhead comic-strip vixen and a psychobilly guitarist who are both better known as Poison Ivy… named after the vine that’s renowned for its ‘rash behaviour’.

Toxicodendron radicans
This photo is licensedToxicodendron radicans from Prof. Dr. Otto Wilhelm Thomé Flora von Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz 1885
(source: www.biolib.de)

It’s not just the innocent-looking leaves of poison ivy that are deceptive, it’s the name as well – and in more ways than one.

Firstly, poison ivy’s botanical name is Toxicodendron radicans (or Rhus toxicodendron), which reveals that it insn’t a true ivy of the hedera genus.

Secondly, poison ivy is not 100 per cent poisonous 100 per cent of the time. The toxicity is quite a subjective affair, affecting only those who have an urushiol intolerance. Alas, those people are rather few and far between, so it’s best to heed the ‘warning’ that poison ivy connotes in floriography. ‘Leaves of three, let it be’ and all that…

Good for giving to: Batman, if you don’t like him.

Great poison ivies in literature: Three lines that warn of the three-leaved threat:

“Streaming vine of red
Wrapped around brown bark of tree
Warning of danger”
Haiku #17 Poison Ivy  by Denise Girod.

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Coreopsis – The Daily Flower for 15 December

Flies, bees, creepy-crawlies – they’re not a miserable bunch are they? Always buzzin’ about. Given the buggy background of coreopsis, it makes sense that these flowers are said to connote ‘always cheerful’ in floriography.

Coreopsis
This photo is licensedCoreopsis by code poet

But more about the beetly ‘genealogy’. Indeed, it goes a lot deeper than the darkened, slightly bug-eyed centres of some species such as Coreopsis tinctoria, or the mandible-resembling toothed petals of the bright yellow Coreopsis gladiata.

Anyone who recognises today’s flower may know it by its other insecty name, tickseed, which refers, rather unsurprisingly, to the shape of the flower’s seeds. The genus name Coreopsis itself is derived from the Greek ‘koris’, which is a bedbug.

Insects are great, but they do make some people’s skin crawl. So, if you know someone who likes bright yellow daisy-like flowers, but don’t want to give them the creepy crawlies, you can always refer to coreopsis as calliopsis, which simply alludes to the flower’s beauty.

Good for giving to: Entomologists.

Great coreopsises in literature: New York School poet James Schuyler wrote what has been described as ‘a sensual and celebratory poem’ called  ‘Yellow Flowers’, described as being about  ‘an incredibly humble, ubiquitous wildflower, coreopsis’... but it is proving very, very tricky to track down.

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Cockscomb – The Daily Flower for 14 December

What’s as unusual as hen’s teeth, but fortunately not as rare; as funny as a jester, but looking nothing like his hat? Why, cockscomb of course.

Celosia
This photo is licensedCelosia by Trilochan Kaur

The velvety-textured crinkles of Celosia cristata are out in full force until late autumn, so it’s a little curious that the Victorian floriographers chose it as the flower of a mid-winter day. Perhaps they wanted to inspire as much curiosity as the cockscomb… or perhaps thought being a little odd in their allocation would best illustrate the flower’s floriographic connotation: ‘singularity’.

Celosia in 'Perfect Pink' arrangement by Serenata Flowers
Celosia in Perfect Pink by Serenata Flowers

Good for giving to: Individualists.

Great cockscombs in literature: In an aptly titled poem that also talks of hens, funnily enough (not their teeth, sadly):

“cut back ivy to make room for dreadful flowers,
blood-red salvia, celosia wicked as cats”
From ‘Unnatural’  by Nancy Etchemendy

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Citron – The Daily Flower for 13 December

Remember Cinderella and her ugly sisters? Actually, some stories say they were step-sisters, which would make this analogy fall flat, but cast your mind to the version where they were half-sisters. Young Cinders, raconteurs would have us believe, was quite a babe – but her two semi-siblings were notoriously uneasy on the eye. How come some get all the luck when it comes to looks?

That’s the kind of question one can’t help but ask oneself when confronted with the Citrus medica family.

