[with poems by Donald Hall and Charles Martin]
Have you ever imagined, while walking a well-worn woodland trail, simply stepping off into the forest? What if you moved just ten feet, twenty, into the trees? Would you be standing on a spot untouched by human feet for years? Decades? Forever?
I considered this years ago when I led, with my son Josh as co-leader, a little crew of Boy Scouts on a 10-day canoe trek in the Boundary Waters Wilderness of northern Minnesota. We camped each night on the shore of different lake. Some mornings (sunrise 0400) while they still slept I walked away from the water into the trackless forest. Did the last human rest on this lichen crusted boulder more than a hundred years ago, a French voyageur taking a break from trapping? A thousand years ago, a young Anishinaabe scout hunting meat for his village? Ten thousand years ago?
Now Josh spends every day it’s not raining trekking the Blue Ridge & foothills as a surveyor. When did a human foot last jump this creek or climb this unforgiving steepness? This corner marked by a chestnut ten feet in girth – today Josh must discover the remnant of its stump. How long must the earth rest from the tread of human feet before all sign of our passage is erased? How far is it from here to the middle of nowhere?
Last Saturday I joined a trail crew to maintain a little section of the Mountains-to-Sea trail near Elkin. The MST is a work in progress – departing Elkin hiking east, you follow Rte 268 most of the way to Pilot Mountain. Our day’s assignment was an orphan – 1 ½ miles of footpath leading away from the road and on through the woods with no trailhead or connectors. Probably no one had walked this way since it was last maintained in 2020.
Everywhere a little sun penetrates the undergrowth thrives: Goldenrod, Burnweed, Wingstem, Boneset, all manner of grasses native and exotic – summer asters up to eight feet tall, especially through the Duke Energy right-of-way beneath power lines. Add obstructions from grapevine, Smilax, fallen trees and in one single year the trail had become impenetrable, almost disappearing except for the white circular MST blazes on the trees.
In a few more years it might have lead to the middle of nowhere. Which is how you get to the middle of everywhere. Which is the trail I want to walk.
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
Surface
The surveyor climbs a stonewall into woods
scribbled with ferns, saplings, and dead oaktrees
where weltering lines trope themselves into stacks
of vegetation. He sees an ash forced around a rock
with roots that clutch on granite like a fist
grasping a paperweight. He stares at hemlocks
rising among three-hundred-year-old sugarmaples
that hoist a green archive of crowns: kingdom
of fecund death and pitiless survival. He observes
how birch knocked down by wind and popple chewed
by beaver twist over and under each other, branches
abrasive when new-fallen, turning mossy and damp
as they erase themselves into humus, becoming
polyseeded earth that loosens with lively pokeholes
of creatures that watch him back: possum, otter,
fox. Here the surveyor tries making his mark:
He slashes a young oak; he constructs a stone
cairn at a conceptual right-angle; he stamps
his name and the day’s date onto metal tacked
to a stake. His text established, he departs
the life-and-death woods, where cellular life keeps
pressing upward from underground offices to read
sun and study slogans of dirt: “Never consider
a surface except as the extension of a volume.”
from Poems for a Small Planet: Contemporary American Nature Poetry. Edited by Robert Pack & Jay Parini, A Bread Loaf Anthology, © 1993, Middlebury College Press.
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
Both of today’s poems are from Poems for a Small Planet, edited by Robert Pack & Jay Parini. This next one by Charles Martin stuck to my soul like beggar lice – I’ve imagined myself stuck in a dry spell for the past several weeks. I can’t resist the epigraph by Randall Jarrell, one of North Carolina’s most luminous poets. While waiting for lightning to strike I’ll learn to endure the rain running off my chin.
. . . . . . .
Reflections after a Dry Spell
++++ A good poet is someone who manages, in a
++++ lifetime of standing out in thunderstorms, to be
++++ struck by lightning five or six times.
++++ — Randall Jarrell
And the one that took this literally
Is the one that you still sometimes see
In the park, running from tree to tree
On likely days, out to stand under
The right one this time – until the thunder
Rebukes him for yet another blunder. . . .
But the one who knew it was nothing more
(That flash of lightning) than a metaphor,
And said as much, as he went out the door –
Of that one, if you’re lucky, you just may find
The unzapped verse or two he left behind
On the confusion between World and Mind.
from Poems for a Small Planet: Contemporary American Nature Poetry. Edited by Robert Pack & Jay Parini, A Bread Loaf Anthology, © 1993, Middlebury College Press.
. . . . . . .
. . . . . . .
[My immense gratitude to the Elkin Valley Trails Association for imagining, creating, maintaining, and improving the Mountains-to-Sea Trail from Stone Mountain State Park to Elkin and onward east through Surry County, North Carolina. And for inviting this lunkhead with a shovel to join in.]
. . . . . . .
V E R S E ❦ I M A G E 