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March: The Work of Translation

March 9

I had the life-changing opportunity to study for an academic year in France twice, once at age 20, and again at 25. The first year gave me academic French - quite correct, mostly understandable, and not too heavily accented, but I sounded a little like a textbook most of the time. The second year gave me a chance to know children, meet for lunch with the mother of a friend, discuss and debate with colleagues of all ages, and I learned to live in French. I wrote this poem trying to express why learning another language was so empowering, and yet at the same time deeply humbling. I learned, from everything I now could say and hear, how much I still could not put into words.

Langues étrangèresscrabble tiles

Langues étrangères
je veux toutes les apprendre
je veux les faire défiler comme des rois
     les promener comme des enfants
          les dresser dans ma bouche
               comme des caniches
"Dis ça!" - Je le dirais

En fait, je n'en ai qu'une
Une langue encore si étrangère bien que
     j'y travaille depuis longtemps déjà
je joue encore en prononçant ces mots
ça fait si drôle de les entendre sur ma langue!
Je sors des phrases et je m'amuse à vous
     les lancer comme des ballons
          un jeu dans l'air
J'oublie que pour vous ce ne sont que des mots
     que vous entendez depuis toujours sans jeu
          et sans problème, on dit, c'est sérieux
ces mots peuvent vous blesser, vous renseigner,
     vous ennuyer et après tout
il me faut passer par eux pour dire
quand il m'arrive à aimer que moi, enfin,
     j'aime enfin, je t'aime beaucoup ou même
          je t'aime tout court
Comment le dire? sans jeu et sans problème?
Il faut encore une nouvelle langue

Langues étrangères
je veux toutes les entendre comme j'entends la mienne
je veux les faire fondre sur ma langue jusqu'à ce qu'elles
     s'y confondent
et puis une seule me suffirait
et je saurai tout dire

Karen Lynn Erickson

[Quick translation]

Foreign Languages

Foreign languages
I want to learn them all
I want to parade them like kings
     take them for a walk like children
          school them in my mouth
               like trained poodles.
"Say this!" - I would say it.

In fact, I have just one of them
a language still so foreign even though
     I've been working on it for a long, long time
I still play around pronouncing these words
It's so weird to hear them on my tongue!
I take out sentences and for fun throw them
     to you like toy balls
          a game in the air
I forget that for you these are just words
     that you have heard forever with no game
          and with no problem, as they say, it's serious
these words can hurt you, inform you,
     bother you, and after all
I have to go through them to say
When it happens that I love that I, well,
     I finally love, I like you a lot or even
          I just plain love you
How to say it? With no game or problem?
I need another new language

Foreign languages
I want to understand them all as I hear my own
I want to melt them on my tongue until they
     are mixed up together
and then a single one would be enough for me
and I would know how to say everything.

Invitation for your writing:
Take a poem you love (your own or someone else's) in one language and translate it (from one language into another, or modernize a work in an older style, or change the historical context or setting and recast the poem, or change from rhymed form to free verse, or free verse to rhymed form). When does the play of translation/adaptation obstruct the emotional sense of the poem, and when does the play bring you closer to the depth of meanings in the original?


March 2

Every poem is a translation in a way. Poets take the random, chaotic, mysterious, contradictory, clashing stuff of human life and turn it into words, lines, and stanzas that on the page look shapely and full of meaning. But every poet will tell you, with chagrin, that something is always lost in the translation from experience to words, no matter how eloquent and musical. Yet, we keep trying.

Poetry also performs other acts of translation, maybe because we want so badly to tell each other what we've seen, heard, and touched and watch their eyes light up with understanding. We translate poetry from one language to another and poetry to prose or prose to poetry. Poets also try to make the leap from one artistic form to another, to help us hear, for instance, the joyful, wordless rhythms and riffs of jazz or see a Joe O'Connell sculpture from an odd angle. That's what I have tried to do in this week's poem.

