Black marigolds, also known as Tagetes minuta or "stinking roger," are a species of flowering plant native to South America. They are a member of the sunflower family and are closely related to the more commonly known marigold. Black marigolds are annual plants, meaning they complete their life cycle within one growing season. They have delicate, fern-like foliage and small, dark purple or black flowers that bloom from late summer to early fall.
One of the most distinctive features of black marigolds is their strong, pungent odor. The plant produces an oil called thiophene, which gives off a scent that is often described as "garlic-like" or "musty." This strong aroma is used by some gardeners as a natural pest repellent, as it is thought to deter a variety of insects, including aphids and whiteflies.
Black marigolds are fairly easy to grow and are suitable for a variety of climates. They thrive in full sun and well-draining soil and can tolerate drought conditions. They are also relatively low maintenance, requiring minimal watering and fertilization.
In addition to their use as a pest repellent, black marigolds have a number of other uses. The plant has a long history of medicinal use in traditional South American cultures and is believed to have a number of health benefits. It is used to treat a variety of ailments, including indigestion, anxiety, and skin conditions. The leaves and flowers of the plant can also be used in cooking and are sometimes used to flavor food and drink.
Black marigolds are an unusual and unique addition to any garden. Their dark, striking flowers and strong aroma make them a conversation piece and can add interest to a garden bed. While they may not be as well known as other types of marigolds, they are worth considering for any gardener looking to add something different to their landscape.
Poem: Black Marigolds by E. Powys Mathers
It is most fit that you strike now, black guards, And let this fountain out before the dawn. I want to smell this rich soup, the air around me going dark, as stars press their simple shapes into the sky. Oh warm tears on the body of my bride. Laughing at art Sunlight upon the body of my bride, For painting not nor any eyes for ever. Here, oh die here. Now in my morning the weariness of death Sends me to sleep.
From the hot town The maker of scant songs for bread wanders To lie under the clematis with his girl. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known. I kneel and say: Father of Light. The moon shines on her breasts, and I must die. And I, listening, Found not the salt of the whispers of my girl, Murmur of confused colours, as we lay near sleep; Little wise words and little witty words Wanton as water, honeyed with eagerness.
Even now The pleased intimacy of rough love Upon the patient glory of her form Racks me with memory; and her bright dress As it were yellow flame, which the white hand Shamefastly gathers in her rising haste, The slender grace of her departing feet. Even now I mind our going, full of bewilderment As who should walk from sleep into great light, Along the running of the winter river, A dying sun on the cool hurrying tide No more by green rushes delayed in dalliance, With a clear purpose in his flower flecked length Informed, to reach Nirvana and the sea. When I had no thought I waited. This love poem of fifty stanzas was written by the Kasmiri poet Bilhana Kavi in the 11th century. Even now She is present to me on her beds, Balmed with the exhalation of a flattering musk, Rich with the curdy essence of santal; Girl with eyes dazing as the seeded-wine, Showing as a pair of gentle nut-hatches Kissing each other with their bills, each hidden By turns within a little grasping mouth. I never cry during a movie but this one got. At last you, Divine Lady, beaming your earthly smile at me, asked was I in distress once again — for, why had I called you? Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings Or old kings throned on violet ivory, Night would not come without beds of green floss And never a bed without my bright darling.
I see her stand Touching her breasts with all her flower-soft fingers, Looking askance at me with smiling eyes. Even now If I saw her lying all wide eyes And with collyrium the indent of her cheek Lengthened to the bright ear and her pale side So suffering the fever of my distance, Then would my love for her be ropes of flowers, and night A black-haired lover on the breasts of day. The birds go by, fleeing. Now in my morning the weariness of death Sends me to sleep. And small men That buy and sell for silver being slaves Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her, Leading to his grim bed. And what did my unruly heart demand of you now? Even now Sleep left me all these nights for your white bed And I am sure you sistered lay with sleep After much weeping. All books are priced at wholesale prices.
