"The same boiled in wine and drunk, heals the griping pains of the belly, kills and expels worms, causes sweat, provokes urine, and drives out gravel, cleanses the stomach; and is very good against the 4 day fever. The juice of the said Carduus is singular good against all poisons, as Heromenous Boeke witnesses, in whatsoever the medicine is taken, and helps the inflammation of the liver, as reported by Joachimus Camerorius of Noremberg. The powder of the leaves ministered in the quantity of half a dram, is very good against the pestilence, if it is received within 24 hours after the taking of the sickness, and the party sweat upon the same: the like virtue has the wine, wherein the herb has been boiled. The green herb pounded and laid to, is good against all hot swellings, as erysipelas, plague, sores and botches, especially those that proceed of the pestilence, and is also good to be laid upon the bites of mad dogs, serpents, spiders, or any venomous beast whatsoever; and so is it likewise if it is taken inwardly."
-John Gerard, medicianal qualities of the Thistle, 1633
The plant, pulled from the earth, was thrown on urine-scented concrete, a weed that was in our way. Broken and scattered for 38 hours, its roots dried in the pulsing dull wind.
Against the windowpane droplets of water (from the air conditioner) will soak the wood of the ancient casement. Perhaps it is not in the designer clay pot that the plant will grow, but in the rotten crevice of the sash, in the moist dark place of mustiness. This is where a broken fragment of genetics landed after 60 days of dehydration, of being torn around by creatures of carelessness. This bit of stem swallowed the heavy fragrance and sprouted suddenly, a knobby elbow of shocking green.
This plant– prickly with thorns, possessing the sticky venom of defense– revealed a tuft of intense purple and nourishment for us. This plant improved our perception, if nothing else, of ourselves.
It takes more than ill will to destroy the perfection of the Carduus. We remember the sting of its stem but conveniently forget the intensity of its blossom. Pounded into paste, brewed in scathing water, there is an ointment and a tea of peculiar odor that we may never comprehend.
-John Gerard, medicianal qualities of the Thistle, 1633
The plant, pulled from the earth, was thrown on urine-scented concrete, a weed that was in our way. Broken and scattered for 38 hours, its roots dried in the pulsing dull wind.
Against the windowpane droplets of water (from the air conditioner) will soak the wood of the ancient casement. Perhaps it is not in the designer clay pot that the plant will grow, but in the rotten crevice of the sash, in the moist dark place of mustiness. This is where a broken fragment of genetics landed after 60 days of dehydration, of being torn around by creatures of carelessness. This bit of stem swallowed the heavy fragrance and sprouted suddenly, a knobby elbow of shocking green.
This plant– prickly with thorns, possessing the sticky venom of defense– revealed a tuft of intense purple and nourishment for us. This plant improved our perception, if nothing else, of ourselves.
It takes more than ill will to destroy the perfection of the Carduus. We remember the sting of its stem but conveniently forget the intensity of its blossom. Pounded into paste, brewed in scathing water, there is an ointment and a tea of peculiar odor that we may never comprehend.
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