Unbecoming: A Look at "Eve in Baroque"
Joe O'Connell, Marble, 1990

Emerging from the softly shining marble that was once the communion railing in a monastery of Benedictine women, Eve balances the unbitten apple on a plump and polished knee. Her marble skin glows faintest pink as if washed by earliest light or lit by a secret she's holding inside. She has a teenager's face, hair cut in junior-high bangs in front and wild as sea waves in back, and half-closed, dreaming eyes. She takes for granted the snake curled blissfully around her, sharing her warmth, her shape. Eve and the snake know each other, and are not afraid.

It's taken my handsEve
more than fifty years to unlearn
one indelible summer lesson.

This I remember: three little tow-head girls
wandering in the dusty pasture between our house and the woods
breathing in the pleasant heat
the sharp sweet smells of clover and of manure dying in the sun.
We found a treasure
a burnished curve in the dust
a silky rope
mysterious and delightful to hand and eye.
We picked it up and ran
to where my father worked in the field.

Almost blind, his hands
grown huge with the effort of seeing,
he held it close to his one good eye.
A silky rope? The snake's eye
open in death
caught his.

Thinking to protect his little girls he flung it far
across the summer pasture
a coppery arc shining in the sun.
In its place grew a stale terror
as twisted as the tale of Eve
and the snake-
the first unmaking
the breaking
of communion.

I've touched snake skins since then
dry and papery as words
and followed snake trails through poems
but my hands are lonely for the silk
of scales placed just so
and my body
like Eve's
imagines its sinuous
friendly
coil.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

From Still Birth, Copyright © 2013 Mara Faulkner. Used with permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.org.

Invitation for your writing:
Choose a piece of visual art that attracts you-a painting, photograph, sculpture, building, piece of furniture. Sit with it for a while, just looking at it, or, if possible, touching it. Simply describe your sense impressions as clearly and concretely as you can. Then see if your description itself is a poem, or if a poem emerges from it.


February: Poetry: Work or Gift?

February 23

This poem came to me as I was listening to a sermon in a church during the Christian season of Lent. I promise I was truly listening to the sermon, until I got distracted by the image of stones calling out, and by the work of precursors and prophets, and how their voices must sound exactly like stones.

The Grief HosannaSaint John the Baptist

The stones are shouting --
          Are you listening?
     The stones are shouting out --
               Why are we silent?
          From beneath the strewn palms they cry out
                     as we withhold the blessing of Hosanna.

The Praise that does not stop death
     rises from the bedrock, from the earth
          crying blessing, asking us to prepare the way.
     We know what is at stake,
               where this Hosanna will lead --

I see someone arriving
               Hosanna
     someone I do not understand
                    Hosanna in the highest
          who will bring change to me and mine
                         Blessed is the one who is coming

Weeping over Jerusalem, hosanna flutters in my heart
     Denying as the dawn breaks, hosanna rises in my throat
          Looking to grieve where life is not found,
               hosanna rolls the stone away

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:

If you have had "gift poems," did the form come before the words and images, or did words and images arrive first, with the form emerging through your work, or did they come together? To play with form, take two (or more) images or concepts that seem dissimilar, and combine them in a title. Experiment with formats, giving one concept/voice in italics and the other in boldface, or one in capitals and the other in lower case, or one to the left and the other to the right, or one inside boxes and the other in circles, or one in the middle of the page and the other(s) all around it in the margins. How does the form of the poem constrain your writing? Is that constraint inviting or liberating in any surprising ways?


February 16

embersBut sometimes poems do come as gifts, unexpected and unearned. We see the lines on the page and can barely remember having written them. To receive the gift, we have to "listen with the ear of the heart," as Benedictines are fond of saying, and be humble and brave enough to follow where the poem is leading. This poem is one of a very few gift poems I have received.

