[with poems by Lucinda Trew and Jane Craven]
Last week I took a walk in the woods with my oldest friend Bill (distanced by 2-meter dog leash). We were forest bathing (shinrin yoku): phones off, listening to Grassy Creek accompany our rustic trail, smelling leafmold, fungus, pines, going nowhere and getting there; reflecting on the moment, simmering in our conjoined past which stretches all the way back to our grandfathers who worked together on the same railroad 60 years ago.
Every trail, though, has a way of turning. Almost back to our cars, Bill happened to ask, “What are you going to do with your stuff before you die?” Us old guys, especially old poets, think about dying. Good story fodder. Let me tell you the one about . . . . Just not usually as concrete as what will become of our earthly matter when no one wants it any more.
Stoff: German, translates as substance. Two synonyms for Oxygen are Sauerstoff and Atemluft, the first meaning acid substance (early chemists’ misconception that all acids must contain oxygen) and the second meaning air for breathing. We humans can live about 3 minutes without oxygen before our brains lose neurons and our substance begins to degrade, but oxygen is pure poison to many microorganisms and tricky to deal with even for our own mammal cells (or why else would anti-oxidants be such a big deal?).
Stuff is pretty frangible. Are the moment’s mental occupations or the day’s consuming concerns any more tangible? Bill shared with me a photo of his granddad Enoch Blackley in his engineer’s gear from the 30’s, outline of pocket watch visible through the denim of his overalls. I have one very similar of my granddaddy Peewee Griffin. The bit of stuff comprising those old prints, grains of silver on paper, is mere milligrams of matter; the cubic volume of memory those images reveal is larger than many lives.
My Stoff – carbon, nitrogen, phosporus – will feed the trees. May I leave behind the tempo of my walk, the sound of laughter, honest tears of compassion, a couple of good poems. Maybe that’ll do.
. . . . . . .
These two poems are from Kakalak 2020, the annual anthology of Carolina poets, by writers whom I don’t know and hadn’t read before. Lucinda Trew’s Of Stars fills me with wonder, all the universe in a crow-eye seed, somewhere within the secrets of universe wanting to be spilled out. Jane Craven’s Speaking of the World does just that, the image of a small flower expanding to hold the pain and contradictions of the most intimate relationships.
Metaphor is the tool that communicates the mysteries which swirl around us and within us, the inexplicable spark of our synapses, the spin of our electrons. Some things can’t be spoken, only sung.
. . . . . . .
Of Stars
If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe. – Carl Sagan
The conjuring orchard man
holds hemispheres in sturdy hands
cupping chaos and creation
presenting apple halves
for inspection
and the revelation
of stars
a crop circle enigma etched
within sweet flesh
five symmetrical rays cradling
crow-eye seeds
small enough to spit
vast enough to hold eternity –
the very dust and stuff
of stars
carbon, nitrogen, oxygen
phosphorus – the breath and wingbeat
of birds who rise from reeds and nest
the rush and thrum
of boys who scrabble up bark, swagger
wave applewood swords
the sway and silhouette
of branches, girls dancing
longing for the moon
of pulse and surge
of cities, song, engines
prayer
the earthen realm
of roots and worm, turnips
and bones
the axial turn
of tides and shells
molecular chains
and of apples
twisted exquisitely, evenly
in half
spilling stars
and seeds and secrets
of the universe
Lucinda Trew, Kakalak 2020, Main Street Rag Publishing Company
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
Speaking of the World
Pinprick faces open in a violet fever behind my house – swathes
of mazus flowering downhill. A cultivar
from the Himalayas, it’s bred to survive scarcity and climate extremes.
In your world, the doctors have gone, left your body
a prescribed burn, lightly
elevated in a rented hospital bed, handfuls of pills labeled for days.
The trees, to a one, freeze beneath a milky lichen – and you who sleep
year round with open windows are speaking of the world –
of the last deer you saw weaving through balsam, of the bear
who bent double the birdfeeder, wild turkeys and their long-
neck chicks, a lone slavering coyote crossing the yard.
Grief, you say
three times,
each a dry leaf
papering
from your lips.
I left you in the boreal world, rushed back to my own life.
And I admit this with unnatural ease, like there’s no shame
in turning toward the sun, in enduring.
Jane Craven, Kakalak 2020, Main Street Rag Publishing Company
. . . . . . .
Lucinda Trew: http://trewwords.com/about/
Jane Craven: https://www.janecraven.com/bio
. . . . . . .
V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 