Your history gets in the way of my memory. I have seen her enter the temple meekly and there seem The flag of flowers that veils the very god. Even now I remember that you made answer very softly, We being one soul, your hand on my hair, The burning memory rounding your near lips; I have seen the priestesses of Rati make love at moon-fall And then in a carpeted hall with a bright gold lamp Lie down carelessly anywhere to sleep. The purple flame of fire Calls them to love and sleep. I felt connected and empathetic to the writer. No expectations of success now, None of that worry.
If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. Even now They chatter her weakness through the two bazaars Who was so strong to love me. What good does it do us to mourn for our sons when the immortal gods are powerless to save their own children from death? The remaining pieces seemed to seek their companions. But if each day, each hour, you feel that you are destined for me with implacable sweetness, if each day a flower climbs up to your lips to seek me, ah my love, ah my own, in me all that fire is repeated, in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten, my love feeds on your love, beloved, and as long as you live it will be in your arms without leaving mine. Rosemary oil is an all-natural deterrent that will eradicate the spider mites. Even now I seem to see the face of my lost girl With frightened eyes, like a wood wanderer, In travail with sorrowful waters, unwept tears Laboring to be born and fall; when white face turned And little ears caught at the far murmur, The pleased snarling of the tumult of dogs When I was hurried away down the white road. One word then, one smile, is enough.
If the dull substance of my flesh were thought injurious distance should not stop my way; for then, despite of space, I would be brought, from limits far remote, where thou dost stay. Even now Death sends me the flickering of powdery lids Over wild eyes and the pity of her slim body All broken up with the weariness of joy; The little red flowers of her breasts to be my comfort Moving above scarves, and for my sorrow Wet crimson lips that once I marked as mine. He was the editor with J. A tall man is more than his shoulders! Even so, at one time a strange shadow ran through your eyes. And you are satisfied that he is veering towards you and that he is adjusting his speed and that the sun and the wind and rain are in front of him and the sun and the wind and rain are behind him. When you come to us, you can be assured that you're working with the best of the best. Nay, were I free as the condor with his wings Or old kings throned on violet ivory, Night would not come without beds of green floss And never a bed without my bright darling.
Even now I bring her back, ah, wearied out with love So that her slim feet could not bear her up; Curved falls of her hair down on her white cheeks; In the confusion of her coloured vests Speaking that guarded giving up, and her scented arms Lay like cool bindweed over against my neck. He laid his hands on my holy vluva, He smoothed my black boat with cream, He quickened my narrow boat with milk, He caressed me on the bed. You can tell me of their washings at moon-down And if that warm basin have silver borders. Are Marigolds Perennials Most marigolds are Do Marigolds Come Back Every Year Marigolds are annuals, and as such, they do not come back each year. I stand beside our bed; Your shadowed head lies leaving a bright space Upon the pillow empty, your sorrowful arm Holds from your side and clasps not anything.
And small men That buy and sell for silver being slaves Crinkle the fat about their eyes; and yet No Prince of the Cities of the Sea has taken her, Leading to his grim bed. This is a Good film to talk about after seeing it ,Things Like Are you really ready for marriage? This was a difficult role to play but his portrayal of Ryan was on target. When I had no ears I thought. John Woods's poems are wonderfully generous with such moments of unforeseen rightness; I treasure his work, and am always looking for more of it. I have seen her enter the temple meekly and there seem The flag of flowers that veils the very god. Even now The pleased intimacy of rough love Upon the patient glory of her form Racks me with memory; and her bright dress As it were yellow flame, which the white hand Shamefastly gathers in her rising haste, The slender grace of her departing feet. While the sad wind goes slaughtering butterflies I love you, and my happiness bites the plum of your mouth.
Finally it will be up to Kate to choose between the pleasant past or the terrible future. In 1919, the English poet Powys Mathers produced this free-verse translation, titled Black Marigolds. For very bird-like Is her song singing, and the state of a swan In her light walking, like the shaken wings Of a black eagle falls her nightly hair. As I said before, I am sure that all this is intentional, even artsy, but it is difficult to watch, especially the suffering. In your absence you polished me into the Enemy.
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