 

                            Things I Didn't Know I Loved

"I know all this has been said a thousand times before and will be said after me."
--Nazim Hikmet, writing in exile after 13 years in prison

I didn't know I loved
the wrangle of phones and human voices, rough, insistent
until I entered this silence and closed the door. I didn't know I loved
this silence until the hooked voices reached for me. I didn't know I loved
didn't really know I loved the treeless prairies until green bars grew up
between my eyes, the airy sunset, and the moon. Didn't know I loved
the thorny green thicket of my self
contrary and bear-haunted, until I took the straight smooth road
and found it strewn with death. I didn't know I loved
black bears lumbering through my dream toward my sister
whom I didn't know I loved
even though I've lost her now in the blind thicket and she
doesn't love me any more. I didn't know I loved
my mother until her rose-heart burst and bled
red petals into her chest, didn't know I loved
the garden of her flesh. And you, my God
under her ashes so silent and so cold, I didn't know I loved
you until you woke every morning in my little stove
so lowly in your prison house of wood and flesh and fire
so eager and so needful of my hands. I didn't know I loved
my hands-clumsy, tender-until they stirred the fire and found
                                                                                                                      these words.

         --Mara Faulkner, OSB

From Still Birth, Copyright © 2013 Mara Faulkner. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com

Invitation for your writing:

How do these ideas of work poems and gift poems play out in your writing? Do poems sometimes come to you from out of the blue? What sustains you when you have to work with that inspiration to make a poem? To find out, take a line, image, or idea for a poem that comes as a gift; then work with it to see what it wants to become. Follow author Doug Woods' advice to writers: "Start. Finish. Edit."


February 9

This is also a work poem, drafted in a workshop on how to write in the bits of time that are sometimes all we have for writing (such as moments spent waiting in the car for someone we're driving somewhere -- have a mobile poetry bag ready!). The poem captures exactly how I sometimes feel about a poem that simply won't be cultivated or fixed or finished, even through hard work and numerous drafts.

Weeding the Raspberry Patch

At the start I gently part the stalks to pull offending grassesgardening
and visiting bee balm out by their roots; I break each dead cane
with a knowing snap, lay weeds and old growth carefully to the side.

Midway through it galls and I begin to yank whole clumps,
green and hollow alike, stopping only to eat the few tender berries
that somehow managed to ripen in the thicket of my neglect.

By the end, sweaty and sore and knowing I'll regret it in the morning,
I take out the garden shears and begin to wrench and hack in a frenzy
of frustration. I swear if my mower had gas, I'd level the whole patch.

Prairie intrusion temporarily subdued, I wrestle refuse into compost bags,
survey my folly - to think I get things at the root, to crowd and then to mow,
but sweet red still tips my tongue as nature breathes, Yield.

    Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:

Make a list of things you want and need to do, and "weed" it as if it were a garden. Which things are weeds (intrusions?), and which are intentional priorities? Are any of the "weeds" invasive to the point they are endangering the others? Are you giving the things that feed you enough space, air, attention? Transform the list into a poem, maybe in a conversation format where the weeds and the intended plants can tangle up again.


February 2

No question about it - poetry is work, sometimes hard work. A person who knows said that the ratio of gift poems to work poems is one to ninety-nine. If we wait around for inspiration to hit, and poems to fall from the skies, we'll probably write one poem every ninety-nine years. So, I urge myself and you to follow Gloria Anzaldúa's admonition in "A Letter to 3rd World Women Writers":

Forget the room of your own--write in the kitchen, lock yourself in the bathroom. Write on the bus or the welfare line, on the job or during meals; between waking and sleeping. . . . While you wash the floor or clothes listen to the words chanting in your body.

This is a work poem, written as a finger exercise with my students. It's built from scraps - a line from poet Adrienne Rich and a random cluster of words.

in those years, people will say, we lost trackwheat
of the river there where it wound
through the yellow wheat,
its brother, the breath of the west wind
strumming its moist song,
now in these dry times
as rare as Indian silk
or a reggae beat
among the polka-loving Russians
of North Dakota.
Oh why did we do it?
The answer as hard to find
as needles in straw
as willows in the parched river bottoms
as meadowlarks, remembered
but never heard except in stories
the very old tell the young.
"Beautiful," they say, "their song. . . ."
These voices, too, fading
like the tracks of a wild creature
now extinct
on blowing sand.
--Mara Faulkner, OSB
The opening line is from "In Those Years" by Adrienne Rich.

