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Poetry and Prose
September 2009 Posts
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These gifts the island gives:the moose swimming across the harborthe moon rising above the fogflowers along the trailthe sweet gift of birdsong youcan't wait for the island to come to you—the gifts are given without warning.You must be there watching, listening,and the gift must move like water—You must pass it onin whatever way you fashion.
From Volume 6, No. 1 & 2
Colin Lowry photo
The heart breaks as it watches life clinging precariously to the edge.Cold, hard calculations determine how billions are spent.Compassion compels volunteers to bring food and medicine to the needy.Aloof bureaucrats condemn struggling families to unemployment poverty.Heart-felt cries condemn the destruction of forests.Remote executives establish policies that affect an ecosystem.Empathy prompts the Christian mother to help the Muslim child. Fanatics kill for their beliefs.Care and concern cross barriers of greed and country Isolation and detachment sentence whole communities to death.And we, the willing will keep the heart-aches, the compassion, the cries, empathy, care and concern.We will go on witnessing the crimes, despite our exhaustion, our fatigue, even our individual collapse –because to not do so would let those distant, unfeeling, detached, and frosty forget that they, like us, are human too.And the human race is the only race and the planet Earth is our only planet.
From Volume 5, No. 1 & 2
In Alaska I slept in a bed on stilts, one armpressed against the ice feathered window,the heat on high, sweat darkening the collarof my cotton thermals. I worked hard to buy that bed,walked towards it when the men in the boothswere finished crushing hundred dollar billsinto my hand, pitchers of beer balanced on my shoulderset down like pots of gold. My shift ended at 5 a.m.:station tables wiped clean, salt and peppersreplenished, ketchups married. I walked the dirt roadin my stained apron and snow boots, wool scarf,second-hand gloves, steam risingoff the backs of horses wading chest deep in fog.I walked home slow under Orion, his starry belthung heavy beneath the cold carved moon.My room was still, quiet, squares of starlightset down like blank pages on the yellow quilt.I left the heat on because I could afford it, the househot as a sauna, and shed my sweater, my skirt,toed off my boots, slung my damp socksover the heater’s coils. I don’t know nowwhy I ever left. I slept like the deadwhile outside my window the sun roselow over the glacier, and the glacier did its bestto hold on, though one morning I woke to hear itgiving up, sloughing off a chunk of antediluvian icethat sounded like the door to heaven openingon a badly hung hinge. Those undefined daysI stared into the blue scar where the icehad been, so clear and crystalline it hurt. I sleptin my small room and all night – or what passed for nightthat far north – the geography of the worldoutside my window was breaking, changing shape.And I woke to it and looked at it and didn’t speak.
From Volume 5, No. 1 z& 2
Somewhere deep inside me, is a hermit on a hill.See her sitting there - alone and very still.Listening to the voices of the birds and bees;Voices even of the rocks, the dirt and trees.What is it they are saying, the voices she can hear?Can you hear them too, if you sit there very near?The rocks speak very slowly - for them time passes slow.The bees speak very quickly - they have little time, you know.The trees have deep voices that sing of earth, wind, rain and sun.The birds fly around the air, talking joy and food and fun.But they all hear the cries that come from near and wide.From places that are near them, or from Earth’s other side.For when a forest is mown down, or soil loses fertile heart;When chemicals kill fish or rocks are hacked apart.For when highly toxic fumes spew out into the air,And those humans in control never even seem to care,The rocks, and birds and trees all cry out their terror,With all that is inside them, they warn humans of their error.But the humans cannot hear the cries above the chatter.For humans only listen to talk of things that do not matter.Like who has the most power, who has the most things.While Nature, with its solemn warning, absolutely rings.What is it they are saying, the voices she can hear?You can hear them too, if you sit there very near.And very, very slowly, the rocks they will talk on.With sadness all around them, when all life is gone.But if people start to listen, to the voices she can hear;If they start to listen to Nature’s sounds of fear.Then they’ll no longer treat Earth as a worthless toy.And Nature’s sounds of fear, will turn to songs of joy.
