J.J. Locke and "The Lover's Bench"

I recently met my friend J.J. Locke early one morning in the garden. I was surprised to learn that Jack, who hails from Calgary but has lived in Montreal for a number of years, had never been to the Botanical Garden before. As I took him on a quick tour, he was astonished at the size of the garden and the unique beauty of the many theme gardens. A baker by profession, he revealed that he also occasionally works at installing koi ponds. He was impressed by the pond in the Japanese garden and we stopped to admire its spectacular koi.

With the overcast sky threatening an imminent downpour, we decided to head over to the exhibition garden, where if necessary we could find shelter in one several large pergolas.

Of particular interest in the exhibition garden is Lea Vivot’s controversial bronze entitled “The Lover's Bench.” I remember the sculpture when it was on Sherbrooke Street near McGill University. I prefer it here in the garden tucked away under the trees at the head of the small pool and fountain. Here is a playful photo of Jack posing with the three lovers depicted in the sculpture.

I met Jack when he first came to Montreal. He was living at the time in my own neighbourhood of Verdun. Jack is a real organizer and established a memorable poetry reading series at a former Verdun cafe called “Van Gogh’s Ear.” He has since founded The Foundation for Public Poetry and last September organized the highly successful Montreal Public Poetry Festival. This year he is putting together a collection of poems in honour of Leonard Cohen’s 75th birthday. Jack is hoping to raise money through book sales and a Gala to finance a Writer-in-Residence Programme at Westmount High, Cohen’s former school.

But today we were both concentrating on the garden, which after so much rain this summer was lush and green. We each picked a spot—fortunately the rain held off—and settled down to write. At the end of our writing session, Jack presented me with the following villanelle composed on the spot.

As a poetry form, the villanelle has been around for at least three hundred years. With its frequent refrains and complex rhyming, it has its origins in native songs. The name itself derives from the Italian villa, or country house, where noblemen went to relax and get closer to nature, making this a form of poetry ideally suited to writing about a garden.

Here is Jack’s poem—probably the first ever villanelle inspired by the Montreal Botanical Garden.

Pondering My Future At Jardin Botanique

For K.E.S.

Pondering my future at Jardin Botanique
The rain impacts in a craterous way
Surrounded by flowers, yet, only one I seek.

The grey above cannot bring about bleak
Nor can my departure from earning pay
Pondering my future at Jardin Botanique

I see her eyes reflect from stones in creek
I see her eyes in every lily day
Surrounded by flowers, yet, only one I seek.

When peace of parks and poetry become chic
The message of birds we'll learn to obey
Pondering my future at Jardin Botanique

As proud leaves drop I hear them speak
Returning to you pushes my pain away
Surrounded by flowers, yet, only one I seek.

I sense your scent when I press cheek to cheek
I sense you worry when I'm away
Pondering my future at Jardin Botanique
Surrounded by flowers, yet, only one I seek.

J.J. Locke

While Jack worked on his villanelle, I wrote a few tanka in one of the pergolas. If tanka can be considered "a quick check on the state of the heart," then here's what I'm thinking about at the moment.

in the garden
at the height of summer
if I could choose
only one
which flower would I pick?

*

Adam alone
in paradise
rain on the climbing vines
even before
he dreamt of Eve

*

told
I lack subtlety
still
there’s nothing shy
about this crimson begonia

*

along the stone wall
a clematis’s
lush flowering
the need for love

overwhelms me

*

the clematis’s leaves
are beautiful too
but this bee
like a man
goes straight for the flower

In the Rose Garden with Ann Lloyd

Opened in 1976, the Rose Garden of the Montréal Botanical Garden stretches over 2.5 hectares, with some one hundred beds and nearly 10,000 roses from over one thousand different varieties. In 2003, it was recognized internationally with the “Award of Garden Excellence” from the World Federation of Rose Societies, making it one of the first rose gardens outside of Europe and the youngest ever to receive this highly prestigious award.

that man
thousands of miles
away
roses in bloom
at my feet

I invited my friend Ann Lloyd to meet me one morning in the rose garden. Ann is originally from Wales and the author of Lurching into the Looney Bin, her unique guide on how to prepare for dementia, stroke or other medical calamity. Her clever use of wit and humour makes it easier--and even fun--to ponder the unthinkable. Her book has been garnering a fair amount of attention from health care professionals and Ann was just back from a conference sponsored by the women of the Evangelical Lutheran Church of Canada at Laurentian University in Sudbury, where she was one of their keynote speakers.

no one promised
us a rose garden
yet here we sit
on a sunny bench
in a sea of blooms

Ann is also a talented poet and I looked forward to a morning of writing with her. And where better than the rose garden at its peak! Ann immediately gravitated to the bronze statue of The First Jewels, produced in New York in 1973 by Romanian artist and concentration camp survivor, Alice Winant.