Invitation for your writing:

Borrow a line from a poem you admire. Then ask a friend to give you a list of words, preferably random and concrete. Write your own poem with the borrowed line as a beginning. Let the words take you someplace new. If you get stuck, borrow another line or two, being sure to give credit to the poet.


January: Emotion Work

January 26

lostdictionaryThis poem began by questions, and the answers surprised me. Certain answers to the title question seemed obviously preferable, as normative and unequivocal; healthy people, integrated people, fully realized people would answer the question in a certain way. The poem invited a tangling with expectation that was as deeply troubling as it was comforting, as challenging as it was liberating.

I'm not sure if this poem is finished or not, but I offer it as a signpost or a way station along a path where "finished" may not be the most relevant concern.

 

Are you lost?

Are you lost, lost and wanting to be found?
Can I help you find your way?

I am lost, but have travelled far to get there
and can be lost a little longer
Strangeness, my familiar, knows me well by now.

Are you found, found and wanting to be lost?
Can I help you lose your way?

I am indeed so deeply found
I am lost in my familiar self, so ensnared
by who I am that strangeness knows me not.

Acquainted now with unfollowable pain
and unquenchable communion,
we tread the space between fervor and forgiveness.

We know that grief needs the well of being found
     so it does not spill over and drown us –

and the humility of being lost
     to make us whole as it makes us hollow.

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:

Write a poem that is nothing but a series of questions, and try to refrain from answering any of them too quickly. Or ask yourself if there are any quandaries or emotions, like anger, pain, fear, insecurity, expectation of difficulty, in your life or in the life of someone close to you that are so familiar they carry on almost unchecked, unnoticed. Ask questions and allow the answers to surprise you: Are you lost? Have you taken up residence? Write a poem to describe the familiar experience as if you are sensing it for the first time, to make it strange, and perhaps to let it go.


January 19

A character in one of John Updike's novels says, "We've lost whole octaves of feeling." I think that the octaves we've lost might be the quiet emotions that flow from simple, ordinary events and experiences. Those quiet emotions and the events they accompany make up most of our lives, but they easily get drowned out. Here, too, poetry has important work to do. With its ability to see beauty shining through plain and even dirty surfaces, it can help the poet and readers feel the quiet delight and thankfulness in even the most mundane of tasks, such as planting seeds and pulling weeds.

Summer #1common ground

"It must be therapy for you,"
the visitor says,
eyeing my garden clothes
ragged, filthy, and 10 years out of date.
She keeps her distance
suspecting that I smell
or fearing I'll touch her with hands
that won’t be clean till Thanksgiving.

Therapy!
What would that word mean
to the poplar shimmering silvergreen
and pushing little rootlets through the asphalt of the driveway
or the maples scattering their seed?

Did creating every fruitbearing plant cure God
of some primordial angst?

I see my mother up early every morning for 60 summers
small and weathered at the far end
of 200-foot rows of tomatoes and cucs.
Not therapy but darn hard work
to feed her family and surround with flowers
a ramshackle life.

I think of the seeds still underground
and their sweet, precise names—
     Detroit Dark Reds
     Scarlet Nantes
     Sugarbush
     Straight Eights.
Soon the birds and I will vie for the berries.
Before long I'll eat green beans
savory with onions
each flavor distinct and sharp.
And then I'll carry russets and red Norlands home
in the basket of my hands.

Wishing I could say that gardening is nothing
but life itself
eating and being eaten
feeding and being fed
I only wave and smile
and bend to my weed-friendly rows
as the cage of my ribs swings wide.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

Invitation for your writing:
Make a list of the things you do every day or regularly, the more ordinary the better—changing diapers, grading papers, peeling vegetables, changing the oil in the car, emptying the kitty litter, harvesting sugar beets, mucking out the barn. Describe one of them in all its spectacular plainness.


January 12

If foods can enfold us in memory, so too can a song or a fragrance or sensation bring back to our conscious mind whole layers of experience. Returning to a place can be wistful or painful if it reminds us of loss -- we might feel it is too soon; returning to a place we have not seen since a time of loss can also help us see, help us accept the process of grief and healing.

