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Connect

Posted in Ecopoetry, Imagery, Photography, poetry, tagged Bill Griffin, Frank X Walker, Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, GSMIT, GSMNP, imagery, Jeannine Jordan, Kim Hayes, nature, nature photography, nature poetry, Renee Whitmore, Sarah Small, Sophia Fortunato, Suzanne Bell on November 3, 2023| 14 Comments »

[with poems by the 2023 Tremont Poetry Cohort]

Awaken

. .

You came because the river quiets your soul,

the sassafras soothes and sweetgum settles.

Have you gotten your breath? Do you remember who you are?

Leave us, now; it’s our time to sleep. You go, awake.

Sarah Small / Alcoa, Tennessee

postcard – Mother bear & cubs

❦ ❦ ❦

The Little River is singing ‘October Blues’ and I can listen if I’ll just roll down my window. Leaving the Smokies on a Sunday morning, who would have imagined such a glut of traffic, but I can make the choice to gentle my right foot and blend with the flow. And here on the right comes another choice: I pull off at Chimneys and flush the press of schedule and itinerary from my mind.

A ten minute climb into old growth hardwood cove and road noise no longer penetrates. Every few steps another chipmunk whistles its alarm. Fecund – whoever coined that word was smelling this place. The carpet is bright green hepatica saving up to flower in just a few months, the understory is summer seedhead bounty and autumn wood asters blooming like crazy, and the overstory is way up there, crooked and knobbed, reaching and mingling and only allowing an occasional glimpse of Balsam Point.

I’ve been waiting since breakfast and now I pull out the small slip of lined paper Renée gave me, a personal parting note; she prepared one for each of us in the cohort. “Read it later,” she had said. I’m going to trust she won’t mind if I share one line: “I came to this conference with some heaviness and I’m leaving with light and a sense of belonging.” A mystery, a wonder, an inexplicable blessing that in just a few days eight strangers can so deeply connect.

❦ ❦ ❦

[untitled]

You’re not a flightless bird,

+++++ your wings held tight

against your breast;

+++++ unfurl your plumage,

Go from here with boldness,

+++++ revel in your glory.

Jeannine Jordan / Lima, Ohio

postcard – Wild Turkey

❦

Community

(the Park speaks)

Inspire, breath in, be filled with spirit –

think I’d tip you like a funnel and pour

right in? Look around this circle and take

a lesson from the Queen of Connection.

Bill Griffin / Elkin, North Carolina

postcard – entrance to GSMNP

❦ ❦ ❦

Frank fans the deck and asks us each to select one. They’re postcards, of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, face down so we can’t see what we’ve picked. “The card has picked you,” Frank suggests. “What is it telling you about why you are here and what you’ll take with you when you leave?”

This is our last exercise during our last session of this inaugural Tremont Writers’ Conference. Can it be only three days ago that Frank X Walker introduced himself to us as an artist who speaks Poet? Besides the language of linebreak and word choice, what Frank so incisively speaks is creativity, challenge, connection, community. Oh yes, we learn to critique each other’s poems through his quiet observations. Yes, we engage in color studies and sound studies and we write to prompts. But Frank is not teaching us to be writers – he is teaching us to be human. His carefully considered comments touch our gifts and expose our needs, and even more than that he weaves us seven into a whole whose true commitment is to bring out the best in each other.

After ten or fifteen minutes of writing – channeling the voice we are hearing in our card’s image – Frank stops us and presents his next to last prompt: now break that all down into four lines. We probably should have seen this coming. We really aren’t ready, though, for his final instruction. He has us each pass our card two people to the left, write our home address on the fresh card we’re holding, then pass it back right to its original owner. Each of us will write our four-line poem on our card and mail it, and in a few days we will each receive a poem from one other member of the cohort.

We won’t be driving home from this gathering to resume our scribbling in isolation. We will be watching the mailbox (and text messages) with a tingle. We are now a creative family. We are connected.

❦ ❦ ❦

The Experience

Like me, a yearling bear,

caged and carried away.

You came for the experience.

Imagine me gone. Write it.

Kim Hayes / Weaverville, North Carolina

postcard – Ursus americanus, Black Bear

❦

Somewhere, Sometime

Sunlight in this open field

Safely wander, graze

Trust the treeline

Grow. (I am growing, too.)

