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after rain the hills
fill up with mist, everything
else just memory
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[poetry by Scott Owens]
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Elemental
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Having been raised in shadow of pecan trees
he learned to keep his insecurities
concealed in shells the color of earth, almost
inextricable and gathered in brown paper bags.
.
Having been shaped by twisted logic of weather
in South Carolina’s Tornado Alley,
he learned when to move with wind and when
to stand fast and howl against the blow.
.
Having been dipped in yellow water
without being held by anything but current
he learned to sink to the bottom, plant his feet
in mud below and walk back to shore.
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Having been burned in fires of passion and forgiveness,
faith and disbelief, he learned to trust little
but what he could see: bird flight, dirt
beneath the nails, quiet eternity of mountain.
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Scott Owens
from Elemental, forthcoming in 2025 from Redhawk Press, Hickory NC; © Scott Owens.
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Where is the transition point between cluttered and ungodly mess? I gave up long ago any hope of keeping my desktop tidy or my bookshelves neatly organized. For the past year, however, the normal books and papers and camera gear have been invaded and overcome by bins, boxes, and bags. Here’s a sampling:
file boxes of my parents’ financial and tax records, 2023 to present;
banker’s boxes of photos I’m bound and determined to sort, 1920’s and even earlier;
crumbling carton of 35 mm home movies shot by Grandpop, who died in 1958;
and before I totally blame Mom and Dad, one chair is completely full of books and magazines I’ve read or intend to, and the other chair is completely loaded with gear, field guides, and two dozen clip boards with botanical checklists I’ll hand out at my next naturalist walk in a week.
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And one other thing among so many others that have not yet discovered or been granted their ultimate place of repose: a heavy oak urn containing my mother’s ashes.
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The urn I will keep close and heft from time to time. Is any of this other stuff really essential? I don’t believe I will ever lose the picture in my head of Mom on her bicycle, luminous smile, age 11 – perhaps these boxes don’t hold anything that can surpass that memory. I can’t conceive of a meaningful life that doesn’t include a camera in my hand, but after all I can only hold one at a time. And the books! I’m planning to surprise thirty or so friends with a (comfortably read) book for Poetry Month, but the groaning weight of the remainder will scarcely feel the loss.
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Whelm: To cover, submerge, engulf or bury; to overcome. Why have I made myself responsible for these accumulations? Am I their curator, conservator, salvager? Or do I expect this stuff to somehow save me? Buried by the non-essential all around me, perhaps I can thrash and claw my way through while I ignore my own ultimate burial.
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In a minute perhaps I’ll withdraw my hands from typing, swivel away from the screen, actually open one of these bins and boxes. Maybe I’ll chuck a dusty double handful in the trash. But maybe I’ll pull out a talisman that opens my soul to more luminous memories. I will smile and share what I’ve found. It will be a treasure not of precious metal or envious resale value but because of the door it opens. A sliver of light finds its way through and reveals one moment that has made meaning in this life. A moment that still has meaning. Not the old material stuff but the memories it carries on its back: from something here I might discover something new about myself, the ones I love, this overwhelming life. I might find something essential.
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Of Mint and Memory
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The smell of mint makes everything feel clean,
clears the senses like bells ringing,
or wind chimes, maybe, on a summer day
in 1973, after the war but before
the bomb became too real a thing to ignore.
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They say that smell is our most powerful sense,
not the strongest, not the one
we use the most, but the one we find
closest to memory and feeling, the one
most difficult to ignore, resist, overcome.
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I’ve given up patches of my yard to mint
so I’ll always have it for tea,
for homemade chocolate chip ice cream,
for the times I need to go back to days
when I didn’t know enough to be afraid.
.
Scott Owens
from Elemental, forthcoming in 2025 from Redhawk Press, Hickory NC; © Scott Owens.
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Linda listening to Fauré while she reads. A brown thrasher sneaking into the holly just outside my window. Lacing up for another afternoon walk in the woods. I could list a dozen necessary things that have intruded on this morning, but if I take a deep breath and reflect on what is essential those first three seem like a good start. Last night we drove by a church signboard with this suggestion: “Do one thing today that makes the world a better place.” Essential. I would add, “one thing that makes you a better person.” Paying attention. Gratitude. Joy. If even for a moment, make space in the necessary for the essential.
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Scott Owens is always on the lookout for the essential. His new manuscript, Elemental, expands and reinforces the search. Expect to encounter the essential and you will! Scott has written thousands of poems to ground himself in the seeking and yet he still finds joyful surprise in the daily happenings and encounters that make real meaning in life, if you allow them to. Perhaps it is because he is intentional and systematic in his noticing that he discovers joy all around him. This book includes a section on the seasons, a travelogue section especially exploring North Carolina, a final section of life’s lessons. I will use it as a field guide for the truly essential.
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Oh, and trees. Scott really, really loves trees, both in their grand collective leafiness and in their individual personalities. He mentions that he grew up around pecan trees and learned something about hiding vulnerability from the way their shells hide the sweet kernel. I’d like to sit down with Scott and swap yarns about the pecans in Granddaddy’s back yard. Or my beloved beech I will not forsake even though it dropped a branch through my windshield. Or the hundred colors of lichen on the holly’s bark. Then we will move on to birds, and mountains, and the sound of moving water. We will discover how much we have in common. We will nod and share a slice of joy in the discovery that every single creature on earth holds that much in common and more. That joy, that knowledge, is truly essential.
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Keep your eyes peeled at Redhawk Publications for Scott Owens’s new book, Elemental, due out by this August, 2025.
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All That Is
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It’s winter,
a hard time of year
for noticing things,
except the wide sky
through limbs of trees,
and the shapes of trees
stripped of leaves,
and a white-breasted nuthatch
hopping sideways
down the trunk
of a peeling paper birch,
and the omnipresent cold,
and the quiet
of everyone staying inside
as long as they possibly can,
but all that is not there,
in the haunted austerity
of a winter landscape,
is what makes it possible
to see all that is
.
Scott Owens
from Elemental, forthcoming in 2025 from Redhawk Press, Hickory NC; © Scott Owens.
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V E R S E and I M A G E 
Thanks, Jenny! ---B