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Caution: Poetry at Work

September: Earth Works

September 22

Nature embodies deep rhythms and cycles that work within us as human creatures, and that can help us see the fullness within the brevity of life. A poem can celebrate the joys and ecstasy of moments when we feel we could live forever, just as it can help us navigate the passing of time and the pangs of mortality, loss and grief.

We go westPrairie

We start at the edge of the old world,
surrounded by portraits and resemblance
and family recipes, and then the plains,
traveling light in the wagon,
friends fast made, fast lost.

We homestead by a river or pond,
and when our tether frays, when the sod houses settle
and the mounds are full, we go on to the Rockies
daunted, chill – if we get over,
it's a lonely triumph.

Some days we crack the shell and see at the center
the golden ring of pride and loss and place.
It seems we can almost grasp it and hold it high,
a far-off bell would surely declare us the winner,
but we go west.

We may see the Pacific at the end,
currents from the south and stroking dunes
and inlets with a surge of surf and strange winds –
we arrive where we will never be
and know we have indeed left home.

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing: Imagine a poem titled, "We go north (or south or east)." Would that poem lead to something different, simply by changing direction? This poem is inscribed within the North American continent; think about how the geographical setting in which you live might affect the way you imagine the span of life, and play with how you might capture that in a poem.

September 15

burned stumpBecause poetry depends on sensual language, poems can be revolutionary—world changing—in their ability to help us see, hear, touch, smell, and taste the world we live in. And because the Earth and all its inhabitants are in grave danger, this alert sensing and fresh savoring seems like an essential prelude to the determination to confess the damage we're doing to our beloved home and then pool our intelligence and energy to halt and even reverse the damage.

In the fourteenth century, St. Catherine of Sienna wrote, "Cry out the truth as if you had a million voices. It is silence that kills the world." Her world was threatened by religious and civil strife; no one was worried about threats to the natural world. Now, a million voices are crying out, but we humans have a hard time hearing the voices or understanding their message. Poetry tries to give voice the mountains stripped of their trees; the rivers and oceans, choked with pollution and no longer healthy homes for fish or coral reefs. Poets try to put into words the urgent underground voice of drying aquifers and the ancient voice of glaciers, melting into the rising seas, or the whisper of the morning air, in some parts of the world already unbreathable. Poems like this one may help us hear the fading voices of the animals and plants facing extinction.


The Chain Saw Man

is the artist of our age.
He cuts down redwoods as ancient and wrinkled as the world
and rainforests whose slow breathing
fills the lungs of black bears
four thousand miles to the north.
His hungry saw eats
dream birds—scarlet, azure, emerald—
whom no one has ever seen
nor will.
Their tongues cut out they call
like dead poets
from steaming piles of sawdust.
Thirty species a day of bird and mammal,
insect and reptile, flower and herb,
gone even from the compost heap of memory.

Who will come to take their place?

Only the creations of the chain saw man.
Masked, feet braced, muscles bunched to hold
the heavy saw
he makes wooden bears
from the hearts of felled trees.
Clumsy and still, there is in them
no shadow of swift black flanks
grown furry and supple
in northern woods.

He tries to carve birds
but the trees are gone and he can't remember
their glancing flight.

To the artist's bidding only
vultures come.
Hungry for gold
they wait for the carnage of the saw to end
their song the rasp of teeth in wood.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB
Originally published in Still Birth, 2013, and used by permission of Finishing Line Press.

Invitation for your writing
Let random sensual details take you where your rational mind might never think to go. Begin with the line, "In the beginning..." and write a poem that includes all of these words: railroad tracks, orphan, Harley Davidson, blues n the night, car keys, scratch, prairie sage, shriek, velvet

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