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Poetry of Nature | Early Summer | NanLeah

Writer's picture: NanLeahNanLeah

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A scintillant red orange dragonfly perches on a reed next to a steam in Tlaquepaque, AZ. Photo by NanLeah

What Kind of Times Are These

 

There's a place between two stands of trees where the grass grows uphill

and the old revolutionary road breaks off into shadows

near a meeting-house abandoned by the persecuted

who disappeared into those shadows.

 

I've walked there picking mushrooms at the edge of dread, but don't be fooled this isn't a Russian poem, this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear.

 

I won't tell you where the place is, the dark mesh of the woods

meeting the unmarked strip of light—

ghost-ridden crossroads, leafmold paradise:

I know already who wants to buy it, sell it, make it disappear.

 

And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

 

 

Listen to Adrienne Rich read What Kind of Times are These



Dear Poetry of Nature Friends,

 

Our global community faces many collective challenges. For early summer 2024 I’m sharing three poems that have been recent companions and medicine for my heart in our changing climes. This month I offer them as medicine for your heart.

 

“What Kind of Times Are These”, W.S. Merwin's "A Last Look", and Alberto de Veiga Simoe's "Ao Viandante" speak directly to my heart, mind and spirit. They're good medicine for what I am feeling and grieving - the vanishing of my neck of the woods, and the Pacific Northwest.

 

I love Rich's poem for many reasons. Adrienne Rich (1929-2012) was a fierce feminist. Her poem and question feel so relevant and urgent for me. We need Rich’s fierce poem, her energy, her voice. I feel like "What Kind of Times Are These" gives us permission to love what we love and to raise our voices about that. We can take heart in Rich's courage and speak our own truth and questions about the things that are troubling us, like climate change, and especially the assault on women, Nature and our Mother Earth.

A skeletal tree’s tenuous reflection in a puddle. The black skeleton floats on a grey background, stippled with white “clouds” to the right and banded with a long white “cloud” along the left side of the pic. Photo by NanLeah.
Tenuous Reflection

What we are doing to the forests of the world is but a mirror reflection of what we are doing to ourselves and to one another.


 ~ Chris Maser

 

We Must Speak About the Trees

This month I want to talk about the trees. I have to talk about the trees...

 

“Have you ever thought that greens are greener on an overcast day? Isn't that a tremendous idea?”

 

Our talented writer friend Michael, posed these lovely, synchronous questions, just before my Tree Sister Bunny and I made our annual pilgrimage to the Old Growth Hemlock. I really appreciate what Michael noticed, and that he shared it!

 

In our hearts and souls Bunny and I completely agree with Michael. There is nothing finer than the saturated greens of a cloudy day, like this raindrop lolling on a Douglas maple leaf.


Raindrops loll between the serrated edges of a new Douglas Maple leaf. Taken from the perspective of the leaf’s underside, the raindrop glows beneath onshore flow which highlights the veins at the leaf’s tip. The leaf is centered in a bokeh halo on a stormy grey background. Photo by NanLeah.
Rain's Fortune

"To really feel a forest canopy one must use different senses, and often the most useful one is the sense of imagination."


~ Joan Maloof


Around this time of year, Bunny and I long for the solace, silence, and stillness of these greens. They sing to us. We seek these greens in the Old Growth Hemlock Forest where the misty chuckle of the Skokomish River flows into our bones, and that music blends with Hemlock's breath on our skin and in our lungs.

 

As we set out, we were blessed with a divine veil of onshore flow and the saturated greens of early summer. However, we soon realized this trip was far different than previous years.

 

As we traveled, “What Kind of Times Are These” began resonating in me. In my belly and bones I felt a knife edge of primal dread. I was flooded with foreboding. Bunny's heart was filled with the tenuousness of the forest. Both of us were shaken to our cores. I was reminded of the Hopi term koyaanisqatsi, which translates as life out of balance.

 

As we ascended to the Old Growth, both sides of the slim dirt road were lined with fallen Douglas Fir and Hemlock. Like accusing fingers, the trees’ crowns pointed east. Bunny and I tried to make some kind of sense of the forest we were witnessing.

 

The once silent and sacred "dark mesh of the woods” was now haunted by great swaths of light occupying freshly destroyed canopy and our thoughts. Our sacred forest was disappearing right before our eyes,

 

These conditions prevailed at the trailhead. Strewn along and over the path were Douglas Fir and young Hemlock, all pointing east. For two miles, we waded through Douglas Fir and young Hemlock crowns. We climbed over and scrabbled beneath them. The forest was spicy with their ghosts.

 

This was the stunning and unprecedented power of climate chaos. It easily swept these trees aside, leaving gaps of misplaced light for miles. Our beloved Old Growth had become endangered. The greens we so loved were fundamentally changed in a way that defied our imaginations. Our hearts broke.

 

I consulted the Forest Service about the circumstances that had weakened this forest. I was told: drought, disease, pine beetles, very heavy snowfall and a western winter cyclone. A perfect storm of climate change.

 

Unlike a science fiction novel, this here was real. These lines from Rich’s poem especially stood out for me:


"this is not somewhere else but here,

our country moving closer to its own truth and dread,

its own ways of making people disappear."