Suzanne Bell / Pisgah Forest, North Carolina

postcard – deer graze in Cades Cove

❦ ❦ ❦

Connecting People with Nature is the motto of Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont. Amen! In completing the Southern Appalachian Naturalist Certification Program at Tremont, I have felt the web of connections forged there welling up in me and changing me. One begins with the name of a thing, then comes to recognize how it makes its living and gets along with its neighbors, until at last there dawns an appreciation of the deep interdependence and kinship of all life, place, and planet. One living community.

But if ecology is the study of living communities, poetry also has its ecology. How does the poem bring together all these living bits that make it come alive? Its images, its allusions, its music? How does the poem make its world equally real to or perhaps even more real than the world speeding by outside my window?

It seems to me that the technique we learn at Tremont, the Naturalist Method, is entirely congruent with the Poetic Method – Pay Attention; Ask Questions; Make Connections; Share. All of this we try to do when we “speak Poet.” And Frank X Walker has certainly enabled every bit of this in us during our few days of communion with mountains, rivers, bears, each other. It is a language of laughter and surprise. It is a language of change and growth. It is a language of discovery, insight, and awe. We are leaving Tremont bubbling with its voice and overflowing with its joy. Poetry, and Nature, are how we connect.
.

❦ ❦ ❦

[untitled]
.
Born on the top, nestled through the sides, tumbled to the bottom.
Again and again.
Those mountains captured and created.
Then they carried.

Renée Whitmore / Vass, North Carolina
postcard – sunrise through mountains in Cades Cove

❦

Clouds in my Skin

You are here
Not to burn through the mist
To roll around in the slick slopes
Of your soft hope—this knowing, this peace

Sophia Fortunato / Bozeman, Montana
postcard – mountain ridges fading into blue mist

❦ ❦ ❦

The Poetry Cohort of the First Tremont Writers’ Conference, October 15-29, 2023, is Jeannine Jordan, Bill Griffin, Sophia Fortunato, Sarah Small, Renée Whitmore, Kim Hayes, and Suzanne Bell. Our teacher, mentor, guide, and brother is Frank X Walker from Lexington, Kentucky, speaker of poetry, professor at University of Kentucky, and former state Poet Laureate.

Other instructors at this inaugural conference are Janet McCue (Non-Fiction) and Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle (Fiction) and the featured speaker is Richard Powers, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Overstory. Jeremy Lloyd, Tremont Manager of Field and College Programs, has been the primary organizer, assisted by Tremont staff Elizabeth Davis, Erin Cantor, Lyndsey Kessler, education director John DiDiego, and many others.

This conference was also made possible through the integral participation and partnership of Great Smoky Mountains Association and Creative Services Director Frances Figart. Thank you!

Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont

Great Smoky Mountains Association

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Slug / Sandbox

Posted in Ecopoetry, family, Imagery, Photography, poetry, tagged Bill Griffin, Ecopoetry, Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont, imagery, Jean Toomer, nature photography, nature poetry, poetry, Wallace Stevens, Walt Whitman on June 30, 2023| 11 Comments »

[3 poems from The ECOPOETRY Anthology]

from Song of Myself

A child said What is the grass? fetching it to me with full hands;

How could I answer the child? I do not know what it is any more than he.

I guess it must be the flag of my disposition, out of hopeful green stuff woven.

Or I guess it is the handkerchief of the Lord,

A scented gift and remembrancer designedly dropt,

Bearing the owner’s name someway in the corners, that we may see and remark, and say Whose?

Or I guess the grass is itself a child, the produced babe of the vegetation.

Or I guess it is a uniform hieroglyphic,

And it means, Sprouting alike in broad zones and narrow zones,

Growing among black folks as among white,

Kanuck, Tuckahoe, Congressman, Cuff, I give them the same, I receive them the same.

. .

And now it seems to me the beautiful uncut hair of graves.

Tenderly will I use you curling grass,

It may be you transpire from the breasts of young men,

It may be if I had known them I would have loved them,

It may be you are from old people, or from offspring taken soon out of their mothers’ laps,

And here you are the mothers’ laps.

This grass is very dark to be from the white heads of old mothers,

Darker than the colorless beards of old men,

Dark to come from under the faint red roofs of mouths.

O I perceive after all so many uttering tongues,

And I perceive they do not come from the roofs of mouths for nothing.

I wish I could translate the hints about the dead young men and women,

And the hints about old men and mothers, and the offspring taken soon out of their laps.

What do you think has become of the young and old men?