First, you’ve got the Citrus medica var. sarcodactylus, whose deformed fingery fruits are rather kindly given the epithet Buddha’s Hand to avoid focusing on their less-than-aesthetic gnarliness (such declarations are a total sell-out to stereotyped conventional notions of beauty, but remember, this is a fruity fairytale).

Finger citron
This photo is licensedFinger citron by Fanghong

Then there’s the warts-and-all Citrus medica var. etrog. She’s a little less ugly, and a little less interesting, but also has a spiritual dimension as an essential guest at the Jewish Feast of the Tabernacles.

Etrog
This photo is licensedEtrog

And finally, there’s the pretty young Cinderella of the family: Citrus medica var. citron.

citron
This photo is licensedFruit of the Citron (Citrus medicus) by Benutzer:K reger

OK, she’s got slightly thicker skin than her more famous cousin the lemon, but compared to her half-sisters, she’s a veritable beauty (conventional norms and all that, again). She wears little clusters of pale white, sometimes purple-tinted, blossoms in her leafy hair and exudes a lovely fragrant scent.

No wonder Miss Citron symbolises ‘estrangement’ in floriography. If I were her, I wouldn’t want to admit any ties with those ‘ugly sisters’, either. Oh, the vanity!

Good for giving to: Long-lost sisters (or sisters with long-lost slippers).

Great citrons in literature: The origin of the citron is generally deemed to be unknown, but there seems no harm in hindering the Professor’s idle reverie:

“Know’st thou the land where the citron blooms, used to be the Professor’s favorite line, for ‘das land’ meant Germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words... ”
From Little Women by Louisa May Alcott

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Coriander – The Daily Flower for 12 December

Hidden merit? Hmmm, I’m not entirely convinced; yet floriographers insist that is what Coriandrum sativum connotes.

Corriandrum sativum
This photo is licensedCorriandrum sativum from Koehler’s Medicinal-Plants 1887

Admittedly, it’s a biased disagreement, as coriander is the last herb I’d consider adding to a dish (there are other ways of giving Mexican salsa its zing), and think the flavour pales beside that of its parsley cousin. Even splitting hairs doesn’t help: no votes for cilantro, either, which refers to the plant’s leaves (as opposed to its seeds).

No, there’s little merit hidden in the flavour as far as I can tell. But there’s plenty of overt beauty in the delicate pinkish-white flowers that grow in numerous clusters off the rather untasty stems.

Perhaps the Victorians weren’t inspired by the taste of coriander either, and were referring to its more oblique healing properties. Apparently the flower essence does a mighty fine job in bringing the sweetness back into life. But if the essence tastes anything like the rest of the plant, I can’t see how life would possibly seem bitter in comparison.

Good for giving to: Nice people who’ve become a bit bitter and twisted.

Great corianders in literature: Not only a useful ingredient in dishes, but in poems as well:

“Hurry folks, to the coriander,
hurry hurry folks,
I’m the supermarket bard,
I’ll sing the rustle of cornflakes,
the curve of mutinous cucumbers,
until the cash register hands me
the final printed version
of my poem.”
From ‘In the Supermarket’ by Agi Mishol (1995). Translated by Tsipi Keller.

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Cockle – The Daily Flower for 11 December

The story of Lolium temulentum is not one that will heat up your cochleae cordis – or, to put it more plainly, the chronicle of the cockle won’t be warming the cockles of your heart.

That’s because cockles are something of a fraud. And that’s not even counting the confusion that arises from the fact that they share a name with some tasty bivalve molluscs. Although, the greatest confusion caused by this Poaceae family grass does come from ingesting it.

Don’t act all surprised; there’s a clue that it would all end in a muddle in the species epithet: temulentus is Latin for ‘drunken’ or ‘tipsy’. Aaah, so that explains the cockle’s synonym, darnel, from the French word darne, meaning stupefied… not to mention the name used in France for cockles, ivrae, derived from ivre, meaning drunkenness (if botanical.com is to be believed).

Lolium temulentum
This photo is licensedLolium temulentum from Prof. Dr. Otto Wilhelm Thomé’s Flora von Deutschland, Österreich und der Schweiz (1885)
(source: www.biolib.de)

But even before you become a victim of the cockle’s inebriating effects, you might be beset by uncertainty. For cockles look very much like wheat – but they produce no wheat grain. Maybe that’s why the Victorians accorded them the floriographic connotations of ‘absence’. As for cockles’ other meaning, ‘vain is beauty without merit’, well, we all know about the self-aggrandising glory of those who’re under the influence.