Ideally placed among the rose beds, The First Jewels captures the whimsical mood of a young woman, but there’s an unmistakeable air of sadness too. We settled on a bench nearby and Ann later sent me this beautiful lyric poem.

*

In the Rose Garden: Alice's Girl

She is here
Alice's girl
bronzed and curved
statuesque
amongst the roses.
Arms outstretched but empty.
her necklace gone,
sad past Romanian.
Someone, come
necklace her with roses!
festoon her with blossoms!
Let her hands pink with petals crushed.
Rose perfume her.
Drape her, garland her,
bring her back to summer's life.
Sad statuesque
young maiden
Alice's past
love lost amongst the roses.

by Ann Lloyd

*

If you're interested in finding out more about Ann's book, you can email Ann at oldfartspublishing@hotmail.com.

Passion for Peonies

I love peonies. There is nothing like these huge, elegant flowers that bloom so faithfully year after year. Cultivated in China for more than 2000 years, where they are regarded as symbols of wealth, luck and happiness, peonies are among the longest-used flowers in ornamental culture.

They are named after Paeon, who was a student of Asclepius, the Greek god of medicine. Unfortunately for Paeon, his teacher became jealous of him. The only way Zeus could save the brilliant youth from Asclepius’s wrath was to turn him into a peony flower. In other Western folklore, mischievous nymphs were said to hide among the petals, while in the language of flowers, peonies take on the meaning of Shame or Bashfulness.

Here are some photos and poems from the height of peony season at the Montreal Botanical Garden. Peonies may be found throughout the garden, but especially in the Chinese and Japanese gardens as well as in the Flowery Brook area.



someone has cast
a peony flower
into the pond—
drifting uncertainly
this love of ours

peonies

in bloom
he leaves me
a poem
on the kitchen table

tall, lanky man—
come sit with me
by the peonies
and watch that mallard
woo his mate

pink peonies
delicately scented,
ruffled and pretty
I was once
a love struck teen

distracting me
from my contemplation
of pink peonies
that noisy

red-winged black bird

he doesn’t have
street smarts, they say
of the son
I drag to the garden
peony viewing

slowly
shedding
the weight of beauty
peony petals
on the lawn

just petals
on the grass
and dead yellow stamens
all that remains
of yesterday’s splendour

white petals
tinged with brown
beside them
tightly packed buds
ready to explode

I’ll whisper
as he sleeps
the sound
of white peony petals
falling

In Search of the "Fleur de lis"

In honour of St. Jean Baptiste Day, I decided to sally forth to the Montreal Botanical Garden in search of the true fleur de lis. This iconic symbol of France and its former colonies is particularly beloved in Quebec, where four blue fleur de lis decorate its flag. In French, fleur de lis literally means "lily flower," however, it is widely thought that the image is a stylized version not of the lily, but the iris. More specifically, it is believed to be inspired by the iris pseudocorus, a variety of yellow flag iris.

On my way to the garden, I passed the Olympic stadium, which is located on the south side of Sherbrooke Street opposite the front gates of the garden. The Quebec flags looked beautiful against the blue morning sky.

I have always found St. Jean Baptiste Day to be a fascinating holiday in that people seem unusually open and friendly, as was the case today as I walked up Pie IX Boulevard to the garden

St. Jean Baptiste Day--
I exchange greetings
with a Tibetan monk

Here is a photo of a yellow iris, but of the bearded rather than the flag variety.

Below is a photo of a bed of white flag iris.

Here is a photo of pale blue iris.

In the last photo is a beautiful specimen of a blue flag iris and it seems to indeed show the outlines of a real fleur de lis.



Mission accomplished, I headed out of the garden and off to a St. Jean Baptiste Day brunch with friends.

*

St. Jean Baptiste Day
I celebrate with a Finn
a Welshwoman
two Greeks
and a Scot

*

Bonne fete de la St. Jean!

What is a Garden?

Here is an essay by my friend Sebastian, which he sent me several weeks after our meeting in the garden. Enjoy!

What is a Garden?
by Sebastian Piquette

It is the morning of Summer Solstice and I step through the almost familiar turns of the Botanical Gardens that lead into their Japanese garden. The rafts of irises are enough to submerge me body and soul – and they do; my eyes are wet and my stomach flutters. Even one iris can startle and captivate me with its colour and lines. What chance do I have against thousands of them?