Revisiting St. Martin-in-the-Fieldsrevisiting

So this is what closure feels like – a mild
lengthening of clipped phrases and a lingering,
solid and full of grief, over memories and places
I had to skate over quickly before.

Closure is not release – it is a cadence resolved,
a weight anchoring the end of something no longer
left hanging, no suspense, no airy wondering,
no habit of pain, no self rich with suffering.

Closure is the signal clicked off. Closure is
the floor swept clean of all the remains of the party,
the confetti and the broken heel and the water stain
on the table, the gift wrap torn in festive frenzy
and the cigarette burn on the prized piano.

Closure is the door latching after a long walk on the beach,
the cleaning of the shells, the setting them in a bowl
where they invariably look less lovely
than you thought they would,
dried, unpolished, washed clean of debris.
We come to an arrangement,
a done thing, a habit soon quite silent, indifferent, like bones.

Closure is not life and it is not death. It is an attitude toward
the endlessly moving tide that flings up shells for us to find,
and pocket, and clean, and then forget. Closure feels like loss
when it settles on the heart, but it is rather a solid presence,
a window opened so the bee can escape.

We did not know she was there
when we closed it just as the storm was breaking.

Karen Lynn Erickson
From Dwellings. Copyright © 2013 by Karen Erickson. Used with permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com.

Invitation for your writing:
Choose a strong emotion like grief and experiment with the puzzle of absence and presence. In what ways is your chosen strong emotion well represented by things that are there, present, taking up space, even blocking passage, in the way? In what ways is absence a better category to express the experience?


January 5

"Hi, how are you?"become what you are then let go
"Fine, and you?"
"Fine."
* * *
"I'm so sorry for your loss."
"Yeah, it’s been rough."

Many of our daily conversations follow this pattern, but not because we're uninterested in each other's lives or unwilling to talk about what's under the surface. Many times we can't do it because our feelings are too raw, too muddled, too contradictory; they frighten us with their bald honesty. Poetry, with its love of honest emotion, dislike for platitudes, and trust of ambiguity, leads us into the depths and lets us emerge with words that answer the question, "How are you, really?" This poem helped me answer that question after my brother's sudden death.

Baked Beans: A Word from the Dead

How I long for a voice to break
            the long silence,
            a country strange and vast without sustenance.
A word in dream or vision to say, "I'm safe home. I'm happy.
      I'm myself and more, the person you knew and loved
            and didn't know."
Day and night I'm listening
            but not a word
            my brother as silent in death
            as he was in life
            when his mother and sisters waited months or years
            for a letter or a call
            as he trudged West, shedding possessions and people.
Just at the end he turned and flashed a smile,
            and then was gone.
Though he's in that new place where distance disappears
            in the twinkling of an eye, or so they say,
            he is as silent as God
            withholding comfort
            in the conspiracy of death.

But then from the friendly darkness of my recipe box
            I hear his voice, laughing, defiant—sandwiched between beets
            and broccoli bake
            his instructions for baked beans, sent just before he died:
            "I use pinto beans but I suppose great northern would
            work too. I just don't trust anything that is white.
            (Does that make me racist?)
            Mix in two tablespoons of mustard (make this stone ground
            not that yellow crap that people put on hot dogs.)
            Bake at 250 for 9 hours."

These are earthy words.
            Like dreams and visions they tell me only what I know:
            In a kitchen smelling of onions and molasses
            feed each other food cooked slowly while you laugh and talk
            and do good work.

It isn't much.

People have lived on less.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB
From Still Birth, Copyright © Mara Faulkner. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com

Invitation for your writing: Answer the question, "How are you, really?" Keep answering new versions of the question until you get to the true answer—the one that eases your heart.


December: Works for an occasion

December 29

As we approach the first of January, for some a time of new beginnings, of renewal shared in community, we invite you to share on our Facebook page your favorite poetry websites, competitions, writings, strategies, or puzzles (http://www.facebook.com/poetryatwork/). We look forward to reading your posts!