...and Nature, I thought. Making our Forests disappear. We have forgotten the face of our Mother!

 

Rich's last four lines are powerful:


And I won't tell you where it is, so why do I tell you

anything? Because you still listen, because in times like these

to have you listen at all, it's necessary

to talk about trees.

 

We must speak about the trees.

Make it Disappear – The fading emerald and grey lace of a dying Western Red Cedar embraces a dead rusty White Pine. Douglas Fir, Oxeye Daisies and Evergreen Huckleberry frame the pair. As this is my neighbor’s yard, I deal daily with tree grief. Photo by NanLeah.
Make it Disappear - Dying Western Red Cedar embraces a dead White Pine.

“To be without trees would, in the most literal way, to be without our roots.”


~ Richard Mabey

 

W.S. Merwin's "A Last Look" (below) also has me thinking about how trees are much like us, and how they've been here for us. And they have existed for millions of years longer than humans. Merwin's poem also carries foreboding feelings for me. Because once you see the dying trees, you cannot unsee them.

 

I recently learned this on a trip to Alaska. I immediately fell in love with Alaska's powerful beauty and wildness. Wherever we traveled along the Inner Passage, I saw long swaths of dead trees that reminded me of pine beetle infestations. I was aware of stressed trees and graying forest edges. In Alaska, I clearly saw the death of green. Only my husband and I noticed Alaska's trees. And when I pointed it out to fellow travelers, I felt dismissed. Like Merwin, I find it hard to wrap my mind around folks who aren't aware of trees, and live in a world where rain is a misfortune. Since this trip my tree grief has deepened.


A Last Look

 

Even the words are going somewhere urban

where they hope to find friends

waiting for them

 

some of the friends will think of trees as pleasant in a minor way

much alike after all

to us

 

some of the friends will never be aware of a single tree

they will live in a world without a leaf

where the rain is misfortune

 

all the languages until now have flowed

from leaf to leaf

and have gone like faces

 

gone like the stone porches of small houses

and the smell of the forest

in the water of summer

 


You Must Speak About the Trees

First, I invite you to grab your Nature journal and head out. This month, please take time to attune to and befriend your trees. How might these trees feel? Place your palms on the trees, feel their bark. Notice how they branch, caress their leaves. Where and how do they root in Earth? What qualities do you share in common with these trees? Write a poem about your connections. You could also write a poem about your differences!

 

While you're out among the trees, I invite you to continue deepening your experiences and connections with trees. As you walk among the trees, walk mindfully, breathe deeply. Give the trees your full attention and gratitude. What do your senses say to you about these trees? Pick up a walking stick. Feel in your hand and body the balance this tree branch lends you. You could collect pinecones, bark and tree moss. If you're at the beach, you could collect driftwood. In your Nature journal reflect on the trees' gifts to you. Let these details inform a poem.

 

You could also chose to creatively connect with your trees. As you create, jot notes in your Nature journal about how you're feeling, what your senses relate, and anything that inspires you. Fabric, collage, sketching, photography, vision boards, jewelry, driftwood sculptures, Nature altars...the artistic possibilities are as endless as the mycelial network that connects the trees. Let your tree connections inform your work. When your project is complete and you feel ready to write, I invite you to try writing an ekphrastic poem, which is a poem written in praise of art. Celebrate the trees with an inspiring and vivid poem describing your unique tree art.

 

My final invitation to you: Now that you've been connecting with your Nature spot for the last six months, what climate changes are you witnessing? How does climate change affect you? How is it affecting the trees? What about the seasons and beings in your life and your relationships with them? What is disappearing or gone, as Merwin writes in his poem:


gone like the stone porches of small houses

and the smell of the forest

in the water of summer


Write a poem about how climate chaos is affecting your trees and rearranging your environment.

 

Below is my haiku to what is missing for the first time ever in my neck of the woods:

 

haiku: to a missing season

 

Swainson’s thrush

ominous absence of song

summer’s early ghosts

 

~ NanLeah

 

I wish you all a safe and happy 4th. Please scroll down to the bottom of this letter for "Ao Viandante" by Alberto de Veiga Simoe. "Ao Viandante" is Portuguese and roughly translates as: "To the person who passes through this place". This poem is found in forests across North America.

 

May the Forest Be With You, Always!

NanLeah

The friendly shade of a trio of Big Leaf Maple sisters rises from the left bottom corner of the photo. They shade me from the sun, which flares between their trunks. The sun makes silhouettes of the maple trunks and backlights the emerald canopy. Photo by NanLeah.
The Friendly Shade

"Trees are poems that the earth writes upon the sky."


~ Kahlil Gibran

 


"Ao Viandante"

 

I am the heat of your hearth on the cold winter nights,

the friendly shade screening you from the summer sun,

and my fruits are refreshing draughts quenching your thirst as you journey on.

I am the beam that holds your house, the board of your table,

the bed on which you lie, and the timber that builds your boat.

I am the handle of your hoe, the door of your homestead,

the wood of your cradle, and the shell of your coffin.

I am the bread of kindness and the flower of beauty.

Ye who pass by, listen to my prayer: Harm me not.

 

~ Alberto de Veiga Simoe, 1914

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