After a brief search my eye settles on the familiar figure hunched over a notebook. She is writing, and writing is what we have both come here to do together. I am prepared to take out my own notebook and simply acknowledge that we are together for this with a head nod and a crinkle at the corner of my eyes. While she is a calmly inspirational presence in my writing life, I would never claim that I am that for her and that last thing I wish to do is interrupt her train of thought.

It was on Angela’s impetus that I have come here to write but it was on my instigation that we planned to meet on the solstice. I’ve become much more conscious over the past few years of the eight dates that divide the pagan calendar into equal parts. If I hope to honour the cycles of nature, why not give myself the luxury of retreating into one of the pockets of this city that holds the city at bay?

What is a garden? It is not, as I once might have believed, a corner of nature untouched by the influence of my species. I’d have to travel far and with no little inconvenience to find that – and I would most definitely not have had such a blissfully insane number of irises to enjoy. A garden is an artifice, and someone has combed through and combined the elements of nature to deliver a multi-sensory experience. And, as with any art form, someone who chooses to experience that garden also has input into what that experience will be.

While I do not confess to having tasted and eaten anything in this garden (for fear of banishment?) this gem of sensuality certainly plays to sight and touch, hearing and smell. Around me are people choosing how they move and what they do in the garden: tai chi, jogging, reclining, eating, talking, taking photographs, writing, and resting. Their experiences are coloured by whether they are alone or not, or with whom they have elected to come. To my surprise it is Angela’s choice to break our silence and as we talk over the week’s events and issues, I know we are freeing our inner spaces to prepare for the pursuit of writing. When a friend of hers arrives later and joins us in our chat, it occurs to me that I am not doing anything to bring us back to our pens and notebooks.

Somewhere just out of visual range but close enough to the garden to intrude on the sounds of wind playing with the leaves and water dancing in the brook, someone is playing music. It doesn’t belong in ‘my’ garden and I observe once again that people who think everyone should be subjected to their music not only have the poorest taste in music but also use sound systems that distort the music at the high volumes forced through them.

So I banish myself from the garden. I cannot clear my inner space to write while this noise keeps filling it. I marvel at Angela’s ability to focus, at her inner garden. But I leave without disappointment. The morning has been perfect otherwise, I’m eager for the rest of the day, and I will be back.

Sebastian Piquette is a special ed. teacher. Over the decades his creative passions have included singing, composing, writing, and gardening. Other interests include nature, sign language, ancient history, and watching dance shows. He loves Montreal and is a member of the Montreal Botanical Garden.

The First Nations Garden

seeds flying
on the longest day
of the year—
I too am looking
for a place to land



The First Nations Garden of the Montreal Botanical Garden was the place to be on June 21st. Not only was it the summer solstice, but it was Aboriginal Day in Canada, a tradition begun in 1996 as a way of celebrating native cultures. That Aboriginal Day is held on the same day as the solstice is no accident—marking the day “the sun stands still” has been an important part of Native culture from earliest times. For the past 5 years, the Amerindian Garden has played host to the Solstice des Nations, which also serves as the kickoff event of the Fete National du Quebec.




The ceremonies began at dawn with the lighting of a bonfire. At 10AM, a traditional fire ceremony began. Mohawk elder Sedalio Fazio made a dramatic entrance.

heating the skin
of her drum
over the bonfire
a medicine woman
in ceremonial dress

She has a powerful, stirring voice and chanted to the accompaniment of her drum.

painted bear head
on her drum—
while the elder chants
the wind
sings its own song

The fire ceremony was conducted by Dominique Rankin, an Anishnabe elder, who spoke in French and Sedalio Fazio in English.



asking the Creator
for permission
to speak English
she welcomes us
to Mohawk territory

She spoke the words “Mohawk territory” with such authority that a gasp rippled through the crowd of well over 100 people. It was a shock to be reminded that we were indeed on Mohawk territory, but we were welcomed and invited to become part of “one mind.”

Madame Fazio appealed to all the various elements of the earth—water, fish, birds, animals, grasses, medicines, flowers, insects, worms, fruits, and the four winds, four directions, and four seasons.

grandmother moon
guiding all the cycles
the wise woman says
this is as far as I can go
with this prayer



The traditional Fire Ceremony, which celebrates the beginning of the solar cycle, was the highlight of First Peoples national day. We were each given a few grains of tobacco and instructed to make our silent prayers, then toss the grains into the bonfire so that the smoke from our prayers would rise to the great Creator.






invited to put their prayers
into the fire
all races,
forming a friendship circle
men, women, children




summer solstice--
into the fire
to be carried
up to heaven
all my prayers

The ashes would later be gathered and taken to the St. Jean Baptiste Day bonfire on the Plains of Abraham in Quebec City on June 23rd.