And what do you think has become of the women and children?

They are alive and well somewhere,

The smallest sprout shows there is really no death,

And if ever there was it led forward life, and does not wait at the end to arrest it,

And ceas’d the moment life appear’d.

All goes onward and outward, nothing collapses,

And to die is different from what any one supposed, and luckier.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892)

❦ ❦ ❦

They are alive and well somewhere . . . there is really no death

June 21 is cold and rainy. Perhaps that is why the slug feels confident to patrol the deck rail fully exposed. They (one slug being both male and female) retract their delicate ommatophora when we approach, perhaps because we are large and our movement is easily sensed. After a minute they once again extend those beautiful slender eyestalks, perhaps because we are large and easily overlooked. In a moment their glide and wander will discover a dense patch of algae shaded by a finial. Their many-toothed radula will work hard and satisfy.

Amelia and I watch until the rain drives us indoors. In a quarter hour it lessens and we return, but the slug has motored out of sight. Who knew it was so speedy? We peer under and around – no slug. She desires more slugs, so we hunt each post and rail of the deck, the green-hazed porch screens, the planters. We reach the far corner and look down into the mud and mangled trunks and branches left by this spring’s severe storm. Amelia asks why there is a layer of straw strewn across a patch of ground there.

❦

Seeing the forecast for a week of rain, on Monday morning I had finally taken up my fire rake and attacked the old sandbox site. When April’s tornado uprooted a big maple and white oak next to it (along with a dozen other trees behind our house), it exposed the bones of half-eaten 6×6’s I’d used to build the sandbox for Josh and Margaret in 1983. I dug them up and hacked out chickweed, smartweed, much despised stiltgrass. What had once been white sand was now filled with worms and 40 years of accumulating humus. Delicious.

June 19-24 was Naturalist Challenge Week, sponsored by Great Smoky Mountain Institute at Tremont. Participate from anywhere on earth; earn points and you can win a prize – 10 points for planting pollinators. I mixed all my leftover native seeds from last fall: a tablespoon of Bluecurl my son-in-law Josh collected for me, four kinds of milkweed, some monarda and coreopsis and who knows what. I sowed them across 200 square feet now newly introduced to sunlight. I sprinkled with straw as Amelia noticed. And around the edges I planted pumpkin seeds preserved from soup last Christmas, seeds Josh begged from his 100 year-old grandmother, perpetually propagated.

Yes, it’s late in the season for planting. Then again, who knows if we’ll even have frost this winter? Foothills NC, the new tropics. Every week Amelia and I can pause from our slug hunt, peer over the deck rail, and watch a patch of earth turning newly green. More life. I’ll save you a photo.

❦ ❦ ❦

November Cotton Flower

Boll-weevil’s coming, and the winter’s cold,

Made cotton-stalks look rusty, seasons old,

And cotton, scarce as any southern snow,

Was vanishing; the branch, so pinched and slow,

Failed in its function as the autumn rake;

Drouth fighting soil had caused the soil to take

All water from the streams; dead birds were found

In wells a hundred feet below the ground—

Such was the season when the flower bloomed.

Old folks were startled, and it soon assumed

Significance. Superstition saw

Something it had never seen before:

Brown eyes that loved without a trace of fear,

Beauty so sudden for that time of year.

Jean Toomer (1894-1967)

❦ ❦ ❦

Today’s poems are from The Ecopoetry Anthology, edited by Ann Fisher-Wirth and Laura-Gray Street, with a rousing introduction by Robert Hass (Trinity University Press, San Antonio, Texas, © 2020). It is a comprehensive volume, with over a hundred twentieth- and twenty-first century poets, and the book’s opening Historic section includes, among many others, the three poets in today’s selection:

Walt Whitman – Leaves of Grass was first published in 1855 and by the second edition had doubled in length. Today’s small excerpt from Song of Myself highlights the manifold metaphor of the most common of green living things.

Jean Toomer – moved to the South in 1921 and was inspired to write Cane in 1923, a hybrid work intertwining narrative and poetry, then continued on to pursue a literary career. He became an important figure in the Harlem Renaissance.

Wallace Stevens – the vice president of an insurance company, Stevens wrote poetry late into the night and on vacations. He also wrote treatises which suggested poetry’s ability to supplant religion; his Collected Poems in 1955 won the Pulitzer Prize.

❦ ❦ ❦

from Sunday Morning

Is there no change of death in paradise?