Good for giving to: Imposters.

Great cockles in literature: Shakespeare’s Berowne knew all about these duplicitous grasses (hey... maybe cockles are the cause of the slang term for finks and snitches?):

“Allons! allons! Sow’d cockle reap’d no corn,
And justice always whirls in equal measure.
Light wenches may prove plagues to men forsworn;
If so, our copper buys no better treasure”
From Love’s Labour’s Lost (Act IV, Scene III) by William Shakespeare

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Marshmallow – The Daily Flower for 8 December

Have you ever met a bachelor or spinster who not only epitomises delicate beauty and sweetness, but also has a healing touch and yet is consumed by love – or dying for it?

These qualities seemed like contradictions at first, but thinking about it in another way, perhaps Mother Theresa fitted the bill. And indeed, her fans would no doubt concur that she would be a most apt human equivalent of today’s pale-blue blossomed marshmallow flower that boasts this string of floriographic connotations.

Althaea officinalis
This photo is licensedAlthaea officinalis by Pablo Alberto Salguero Quiles o p40p

Contrary to popular belief, a marshmallow is not first and foremost a squidgy confection or even a slang term for a coward. It’s Althaea officinalis, a herb in the Malvaceae family.

The species name of this velvety-leaved Eurasian native comes from the Greek word ‘althaino’, meaning ‘to cure’. And cure it does: as well as the root, stems and leaves that have medicinal properties, the panicles of marshmallow flowers can be boiled to create a gargle for sore throats. Something you’d certainly be in need of if, like today’s flower, you took to loitering in moist marshy soils.

Good for giving to: Unmarried friends.

Great marshmallows in literature: Subtitled 'A reactionary tract for the times', this poem is more likely talking about confections made with gelatine in lieu of the flower:

“To him ascend the prize orations
And sets of fugal variations
     On some folk-ballad,
While dietitians sacrifice
A glass of prune-juice or a nice
     Marsh-mallow salad.”
From ‘Under Which Lyre’ (1946) by W.H. Auden

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Breath of Heaven – The Daily Flower for 7 December

As befitting a plant named breath of heaven, today’s flower has a veritable trinity of names, both botanical and everyday.

Older gardening testaments refer to this South African shrub as Coleonema pulchrum; newer ones call it Coleonema pulchellum. And then, confusingly, it’s also sometimes dubbed Diosma pulchra.

Coleonema pulchellum
This photo is licensedColeonema pulchellum (source: www.biolib.de)

It’s not much simpler when it comes to the common names for the Rutaceae-family member. In some parts, it’s known as breath of heaven, but don’t be surprised to hear people referring to it as confetti bush or diosma (from the Greek ‘divine’… so holiness is in fact quite integral to it).

This thing for threes doesn’t vanish when it comes to floriographic connotations, either. The spiky-leafed bush of (as the species epithet suggests) small and beautiful flowers has a trio of connotations: good for nothing, your simple elegance charms me, and usefulness.

Very confusing. But if you only remember one thing about this plant, make sure it’s this: the delicious and distinctive scent.

Good for giving to: Every third person sounds about right.

Great breaths of heaven in popular culture: Somewhere near the second line, one gets the distinct impression that Amy Grant is not singing about the flower, but other literature was not forthcoming:

“Breath of heaven,
Hold me together,
Be forever near me,
Breath of heaven.
Breath of heaven,
Lighten my darkness,
Pour over me your holiness,
For you are holy.
Breath of heaven.”
From ‘Breath of Heaven’ on Home for Christmas (1992)

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Dragon Plant – The Daily Flower for 6 December

Voodoo lily, dragon arum, dragon plant – call it what you will, there’s no escaping the monstrous Arum dracunculus, a.k.a. Dracunculus vulgaris.

Even its camo-patterned stem can’t hide the fact that it’s this plant that’s causing a stink with its foul aroma of foetid, rotting flesh. No wonder it connotes trepidation in floriography, and issues the warning ‘you are near a snare’.