A number of political representatives were present at the ceremony, as well as a strikingly attractive young woman, inuk singer Elisapie Isaac, who was one of this year’s spokespersons for the event.



kicking off her shoes
and running across the grass
she exclaims
I am a woman
of the tundra

Here are a few last thoughts on the solstice event.




Anishnabe elder
feathers and furs
messages from the ancestors
rock music blaring
from Maisonneuve Park





medicine woman
on a blanket
on the grass
leans back into the arms
of a white man



celebrating the solstice
in the First Nations garden--
tortilla chips & dip
and a free glass
of mango juice

Rain in the Garden

My personal philosophy is simple: when in doubt, follow your feet. So last Friday, despite the rain, my feet led me to the Montreal Botanical Garden to meet writer Channah Magori. Channah is fairly new to the city, having lived much of her life in Israel. She writes poetry and is at work on a novel. She also works with disabled children and is currently enrolled in a programme to become a poetry therapist.


The forecast was for rain Friday morning, which didn't put me off--afterall, I was born in Vanouver--but I thought that perhaps Channah would choose to cancel. I was thrilled when she emailed me back to say that she thought gardens in the rain were beautiful and that she was looking forward to our writing session together.

We decided to meet in the Dream Lake Garden, an authentic Chinese garden inspired by the private gardens popular in the southern Yangzi River region during the Ming Dynasty (1368-1644). The Green Shade Pavilion, perched on top of a small hill, would provide us with a dry place to write no matter how heavy the rain. I arrived early and sat at the pavilion's small stone table with its barrel-shaped seats. Here is the view from the hilltop.





Depite the rain, gardeners were hard at work.



gray morning--
gardeners
in yellow rainslickers



Since I'm reading Milton these days, this tanka came to mind.


when paradise
seems lost--
a gardener
pushing his wheelbarrow
in the rain

*

It doesn't happen often, but today I was in a mood to write both haiku and tanka.


mist in the trees--
the garden
fragrant with rain


*

breeze

through the pavilion

rippling puddles

not enough

to ruffle me

*


cleansing rain--
how often
I've given myself to it




*

the elegant

horizontal branches

of a ginkgo--

another tightrope walker

balancing in the wind

*

Channah arrived and although we had never met in person, with only a few words of greeting we settled down to writing side by side at the table.


writing--
our words compete
with the waterfall


*

The rain began to lessen and eventually stopped. When the sun came out, the garden was spectacular with the leaves a rich and vibrant green.


sun gleaming
on wet leaves
not much warmth
but the light,
oh, the light is beautiful!


*

purple irises
at the bottom
of the hill--
above the turquoise lake
my sun-splashed thoughts

*

Not only were the colours in the garden so much richer after the rain, but my ears were treated to a symphony of birdsong.

sun after rain
in the garden
exploding
among the trees
songs of happiness


*

I'm glad that I came this morning and even more pleased to have met a rainy-day garden friend, who I hope will join me many more times during the summer. Below is a photo of Channah followed by the lovely gift of a haiku that she sent me the next day.





Two sides of a leaf
One red, and the other green
Let the wind decide!

Channah Magori

The Secret Garden

I've been waiting impatiently over the past few weeks for the rhododendrons in the Lesley Hancock Garden to reach their peak. This garden has been nicknamed The Secret Garden, because it is hidden beneath the trees and if you don't know that it's there, you could walk right past this small patch of splendor under the oaks.

Robert Bilinski, Montreal mathematician/poet, joined me this week. I asked him about his rather unusual combination of disciplines--he is a mathematics professor at College Montmorency and has been writing poetry since the age of twelve. To him, though, the two go naturally together and he finds that the aims of both are the same: to describe the world and to say the most in the least number of words, to look at structures and find the links between them, to tackle complexity and find the key to unlock it, and to uncover the difference between truth and falsehood. I have to admit that I've never looked at mathematics and poetry in quite this light and Robert is certainly a passionate and articulate spokesman for both.

Robert and I met for our early morning writing session among the rhododendrons. Robert decided to write haiku and I focussed on tanka. Historically in Japan, haiku tended to be written by men while tanka with its strong appeal to the emotions was often the preserve of female poets. Here is our poetic exchange interspersed with some photos from this beautiful garden.