Does ripe fruit never fall? Or do the boughs

Hang always heavy in that perfect sky,

Unchanging, yet so like our perishing earth,

With rivers like our own that seek for seas

They never find, the same receding shores

That never touch with inarticulate pang?

Why set the pear upon those river-banks

Or spice the shores with odors of the plum?

Alas, that they should wear our colors there,

The silken weavings of our afternoons,

And pick the strings of our insipid lutes!

Death is the mother of beauty, mystical,

Within whose burning bosom we devise

Our earthly mothers waiting, sleeplessly.

VII

Supple and turbulent, a ring of men

Shall chant in orgy on a summer morn

Their boisterous devotion to the sun,

Not as a god, but as a god might be,

Naked among them, like a savage source.

Their chant shall be a chant of paradise,

Out of their blood, returning to the sky;

And in their chant shall enter, voice by voice,

The windy lake wherein their lord delights,

The trees, like serafin, and echoing hills,

That choir among themselves long afterward.

They shall know well the heavenly fellowship

Of men that perish and of summer morn.

And whence they came and whither they shall go

The dew upon their feet shall manifest.

Wallace Stevens (1879-1955)

❦ ❦ ❦

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Becoming Something New

Posted in Ecopoetry, Imagery, Photography, poetry, tagged Anne McCrary Sullivan, Bill Griffin, Ecopoetry, Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont, Great Smoky Mountains National Park, GSMIT, GSMNP, imagery, John Morgan, nature, nature photography, nature poetry, poetry, Southern Appalachian Naturalist Certification Program, Southern Appalachians on March 4, 2022| 14 Comments »

[poems by Bill Griffin, John Morgan, Anne McCrary Sullivan]

Always something new. Trees I’ve passed a dozen times, these stones, did they always look like this? Oh sure, no doubt those gray-green blotches scattered here & there just so sparked some cryptic synapse of recognition: lichen. But slow down, kneel, look close and learn, understand a fragment of what is happening here and has been happening for too long to grasp. Always something new to discover.

How do they do it? Fungal hyphae, infinitely winding threads coil to embrace their chosen algae, held in their arms like waifs. Separate them, fungus and plant, separate kingdoms, and the textbook shows their single forms: flask of gray goo, flask of green. Let them mingle, though, and they create miniature cityscapes, ramparts, pastorales wilder than the dreams of Seuss.

But that fungal/algal friendship – it’s not all long-stemmed roses and dark chocolate. In school I learned lichen = symbiosis, mutual give and take, but there’s evidence of some darker biochemical power-brokerage at play. Fungus need’s sugar from algae’s photosynthesis to live (or some fungi hook up with cyanobacteria). Algae get a scaffold for stability, a moist enclave, protection from the sun. But fungus tweaks its algae to make them spill more sugar, and no algal cell is ever free to leave. Vaguely sinister.

Still the two together create a world neither could create alone. How old is it, that 7 cm patch of speckled gray on the rock face half way up Lumber Ridge, staking its stark black divide between the creeping yellow patch adjacent? How long have they been growing there? Ten years? A hundred? Nine hundred species of lichens in the Smokies (at least!) making infinitesimal advances, making spores or little baby lichen granules for the next boulder over, the next bare patch of bark – stable, solid partnerships of mycobiont/photobiont as old as stone. As everlasting and as changeable, evolving, as this gradually eroding ridge.

I will never walk this way again without wondering. Actually, I’ll never walk anywhere without lichen – between the boards on my porch, on every tree (look close!), even thriving on that old junker someone’s hauling west on US 421. I can’t help it now, noticing their different forms and colors. Their sweet pocked apothecia. Their spreading. Lichens, steadfast, pursue their wonderfully odd and ancient lifestyle and I am becoming something new.

. . . . . . .

Becoming Something New
+++ Lichens are a lifestyle.
+++ Dr. James Lendemer, NY Botanical Garden

Mountains stretch themselves beneath
the undifferentiated open,

overhead unblinking: ridgeback, rock face,
cove & holler to the sky

look like Chigger Thicket, Princess Shingles
cradled in arms of ageless folded earth

upholding hornbeam, hemlock, oak
yet closer each bole the shepherd

of its own beloved
flocks, foliose & fruticose,

spire cleft & spore sac all sustained
upon the nod of small green globes,

embrace of interlacing hyphae.

From two as far removed as earth and sky
comes something new.

