Scorpion grasses

A couple of wandering parries glanced wishfully at the hand-bundle carefully enveloped in silvery tissue-paper.

It was true that dark blue Russian violets, the star Forget-Me-Not, and the peerless lilies of the valley were there hidden, but a keener emotion than expectant love shone in the young man's haggard eyes.

He was anxiously gazing around for the now well-known form of Madame Raffoni.

Clayton dared not exhibit himself before the couple of hundred staring eyes upon the pavilion and broad porticoes.

You're listening to a Radio 191 FM podcast.

I am joined in the studio by Ben of U Label, talking about the Forget Me Not's second exhibition, the Reflections Edition, at the Dunedin Community Gallery.

How are you going this morning?

Good morning, how are you? Very good, thank you.

Yeah, you absolutely have to.

No point in not.

Now, before we dive into what the works look like and the process behind them, for Alzheimer's Awareness Month, your label is hosting a second showing of the Forget Me Not series.

Talk to us a bit about the genesis behind this collection and its connection to this month.

Strings.

One was Forget-Me-Nots and the other was a wildflower mix type of thing.

It's Forget-Me-Nots because is it a flower? And that's all in the theme because this album is a tribute to and an exercise in grief for Billy Strings' recently deceased mother.

She passed away last year.

So this album has, I'll go out on a limb and say that this could be a Grammy contention for him this next coming season.

New York City.

Could you tell me the origin of the name Forget-Me-Not as applied to flowers? I have heard there is some historical legend or story concerning it.

I should be very glad if any of the readers of Young People could inform me where such a legend is to be found.

A Constant Reader.

There are many graceful poetic stories told by poets and romancers, especially by German authors concerning the origin of the name Forget-Me-Not, but it is unlikely that any one of them has a historical foundation.

We leave the subject open for our youthful correspondents to discuss.

Tout ou rien.

I guess-

Forget-me-nots.

No, they have to have it, right? They have to have that set up.

Oh, what if we are looking at a, like, a Galen Erso situation here, where he kinda becomes the engineer, but he also has his own little fail-safe here-

And let me briefly give you, I'm coming to a close now, uh, an example to end with.

Uh, Keith Douglas' very fine poem called Vergissick-- "Vergissmeinnicht" was written while he was fighting in North Africa in the Second War.

It describes the abandoned enemy tank which Douglas' platoon had hit three weeks before.

The body of the German soldier was still lying there, now decaying.

And Douglas notices in the-- left in the tank a photograph of the dead man's girlfriend on which he has written, "Vergissmeinnicht." Forget me not.

We see him almost with content, abased and seeming to have paid, and mocked at by his own equipment that's hard and good when he's decayed.

But she would weep to see today how on his skin the swart flies move, the dust upon the paper eye, and the burst stomach like a cave.

Painfully she limped away in the big boots, and the last the naughty sparrows saw of her was a shabby little figure going round the corner with a pale, tearful face, held lovingly over the bright bouquet that was her one treasure and her only comfort in the moment which brought her the great misfortune of her life.

Part two, Forget-Me-Nots.

"Oh, Mama, I'm so relieved that the box has come at last.

If it had not, I do believe I should have died of disappointment," cried pretty Belle five years later on the morning before her eighteenth birthday.

Can

we do forget me not? Can

I give my little real quick? That's

hilarious.

So I just learned the bass line for Da Barge.

I like it.

Forget Me Not, that's too far gone.

Like, that's, nigga, like, I just started driving around the block.

Five.

Forget-me-nots by Olive Custance.

Read for LibriVox.org by Nemo.

A song of forget-me-nots I sing.

Forget-me-nots are my favorite flowers, Love, because they are like your eyes.

Blue as the wild blue butterflies, They stare and dream through the singing hours Under the turquoise and silver skies, Under the fickle skies of Spring.

They see the sky like a looking-glass That waits for the beautiful face of Day; For the face of the Dawn is cold, Stare with eyes more yellow than gold When the noon sun sends the clouds away.

And at twilight time, with gazes bold, They watch the pomps of sunset pass.