Dracunculus vulgaris
This photo is licensedDracunculus vulgaris by jaja_1985

But any attempt to describe today’s gothic delight of a flower pales beside this description of the slimy spadix and violet-lipped spathe proffered by E.A. Bowles:

 

“[...] the most fiendish plant I know of, the sort of thing Beelzebub might pluck to make a bouquet for his mother-in-law [...] it looks as if it had been made out of a sow’s ear for the spathe, and the tail of a rat that died of Elephantiasis for the spadix. The whole thing is mingling of unwholesome greens, livid purples, and pallid pinks, the livery of putrescence in fact, and it possesses and odour to match the colouring.”
From My Garden in Spring (1914)
(via www.gardendigest.com)

Good for giving to: Well, Beelzebub’s mother-in-law, of course.

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Fennel – The Daily Flower for 5 December

Crass cablecars and common fennel are rather unlikely things to get confused. But it happens; after all, Foeniculum vulgare does sound rather like vulgar funicular to the untrained ear.

To be fair, even the crassest of cable railways that ascend mountains display a formidable strength and are arguably worthy of praise. And seeing as those two qualities are what fennel is said to connote in floriography, there may be more in common between the two than we’d first care to admit.

Fennel flower
This photo is licensedFennel flower by titanium22

The similarities probably end there, though. It’s unlikely that a cablecar will ever boast a farmy grass-like aroma (foeniculum is actually Latin for ‘little hay’), and you certainly can’t make one into a delicious meal.

While fennel is best known as a scrumptious herb for seasoning and as a tasty dish in its own right, it also deserves a little notice of its flowers. The umbels of tiny yellow inflorescences make fennel quite a beauty in the herb garden.

Good for giving to: Anyone with strength who deserves a plaudit.

Great fennels in literature: Making a cameo appearance in one of Shakespeare’s most famous speeches, this one, by Ophelia:

“There's fennel for you, and columbines...”
From Hamlet, Prince of Denmark

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Scotch Thistle – The Daily Flower for 4 December

Everything about the Scotch thistle suggests some kind of prickly, stick-in-the-mud defensiveness. And not just because these plants with their spiky leaves and prickly purple flower heads can reach an I-wont-be-messed-with size of 8-feet high and 4-feet wide…

Scotch thistle
This photo is licensedScotch thistle by lostinfog

Take a look at the botanical name for starters; it even begins with a sound of dissent – Onopordum acanthium. But that ‘O no’ of refusal soon becomes an ‘O no’ of mock horror for the slightly prudish when it’s discovered that this epithet translates roughly (or should that be crudely?) as ‘thorny donkey fart’.

It’s not just asses that suffer the side-effects of this bristly flower. According to legend, marauding Vikings were stymied by a carpet of thistles that prevented them from making a surprise attack on the Scots. It’s no wonder, then, that this flower appears on the emblem of that country, whose motto is ‘No-one provokes me with impunity’. And no wonder the Victorian floriographers accorded Scotch thistle the meaning ‘retaliation’.

Good for giving to: Men and women of alba. And pushovers who need a bit of a prop.

Great Scotch thistles in literature: Another case of no-one touching this plant with impunity:

“The thistle is the order for dignity and antiquity; the veritable ‘nemo me impune lacessit’ of chivalry.”
From The Last of The Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper

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Scarlet Geranium – The Daily Flower for 1 December

Merriment. Silliness. Stupidity. Futility. Melancholy. Comforting. Consolation. It seems that the floriographers couldn’t quite agree on the connotation of the scarlet geranium. Quite possible, that’s because they couldn’t quite agree on the species: the staining Pelargonium inquinans or the pinky-red geranium coccineum?

Scarlet geraniums
This photo is licensedScarlet geraniums by ms.Tea

Botanically, those authors of the Language of Flowers may have been in a bit of a muddle, but socially, they were spot on – if perhaps 170 or so years ahead of their time. Because the scarlet geranium is about as close as a flower can get to being a red ribbon, and its string of floriographic meanings gives us plenty of emotions to contemplate on 1 December, International World AIDS Day.

Support World AIDS Day

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