“Look!” said Gandalf. “How fair are the bright eyes in the grass! Evermind they are called, simbelmynë in this land of Men, for they blossom in all the seasons of the year, and grow where dead men rest. Behold! we are come to the great barrows where the sires of Théoden sleep.”
– The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers: Book 3, Chapter 6: The King of the Golden Hall
Nothing is too small to contribute to the world of J. R. R. Tolkien, and that includes the presence of tiny, delicate flowers. From the golden, star-like elanor to pure white niphredil, these small flowers evoke memories and feelings, enough to spur the characters to sing a song, deliver a story deeply-buried in memory, or confess about the deepest sentiment in their heart at the moment. One of the most memorable ones is perhaps simbelmynë, the white, delicate flowers that spring like countless stars amid the turf of burial mounds.
Simbelmynë is mentioned multiple times in several books of Middle-earth legendarium, not just in The Two Towers. In Appendix A of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (Annals of the Kings and Rulers: The House of Eorl), the ninth king of Rohan was laid to rest in the ninth burial mound, where simbelmynë flowers later grew so thick, the king’s grave looked like it was covered by snow. In several chapters of Unfinished Tales, characters like Cirion, Eorl, and Tuor referred to simbelmynë as uilos and alfirin in Elven languages. All of them have the same characteristics throughout: all-season white flowers that tend to grow in abundant clusters on burial mounds.
In Guide to the Names in The Lord of the Rings (edited by Christopher Tolkien), Tolkien mentioned simbelmynë as being similar to wood anemone (Anemonoides nemorosa), early spring white flowers that grow in large abundance. However, Tolkien also imagined these flowers growing in turf like pasqueflower (Anemone pulsatilla). In a letter for Amy Ronald, dated 16 November 1969, Tolkien described the graveyard flowers as having the name that translated into “immortelle”, which, in our world, refers to flowers that last long when dried.
One unique thing about these supposed “graveyard flowers” is the root of their names. Despite having very different sounds, all the names of these flowers have similar meaning: “immortal” and “forever in mind”. In the language of Rohan, simbelmynë means “ever-mind”, while alfirin in Sindarin language is something akin to “not dying”. Even uilos, which does not exactly mean the same, still has the element of “ever-” in its translated name, alluding to the fact that these flowers appear throughout the entire year.
Simbelmynë is a part of some of the most prominent themes explored in Middle-earth legendarium: memory, loss, and grief. The Lord of the Rings is especially elegiac in nature, rife with reflections upon things and figures that have passed, departed, or perished. The way Gandalf depicted simbelmynë at the beginning effectively contrasts the flower’s name (which essentially means “forget me not”) with the depiction of a place where the dead rests. The thick formation of simbelmynë is described as giving the burial mound a unique characteristic, creating the impression of snow or even stars, essentially turning themselves into beautiful reminders of those who died.
Reading about simbelmynë has prompted me to create my own reflection about graveyard flowers. In my experiences growing up, such reflections came from the flowers Indonesians call kamboja (frangipani). Similar to simbelmynë, frangipani is prominently known as a traditional graveyard ornament, and frangipani trees are still often referred as “graveyard flower trees”, even though many people plant them at home now. Various old graveyards in Indonesia still have frangipani trees (or the remnants of them), even when the graveyards themselves fell into disuse.
Traditional graveyards have frangipani for various reasons. The trees provide great canopies for visitors. The flowers emerge all year round in tropical climate, and the blooms or buds still emit strong fragrance even after they fall. This creates an image of frangipani trees as the eternal guardians of the graveyard, shading the dead with their canopies, forever adorning the graves with flowers even when they are no longer visited. Frangipani trees are also tough, able to withstand salty sea breeze and harsh summer sun, cementing the “loyal guardian” aspect even more.
There is also a belief that frangipani’s fragrance can soothe the restless spirits, which sometimes brings the unfortunate reputation to them as “the flowers of ghosts”, making their fragrance associated with ghostly presence (something that I also believed when I was little). However, when I grew older and started viewing deaths with more reflective lenses, the image softened in my mind, replacing the haunting aspect with something more soothing and reassuring: that the faithful frangipani releases its blooms and fragrance to accompany the dead, defiant at the face of universal forgetfulness.
The positive association is further emphasized in Balinese culture, among others. Appearing as prominent parts of religious offerings and ritualistic accessories, frangipani is known for blooming during Sasih Kapat (“the fourth full moon”), a time when the dry season passes, nature thrives, and the air is more fragrant than usual, a great time to wish for blessing, both in harvest and love. In a way, this can be translated as the time when things come back to life after the months of dryness and decay. Just like how simbelmynë marked graves for centuries, yet brought back the memories of the dead to everyone’s mind despite their humble appearances.
The humble simbelmynë had seen kingdoms rose and fell, and they somehow endured as symbols of both loss and remembrance. When Tuor came to the hidden city of Gondolin and was brought through its seven gates, he saw, beside the way,
“…a sward of grass, where like stars bloomed the white flowers of uilos, the Evermind that knows no season and withers not; and thus in wonder and lightening of heart he was brought to the Gate of Silver.”
– Unfinished Tales: Part 1, Chapter 1: Of Tuor and His Coming to Gondolin
The scene where he saw the flowers happened when he was being escorted through the seven gates of Gondolin. Before that, he had walked past the Fourth Gate, known as “The Gate of Writhen Iron.” This gate was described as high and black, lit with no lamps, with menacing iron towers that gave Tuor the impression of looking through boughs and stems of imperishable trees into a pale glade of the Moon. Seeing the little star-like simbelmynë after walking through such gate made Tuor’s heart lightened, as if giving him a subtle support and protection from whatever things waiting at the end of the gates. In the end, Gondolin perished in the middle of fire, left merely as memory in the history of Middle-earth, but simbelmynë stayed, carrying the dim memories from the past.
The sacredness, power, and memories of frangipani have also lifted its position in the culture of various regions in Southeast Asia and South Asia. More than being the literal graveyard flowers, frangipani flowers carry within their blooms the stories of deaths, blood-spilling, exile, and unrequited love, giving them the privileged link to the spirits and collective memories. The power these flowers carry was even translated into a poignant poem by Laotian poet Pierre Somchine Nginn (1892-1971):
“O flowers, precious gift, refuge of symbols,
You who talk to girls about love, about back
To the exile; you who live in the parables,
You who provide the wat with human oboles,
You who die and are born every day;
Since when do you reign on this ancient land?”
So, what to take from the reflections of the graveyard flowers?
Simbelmynë and frangipani are both beautiful yet humble flowers, mere small players in the grand context of the world and history where they are present. They are both associated with death, being strongly connected with graveyards and burial mounds. Enduring both remembrance and negative association with the dead, they nevertheless refuse to leave memories behind. In a way, we might see them as the symbols of our complicated relation with death and memories: that they can be painful, wistful, beautiful, and hopeful at the same time, exactly how they are supposed to be.
Sources
Carpenter, Humphrey. 2000. The Letters of J. R. R. Tolkien. Boston: Houghton Mifflin
Tolkien, J. R. R. 2003. The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King (edisi Indonesia). Apendiks A: Sejarah Para Raja dan Penguasa: Rumah Eorl. Jakarta: Gramedia Pustaka
Tolkien, J. R. R. 2002. The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (edisi Indonesia). Jakarta: Gramedia Pustaka
Tolkien, J.R.R. 1988. Unfinished Tales (ed. Christopher Tolkien). New York: Del Rey.
Frangipani, Flower of Love and Death. Retrieved: 09 March 2021
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