Horticulture for the Transcendental Age
It’s the ghost of my mother again, glow-handed, and draped
in the hair she cut off before I was born. She is cradling an
aspidistra, or what could, indeed, should be and aspidistra,
because of course I have no idea what kind of plant it is, but
I have always liked the name aspidistra, be it in an Orwell
novel or a music hall melody my grandmother used to sing.
The ghost of my mother knows the names of everything, but
she can’t tell me, because ghosts, whatever you have heard
to the contrary, can’t speak. So, although her lips open and
close, nothing emerges but stars. One day, when she plants
the aspidistra on one of these stars, it will grow into a new
planet, which is just like ours but a little bit brighter and
more hopeful. She will tell me the names of everything then
because, naturally, she won’t be a ghost.
Oz Hardwick is a prize-winning prose poet, whose most recent collection is the chapbook Retrofuturism for the Dispossessed (Hedgehog, 2024). At time of writing, he is Professor of Creative Writing at Leeds Trinity University. www.ozhardwick.co.uk