December 22

roadMara and I have the good fortune of having friends and colleagues who write funny poems to commemorate events, in a mild poetic roast that makes the target feel known and loved. This poem began as an attempt to respond with humor to the fatigue some of my neighbors expressed at a long period of obstructed driving, as trunk lines were laid in to provide city water and sewer to what had been farmland. Under the lightness emerged a poignant expression of longing for a smooth way home.

Prayer to the Spirit of the Road
          On the occasion of the installation of city services

This is a prayer to the spirit of the open road.
Not the open road leading west, off to mountains
and rocky, lawless adventure.
The spirit of that road hoots and hollers,
cajoles and, when you least expect it,
bucks off on its bronco and leaves you
staring at its dust, as if it had all been a mirage.

Not to the spirit of the open freeway either,
guardian angel spirits hovering over those who drive
too fast, changing lanes and making time,
taking risks and turning long, flat curves into cliff edges.
The spirits of that open road fret and murmur,
willing us to want safety rather than speed.

No, this is a prayer to the spirit of the road that leads us home,
the road at the end of our driveway,
that sends us off each day and holds the very moment
of our return. This is the road that harbors our mailbox
and ties us to a place in this world where people
can address us, knowing they will find us.
This spirit makes no noise at all but smooths our going out
and our return. It wants our road open.

Spirit of the homeward road, comfort those in the last months
of water pipes and sewer pipes and gutters and curbs
and all the heavy machinery that for a time
have made you their nest, raising their young asphalt
on our doorsteps, like house finches nesting
in the hanging planter, forcing us to skulk in
at the side door until the little ones fledge.

Give strength to those who must yet a little while
       raise their thresholds,
drive slowly through ruts and past stakes and over
       the earth piles
that for a time have disguised you.
Remind us that somewhere
above the trench and beneath the cloud of noise
you are there.

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:
The coming weeks provide a wealth of occasions in many traditions for celebration: religious observance, the new year for some calendars, family gatherings and cultural celebrations of identity. Choose an event and a recipient; see what happens when you set out to write a poem for the occasion, funny or tender or both, and then give it to the person who was in your mind as you wrote it!


December 15

Sometimes the partner that calls a poem into being is anything but silent. She or he is a live person asking us to write a poem for a specific occasion. (Think of the poems written and recited at presidential inaugurations.) These occasional poems can feel like drudgery—an assignment given by a stern teacher with a hard deadline. Worse yet, you're going to have to go public with your poem. It usually isn't what you wanted to be writing, but you said yes....

The real work, then, is to go deep and do what students have to do most of the time: turn this dreaded assignment into something you want and need to say by asking the poet's, the writer's questions: "So what?" "Who cares?" "What's at stake for writer and readers?"

I wrote "Illuminations" for the inauguration of CSB President Mary Dana Hinton. While I was delighted to be part of this wonderful occasion, I had all the resistances I just described. The theme President Hinton chose for her inauguration was "Become Illuminated," and that phrase became another silent partner. This is a selection from that occasional poem.

Illuminations
For President Mary Dana Hinton

Be flamboyant—
Like a thousand luminaries lighting the path to Christmasilluminations

Like the sun condensed in a winter greenhouse hip-deep in snow
where a riot of lettuce and spinach, peas and kale convinces us it's spring
and like the questing students, in love with the Earth,
who dreamed and dared and did it

Like the supernova of a star long dead
scattering potent light across eons of time and space
to reach us here, this night.

Like the sheer, brilliant fact of existence
and steadfast resistance to all that would snuff out life. . .

Burn through thickets of fear and doubt—
Like kind-hearted people, not showy, often nameless
but warm enough to save a life as hands reach out for hands to hold—
it doesn't matter whose. . .

Burn like peacemakers whose ardent love and courage
quench even the flames of war

Or like God's reckless love and unquenchable mercy
kindling flames in and among us
until we all shine like sparks in stubble.

Like luminaries past and present, make of yourself a light
And then let your light shine.