**

under the balsams
my body surprises me
lungs binging on air

Robert Bilinski

breathing in deeply
the moist marsh air--
pure physicality
after all those
too cerebral men

Angela Leuck

late night outing
early trip to the garden
relaxing my jaw

Robert Bilinski

the soft spongy paths
of the marsh garden—
birds with their mating calls
sending messages
among the trees

Angela Leuck

**

branches puffing out
not quite like a puzzle
appeasing the eye

Robert Bilinski

rhododendrons
deep rust, pink
yellow and white—
fearing intoxication
I don't sit beside him

Angela Leuck

**

branches to be shred
the saw still on the ground
metal mouth ajar

Robert Bilinski

watching the light
shift on the ferns—
one minute he’s happy
the next he’s grumbling
my teenage son

Angela Leuck

**
shredded cadaver
spread out on a flower bed
the blooms will survive

Robert Bilinski

they don’t believe
less is more
these rhododendrons—
too often

I'm stingy with praise

Angela Leuck

**

fixating on moss
eyes starting to glaze
free entertainment!

Robert Bilinski

bright splashes of colour
of the rhododendrons--
damp grassy paths
leading in and out
of paradise

Angela Leuck

**

in a dark clearing
luminaries under firs
under the skylight

Robert Bilinski

young couples
walking slowly
among the rhododendrons
some flowers are best
enjoyed together

Angela Leuck

**



damn that darn mower
returning on his rounds
R.I.P.ing nature’s scat

Robert Bilinski

oak leaves above me
then clouds—
a tiny snap
brings me back
to the dark forest floor

Angela Leuck

**

drooping circulars
a tree’s leaves invading
modern man’s alley

Robert Bilinski

a canopy
of oak leaves
above my bench—
long since I’ve looked
to a man for shelter

Angela Leuck

**

ferns like little pets
giving comfort, giving hand
to an empty bench

Robert Bilinski

among the rhododendrons
I’m taking up
this secluded bench
where lovers
might sit

Angela Leuck

**

white puff lines on blue
that was his favourite spot
only traces remain

Robert Bilinski

in the garden
at sundown
the orange rhododendrons
keeping me
from my dinner

Angela Leuck

**

**

Robert tells me that he enjoyed our garden writing experience and will meet me another time in the garden. Until then, if you're interested in finding out more about Robert's creative work, you can read his article on mathematics and dance online at:

Part 1 : http://www.marthiii.com/Marthi_mag/2007-07-jui/marthi_mag_conceptuel.htm
Part 2 : http://www.marthiii.com/Marthi_mag/2007-08-aout/marthi_mag_conceptuel.htm
Part 3 : http://www.marthiii.com/Marthi_mag/2007-09-sept/marthi_mag_conceptuel.htm

Days of the Irises

It's definitely the days of the irises. They are everywhere, bringing their big, lustrous beauty to even the most unassuming of yards in my neighbourhood here in Verdun. At the botanical garden, they bring a taste of royal pagentry. On this visit I stayed mainly in the Flowery Brook area where there is an exceptional selection of different iris varieties.

Although the name "iris" comes from the Latin word for "rainbow," for me the flower has a bit of a military symbolism because of the sharp pointed leaves. But maybe I'm thinking of this for other reasons.

from head to toe
in green camouflage
the miliary man
I glimpsed this morning
on the way to the garden

Mongolian Iris

I wonder

is that soldier
bound
for Afghanistan?

white-tipped

like the Himalayas

King's Spear--
wherever I go

that soldier's on my mind

Here is a photo of irises with the flower called King's Spear in the foreground.

I also remarked on the juxtaposition of another plant and irises:

meadow rue

beside purple irises--

with love

there's always the need

for caution

I admired this iris variety:

ghosts of Hamlet

and poor flower-mad

Ophelia--
yellow bearded irises

called Elsinore

From Ophelia to the Madonna:

Moonlight Madonna

bearded iris--

another tribute

to the virgin mother,

the crucified woman

The term "bearded" refers to the line of soft hairs on the middle of an iris's three drooping petals.

the velvety fur
of the iris's
three outer petals--

who isn't taken in

by softness

*

it's not so much

the irises

that are beautiful

as the morning light

they're bathed in

the earth is finished

says my science-minded friend

in despair--

take my hand, I tell him,

we'll be fireflies at dusk

*

Of course, the other great symbol that irises evoke are of brushes dipped in deep blue ink.

*

iris buds

dipped in blue ink--

I'll paint

an unspoken love poem

on his chest as he sleeps

*

*

How splendid these days of the irises.