The scent of lilies
Yesterday morning, waking early (perhaps around 4 am) in the deep, dark, stilly night, I threw off the bedclothes, arose and walked the long east passage into the open-plan living space and the scent of lilies.
You see, we'd bought a new potted Asiatic lily just before the weekend, and it sat, a glorious bunch of vivid pink and green blooms and buds, on the island bench, perfuming a vast volume of space at the centre of the house. It being a warmish night, I was suddenly hurled back several decades and thousands of kilometres (tho back then, we still thought mostly in miles) to tropical nights in Malaysia where our kids were born.
And how I'd sit up sometimes late at night when my wife, the kids and their nurse were all asleep and the house oh so quiet and still; hearing nothing except the occasional rasping cluck: "Chee-chuck!" of a "chichak" gecko on the wall as it hunted flies and bugs; drinking coffee; smoking too much; and writing corny verses to entertain myself. And thought, this waking in the dark and walking into the scent of lilies would make quite a pre-Raphaelite kind of poem, wouldn't it?
But since I couldn't reasonably bring a rhyming "chilly" into the warm, sub-tropical and "stilly" night and still have the Asiatic lilies bloom so fair and scentful, I'd have to bend the facts a little too far from veracity, and let's face it, mendacity is unworthy to represent such beauty.
And (punnily enough) one could manufacture a plausible back-story for the phrase "the scent of lilies", so that it might also be, nostalgically, the perfume favoured by a long-lost love: "the scent of Lily's"! (Supposing one should be moved to stoop so low as "the lowest form of wit". No, wait, that'd be sarcasm, wouldn't it?) But perhaps one must be careful here, since the neighbour's wife was a young lady called Lily ...
Oh, I could also write reams of other stuff, for instance about how the lily buds, in various stages of growth from tiny and mostly green, to huge and mostly blushing pink, with their translucent petals curving between arching narrow sepals, brought to mind Victorian-era gas street-lamps and simultaneously, Chinese paper lanterns, but would that help you appreciate what a joy they were to see?
So I'll just make you a little present of the lilies as they were, without trying to re-present them any other way. And if my words aren't adequate to the task I've set them, perhaps you'd better go see and smell these wonderful flowers for yourself; then you'll know why I just had to write about them.
Come to think of it, that's a pretty fair return on my investment. First, my wife declared that we would buy them as a birthday present to herself, in which cunning ploy I acquiesced; next, I'd awoken one morning, and they'd unexpectedly presented me their beautiful colour and intense perfume; now I'm giving them to you as best I can with these words; and finally, for a small additional investment of energy, time and possibly some money, you can give them to yourself or somebody else you care for. I do believe that the scent of lilies is a gift well worth sharing - and the better for being shared.
You see, we'd bought a new potted Asiatic lily just before the weekend, and it sat, a glorious bunch of vivid pink and green blooms and buds, on the island bench, perfuming a vast volume of space at the centre of the house. It being a warmish night, I was suddenly hurled back several decades and thousands of kilometres (tho back then, we still thought mostly in miles) to tropical nights in Malaysia where our kids were born.
And how I'd sit up sometimes late at night when my wife, the kids and their nurse were all asleep and the house oh so quiet and still; hearing nothing except the occasional rasping cluck: "Chee-chuck!" of a "chichak" gecko on the wall as it hunted flies and bugs; drinking coffee; smoking too much; and writing corny verses to entertain myself. And thought, this waking in the dark and walking into the scent of lilies would make quite a pre-Raphaelite kind of poem, wouldn't it?
But since I couldn't reasonably bring a rhyming "chilly" into the warm, sub-tropical and "stilly" night and still have the Asiatic lilies bloom so fair and scentful, I'd have to bend the facts a little too far from veracity, and let's face it, mendacity is unworthy to represent such beauty.
And (punnily enough) one could manufacture a plausible back-story for the phrase "the scent of lilies", so that it might also be, nostalgically, the perfume favoured by a long-lost love: "the scent of Lily's"! (Supposing one should be moved to stoop so low as "the lowest form of wit". No, wait, that'd be sarcasm, wouldn't it?) But perhaps one must be careful here, since the neighbour's wife was a young lady called Lily ...
Oh, I could also write reams of other stuff, for instance about how the lily buds, in various stages of growth from tiny and mostly green, to huge and mostly blushing pink, with their translucent petals curving between arching narrow sepals, brought to mind Victorian-era gas street-lamps and simultaneously, Chinese paper lanterns, but would that help you appreciate what a joy they were to see?
So I'll just make you a little present of the lilies as they were, without trying to re-present them any other way. And if my words aren't adequate to the task I've set them, perhaps you'd better go see and smell these wonderful flowers for yourself; then you'll know why I just had to write about them.
Come to think of it, that's a pretty fair return on my investment. First, my wife declared that we would buy them as a birthday present to herself, in which cunning ploy I acquiesced; next, I'd awoken one morning, and they'd unexpectedly presented me their beautiful colour and intense perfume; now I'm giving them to you as best I can with these words; and finally, for a small additional investment of energy, time and possibly some money, you can give them to yourself or somebody else you care for. I do believe that the scent of lilies is a gift well worth sharing - and the better for being shared.
posted by Yahya at 1:04 am
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