Yet AgainWe are poured from theMother’s Bowl of lightInto the dark batterof Her underworld ovenWith Persephone, HecateBalanced on the cusp, the in betweenWe rejoice in her bountySuspended in that spaceBetween the heart beatsBetween the in and the outBetween the light and the darkOn the rim of changeWe Surrender
The BecomingNothing becoming something.Something becoming particles.Particles becoming matter.Matter becoming stars.Stars becoming supernova.Supernova becoming solar system.Solar system becoming planet.Planet becoming life supporting.Life supporting becoming life aware.Life aware becoming powerful and dominating.Powerful and dominating becoming destructive.Destructive becoming fearful.Fearful becoming creative.Creative becoming restoring.Restoring becoming harmonious.Harmonious becoming.
Not YetIn the beginning was the word, and the word was Not Yet.Not Yet the moment of that vast flaring forth into time and space.Not Yet the particles and antiparticles battle for existence.Each moment since has been pregnant with Not Yet.Not Yet the colliding of particles and the creation of matter.Not Yet the colliding of matter to form stars, galaxies.Not Yet the supernova that formed our sun, our earth.Not Yet the churning and cooling of that earth to create atmosphere.Not Yet the mix that creates Life.Not Yet multi-cell organisms.Not Yet dinosaurs, not yet their decline.Not Yet the rise of mammalsNot Yet that bi-ped mammal who manipulates the environment.Not Yet that manipulation leading to near disaster.Not Yet the solution, the ability to turn around andNot Yet the self-awareness that extends to other/world/universe awareness.Not Yet the opening into understanding of the Whole, into compassion.Not Yet that creative balance between all matter, all life forms.Not Yet, but soon.
Pertaining ButterfliesRapture in blind,“It is dark” my father says.I forge myself first of artistic politics,How feasible it would be,To line the country up With words.Mayhem among the narrow minded . . . First of feminine poetic for president;Socialists smile loudFeminists clap in laughsA philosopher of poetry artistic decorating AmericaFreedom of a true definition!All we neededArtword feminine for presidentGreens, liberals, and beatniksWear my pin as I run for president,I yield for butterflies behind the wheel!
If we have powers of imagination, these are activated by the magic display of color and sound, of form and movement, such as we observe in the clouds of the sky, the trees and bushes and flowers, the waters and the wind, the singing birds, and the movement of the great blue whale through the sea. If we have words with which to speak and think and commune, words for the inner experience of the divine, words for the intimacies of life, if we have words for telling stories to our children, words with which we can sing, it is again because of the impressions we have received from the variety of beings about us. If we lived on the moon, our mind and emotions, our speech, our imagination, our sense of the divine would all reflect the desolation of the lunar landscape. . . . To learn how to live graciously together would make us worthy of this unique, beautiful, blue planet that evolved in its present splendor over some billions of years, a planet that we should give over to our children with the assurance that this great community of being will lavish upon them the care that it has bestowed so abundantly upon ourselves.”- Thomas Berry, The Dream of the Earth, pgs. 11-12
Let the trees be consultedbefore you take any actionevery time you breathe inthank a treelet treeroots crack parking lotsat the world bank headquarterslet loggers be druidsspecially trained and rewardedto sacrifice trees at auspicious timeslet carpenters be master artisanslet lumber be treasured like goldlet chainsaws be played like saxophoneslet soldiers on maneuvers plant treesgive police and criminalsa shovel and a thousand seedlingslet businessmen carry pocketfuls of acornslet newlyweds honeymoon in the woodswalk don’t drivestop reading newspapersstop writing poetrysquat under a treeand tell stories- John Wright
When the animals come to us,
asking for our help,
will we know what they are saying?
When the plants speak to us
in their delicate, beautiful language,
will we be able to answer them?
When the planet herself
sings to us in our dreams,
will we be able to wake ourselves,
and act?