Perhaps we shouldn’t name it love, this dance
so intimate, maybe just the way

life gets things done, gets through
with welcome damp, a speck of sun

for sustenance, enfolding arms
to lean into each other, but consider this:

can any two who persevere
in all this ancient making kingdom

ever take more than they give?

Bill Griffin – for John DiDiego and the Likin’ Lichens course of the Southern Appalachian Naturalist Certification Program, Great Smokies Institute at Tremont

Chigger Thicket – Usnea stigosa
Princes Shingles – Cladonia strepsilis
+++ Thanks to Dr. James Lendemer for the common names of lichen
+++ and for opening the door to worlds unseen . . .

. . . . . . .

Poetry and the National Park Service

Sometimes a poem takes me to a new place of heart and spirit, like walking through a national park takes me to a new place of earthforms and creatures. These are experiences of curiosity, wonder, awe, renewal – in the encounter I become something new.

The National Park Service is all about poetry. The National Historic Site Longfellow House – Washington’s Headquarters includes many resources from Romantic nature poetry to Emerson and transcendentalism. Other links at NPS.gov range from Mary Oliver and Ed Roberson to Kathy Jetñil-Kijiner and Arther Sze. Over the years many writers have served as poets-in-residence in various parks; poems they wrote during these times are featured online and I’m sharing two today. The Park Service recognizes the importance of poetry at the interface between human person and nature, as is in this online statement:

Unlike most Romantic nature poetry, which primarily focused on the sentimental beauty of nature, many modern nature poems examine ecological disasters or human’s role in the environment’s decline. Through poetry, these “eco-poets” explore this ever-evolving relationship between human and nature. Some poems bring awareness to ecological crises or challenge readers to reflect on their own relationship with nature. Still, some are odes of gratitude to nature or elegies for the changing environment, and others are a call to action.

National Park Service nature poetry resources
Poems by Poets-in-Residence at National Parks
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow nature poetry at NPS.GOV

. . . . . . .

Vision

Followed a fox toward Polychrome Pass.
Red smudged
with black along its lean rib-cage,

it rubs its muzzle on a former meal,
ignores the
impatient poet on its tail.

Then nearing the overlook, sun shearing
through low clouds
transmutes the view to glitter. Everything’s

golden, scintillant. I feel like a seedpod wafted
into space and
check my shaky hands on the steering wheel.

As the road crests over its top, boundaries
dissolve. Beside that
sheer intractable edge, I greet my radiant center,

discharge all my terms. How easy it seems
to channel between
worlds, my old self dying into a new,

with nothing firm to hold me here
but love. And that’s
what nature has it in its power to do.

John Morgan
from his poetry collection entitled The Hungers of the World: Poems from a Residency, written after a stay at Denali National Park in June, 2009.

Of his time in the park John writes, “Being in residence means, in a sense, being at home, and having the wonderful Murie Cabin to live in made me feel a part of the wilderness whenever I stepped outside. Over the course of ten days the boundary between myself and the natural world grew very thin. These intimations culminated, toward the end of my stay, with the experience recounted in the poem Vision.”

. . . . . . .

At Season’s End, Singing to The Alligator

I was prepared to arrive at the slough and for the first time
find no gators there, but there was one swimming steadily
away from the boardwalk. I watched.

I began to sing to him (I don’t know why), hum rather.
He slowed down. A coincidence probably. I kept humming.
He stopped, turned sideways, looked at me.

I came then as close to holding my breath
as one can while humming.

He began to submerge (felt safer that way, I suppose)
but did not submerge completely. I hummed.

Slowly, he swam toward me
stopped directly beneath me
hung in the water the way they do
legs dangling, listening.
(Be skeptical if you will.
I know that gator was listening.)

We stayed that way a long time,
I leaning over the rail humming,
he looking up at me, attentive—
until he folded his legs to his body,
waved that muscled tail and left me

alone, dizzy with inexplicable joy.

Anne McCrary Sullivan
from Ecology II: Throat Song from the Everglades, a book of poems inspired by her residency at Everglades National Park.

Of her art Anne writes, “Poetry is a way of seeing. It requires heightened attention to detail and a sensitivity to pattern and relationship. It looks simultaneously at inner and outer worlds, locates connections, and ultimately presents a meaning-charged kernel of experience.”

{Sounds to me like naturalist methods and poetry involve parallel attitudes and aptitudes. – Bill}

. . . . . . .