we have looked at roses
before, mackintosh, hunter, but the 20s saw some strange new develop- ments in the portrayal of flowers. they went all crazy, all wiggley, and more abstracted than ever! trace the change to mackintosh, to poiret (both of whom had stylistic ties to vienna), or the new guys, ruhlmann, brandt, or dufet? why did this happen??!!
Rose is a rose is a rose is a rose Loveliness extreme. Extra gaiters, Loveliness extreme. Sweetest ice-cream. Pages ages page ages page ages.JULIET
Do we suppose that all she knows is that a rose is a rose is a rose is a rose.
...she would carve on the tree Rose is a Rose is a Rose is a Rose is a Rose until it went all the way around.
A rose tree may be a rose tree may be a rosy rose tree if watered.
Indeed a rose is a rose makes a pretty plate.collected from gertrude stein 1
'Tis but thy name that is my enemy;
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
it is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face,
nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What's in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name,
And for that name which is no part of thee
Take all myself.
WASTEFUL GESTURE ONLY NOT
Ruth visits her mother’s grave in
the California hills.
She knows her mother isn’t there but the rectangle of grass
marks off the place where the memories are kept,
like a library book named Dorothy.
Some of the chapters might be: Dorothy:
Better Bird-Watcher Than Cook
Dorothy, Wife and Atheist;
Passionate Recycler Dorothy,
Here Lies But Not.
In the summer hills,
where the tall tough grass
reminds you of persistence
and the endless wind
reminds you of indifference,
Ruth brings batches of
not entirely wasteful
because as soon as she is gone she knows
the deer come out of the woods to eat them.
What was made for the eye
goes into the mouth,
thinks Ruth to herself as she drives away,
and in bed when she tries to remember her mother,
she drifts instead to the roses,
and when she thinks about
the roses she
sees instead the deer
pale petals of the roses in the dark
of the sleeping deer—
that’s what going to sleep is like.
from What Narcissism Means to Me.
Copyright © 2003 by Tony Hoagland.
Labels: charles rennie mackintosh, edgar brandt, edna boies hopkins, gertrude stein, margaret preston, michel dufet, paul poiret, poetry, ruhlmann, shakespeare, Suzanne Guiguichon, tony hoagland