Admission Day postcard with Eschscholzia californica, the California poppy, artist unknown, 1910. Larger.
Most Californians probably know that the brilliant orange California poppy is our state flower. But many of us don't know that this familiar wildflower was immortalized in verse by our state's first poet laureate, Ina Coolbrith.
Thy satin vesture richer is than looms
Of Orient weave for raiment of her kings.
Not dyes of old Tyre, not precious things
Regathered from the long forgotten tombs
Of buried empires, not the iris plumes
That wave upon the tropic's myriad wings,
Not all proud Sheba's queenly offerings,
Could match the golden marvel of thy blooms.
For thou art nurtured from the treasure veins
Of this fair land; thy golden rootlets
Her sands of gold—of gold thy petals spun.
Her golden glory, thou! on hills and plains
Lifting, exultant, every kingly cup,
Brimmed with the golden vintage of the sun.
Today, Coolbrith's poetry finds few readers, but in her time she was a strong presence in California's literary community, an important mentor for Jack London and other writers.
Calochortus eurycarpus. "The violet patches on the three petals of the mariposa lily serve as nectar guides to its many pollinators, especially beetles," photograph Gene Yates, Larger.
The Spanish language is so deeply embedded in California culture we often don't think twice about the lovely metaphors it gives to us. Sometimes it takes the sensibility of a poet to show them to us.
In her 1895 collection of poems Songs from the Golden GateIna Coolbrith included the sonnet "The Mariposa Lily," a gracious meditation upon the delicate wildflower so like a butterfly.
Insect or blossom? Fragile fairy thing,
Poised upon slender tip, and quivering
To flight! A flower of the fields of air;
A jeweled moth; a butterfly, with rare
And tender tints upon his downy wing
A moment resting in our happy sight;
A flower held captive by a thread so slight
Its petal-wings of broidered gossamer
Are, light as the wind, with every wind astir,—
Wafting sweet odor, faint and exquisite.
O dainty nursling of the field and sky,
What fairer thing looks up to heaven's blue
And drinks the noontide sun, the dawning dew?
Thou winged bloom! Though blossom-butterfly!
For many writers, it's been the ethereal muse who provides inspiration. California poets, however, have often been inflammed by more earthly characters.
Ramona, the title character of Helen Hunt Jackson's 1884 novel, moved California poet Ina Coolbrith to verse in her poem "Helen Hunt Jackson."
There, with her dimpled, lifted hands,
Parting the mustard's golden plumes,
The dusky maid, Ramona, stands,
Amid the sea of blooms.
And Alessandro, type of all
His broken tribe, for evermore
An exile, hears the stranger call
Within his father's door.
The visions vanish and are not,
Still are the sounds of peace and strife,
Passed with the earnest heart and thought
Which lured them back to life.
O, sunset land! O, land of vine,
And rose, and bay! in silence here
Let fall one little leaf of thine,
With love, upon her bier.
A true California writer, Ina Coolbrith arrived in the state at the young age of 10. Eventually she was dubbed the "loved, laurel-crowned poet of California" when in 1915 she was named California Poet Laureate.
Ina Donna Coolbrith, frontispiece from Songs from the Golden Gate, 1895. Larger.
The insistent busyness of our fast-paced urban world can be more than overwhelming. So it's nice to know that the quiet allure of the California countryside can provide just the right sanctuary for leisurely dreaming.
Ina Coolbrith, the first Poet Laureate of California, was enticed by Bay Area woodlands and in the poem "Siesta" described her own version of urban renewal in the branches of a tree.
If I lie at ease in the cradling trees,
Till the day drops down in the golden seas,
Till the light shall die from the warm, wide sky,
And the cool night cover me—what care I?
All as one when the day is done,
The woven woof or the web unspun:
In my leafy nest I will lie at rest,
A careless dreamer, and that is best.
[...]
Though the city frown from her hill-tops brown,
And the weary toilers go up and down,
I will lie at rest in my leafy nest,
A careless dreamer, and that is best.
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