- Gary Lawless
a woman can’t surviveby her own breathe aloneshe must knowthe voices of mountainsshe must recognizethe foreverness of blue skyshe must flowwith the elusivebodiesof night wind womenwho will take her intoher own selflook at mei am not a separate womani am a continuanceof blue skyi am the throatof the sandia mountainsa night wind womanwho burnswith every breathshe takes- Joy Harjo
When we are really awake to the life of our senses -- when we are really watching with our animal eyes and listening with our animal ears -- we discover that nothing in the world around us is directly experienced as a passive or inanimate object. Each thing, each entity meets our gaze with its own secrets and, if we lend it our attention, we are drawn into a dynamic interaction wherein we are taught and sometimes transformed by this other being.- David Abram, "Trust Your Senses"
My father shelled these beans,Deep red with fine white stripes,The same his father shelled.They planted, hoed and pickedAnd saved the seed each year,Enough to plant next spring,Whatever left to eatWith pork baked in a potFor supper SaturdaysAnd Sunday morning meals. Now I am shelling beansMy father gave to me.I'm proud to grow them pureAnd save the seed each year. Three generations shelledAnd saved the seed each year,And it might well be moreFor no one seems to knowWhat generation firsthad planted, raised these beans. Three generations butThe beans so many more.- Walter StaplesWalter Staples is a writer, poet, and avid fisher who was rasied on a farm in Maine.
DesireMy sons set up their telescope, to seethe moon,close up.We huddle under stars, and of suchflimsy stuffthat planets turn in spacebetween my nerve cells. Atoms,And smaller things I cannot callby name, because their names meannothing to me,I am too big to beintimate with them,too smallto see their meaning. Blue Earthis of a size I can comprehend, and life herehas captured my imagination.The airis such that my sons canbreathe it, and live.The colors here aregoodin our eyes, to feed uswhat our souls need.Hereare salty pools of liquid night,anemones and purple urchinsopening. And on a night likethis one,human comfort.All else — lifebefore this life, a life called death orlife in spirit — I knowon faith. But life on Earth isvisibleand precious; it’s just begun to flicker.We must be born to live it.And yetwe’re scared, our feara bandage wrapping sores too rawto touch — the knowingof madnessin places of power.These woundswant air, to heal them. They must beseen,and so must photographs ofscorched and melting children. We bearthe powerof Hiroshima destroyedone hundred thousand-fold, and yetwe are such flimsy stuffas flowers, onlyatoms,and those smaller things, spinningin empty night.And fear. And rage.And hope. And willto love. My sons taketurns, to seethe moon, close up. I takepleasurein the thinning skinof my throat — in signsof age, and softness. Pulling tight my sweater, I wanttimeto bethe mother of three old menin warm sockson the living Earth. - Suzanne Maxson
The Earth is a living thing. The mountains speak. The trees sing. Lakes can think. Pebbles have a soul. Rocks have power.- Lame Deer
The breezes at dawn have secrets to tell you.Don't go back to sleep!You must ask for what you really want.Don't go back to sleep!People are going back and forthAcross the doorsill where the two worlds touch,The door is round and open.Don't go back to sleep!- Rumi
Tonight I walk. I am watching the sky. I think of the people who came before me and how they knew the placement of stars in the sky, watched the moving sun long and hard enough to witness how a cerain angle of light touched a stone only once a year. Without written records, they knew the gods of every night, the small, fine details of the world around them and of immensity above them.Walking, I can almost hear the redwoods beating. And the oceans are above me here, rolling clouds, heavy and dark, considering snow . . .It's winter and there is smoke from the fires. The square, lighted windows of houses are fogging over. It is a world of elemental attention, of all things working together, listening to what speaks in the blood. Whichever road I follow, I walk in the land of many gods, and they love and eat one another.Walking, I am listening to a deeper way. Suddenly all my ancestors are behind me. Be still, they say. Watch and listen. You are the result of the love of thousands.- Linda Hogan, from "Walking", Parabola, Summer 1990
Cornmeal and pollen are offered to the sun at dawn. The ears of the corn are listening and waiting. They want peace. The stalks of the corn want clean water, sun that is in its full clean shining. The leaves of the corn want good Earth. The Earth wants peace. The birds who eat the corn do not want poisons. Nothing wants to suffer. The wind does not want to carry stories of death.From "A Different Yield" in Dwellings: A Spiritual History of the Living World
The Beauty of the trees,the softness of the air,the fragrance of the grass,speaks to me.The summit of the mountain,the thunder of the sky,the rhythm of the sea,speaks to me.The faintness of the stars,the freshness of the morning,the dewdrop on the flower,speaks to me.The strength of fire,the taste of salmon,the trail of the sun,and the life that never goes away,they speak to me.And my heart soars.- Chief Dan George & Helmet Hirnschall