--Mara Faulkner, OSB

Invitation for your writing:
Write a partner poem. First, find a willing partner. One of you write the first couple of lines. Then pass it on to your partner without saying what you had in mind for the theme or direction. Don't plan out the poem ahead of time! Poet #2 adds a couple of lines and passes it back. (Sometimes it helps to stop in the middle of a line or thought.) Pass the poem back and forth until one of you decides that it's finished. Then, if possible, get together and read the poem out loud, or do it on-line. Change it in big or small ways, cutting, rearranging, adding, etc. Give it a title, and read it out loud again. Give it as a gift to a couple of people who might be heartened or delighted or challenged by it.


December 8

Poets have lots of secret partners. We couldn't do our work without them. We've described some of them in past weeks—the music of language, the shapely power of forms, and, of Aftercourse, the world itself with its insistent pleas for our attention. One silent partner is death. Some of the world's greatest poetry is called to the surface by death's patient, shadowy presence in every life, as poets rage, weep, console, accept. Poetry might pay tribute to a loved one or try to untangle and reconcile a troubled relationship. It might be about our own impending death when we face a serious illness or even when we're perfectly well but suddenly aware of our mortality. We often hear that young people take crazy risks because they think they'll never die. It might be true that a lucky few haven't come face to face with death; but by the time they're teenagers, many have lost friends or family members to sickness, accidents, suicide, or violence. In some neighborhoods and cities, here and around the world, young people like my student Hawo watch as government soldiers gun down her brother. Hawo wrote these lines in her "Childhood Memory Poem":
       I remember the killer living and smiling.
       I remember one naked face.
Like love, death draws to itself a swarm of clichés and truisms, usually in a sincere effort to give comfort. Poetry's work is to put into words the ways in which every death is the same and every death is different and to honor but not smooth out the entanglement of death and life. I wrote this poem shortly after my friend's partner died; I'm simply telling the story as he told it to me.

After
For Ozzie and Stephen

He could walk through the house and garage dry-eyed
even though the grand piano, its lid open hopefully
was silent
and the bench was still raised
to fit his long legs;
even though half-read books lay on his night stand
with flower bookmarks
to show the page where he had to stop reading;
and even though his camera’s bright eye was shuttered
and his garden tools—hoes, trowels, clippers—
were clean and ready for Spring planting
and his bicycle oiled and shining
eager for long rides in the countryside.

Each left only a bruise as he passed by
and a dull ache.

Then, after the guests had left,
he carried a bucket of funeral food and spent flowers
to the compost pile.
He turned up the compost with the old spading fork
as Stephen had showed him.

All alone, except for memories,
He held the bucket close and wept,
as the smells rose up—of death and decay
and the brown warmth of new earth, forming itself
from scraps of life.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

Invitation for your writing:
What objects, gestures, or habits—the more ordinary, the better—would bring back to the life of poetry a lost relationship or a person who has died? If you like, call your poem "After" or "Before."


December 1

Poems composed for a special occasion are not always "sharable" to those outside the circumstances of the writing. Sometimes, though, an occasional poem captures something that has potential to go beyond the situation. I wrote this poem for my son, who had decided on his birthday to purchase a digital piano for his tiny Manhattan apartment (with headphones, of course). I started out simply wanting to wish him a happy day, and by the end, realized there was something about the two images of beads and keys I would perhaps like to explore further one day. This is the poem for the occasion, used with permission of my son, to whom the poem now belongs.

A tiny birthday poem

Birthdays thread charms on a chain
each one speaking the language of its now:
womb by favorite chair in the library,
lullaby by the vendor’s morning banter,
pastrami piled high on Saturday pancakes
and after-school zucchini bread.

It is all one and unimaginable in its strangeness,
one bead knowing nothing of the other
except that they stroke the same wrist.
It will have been a known unknowing,
a knocking against a depth of time
that stories long to tell.

Add this bead to the string –
a table readying itself for a keyboard,
88 keys enfolding primers and progress
and meeting of hands and minds
and a space to keep safe all the wild fragments
that make us wholly who we are.

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:
Choose an occasion within your family's traditions or from the calendar of your culture. Generate a list of objects, sounds, smells, memories, images, thoughts that you associate with that occasion. Write each one on a different slip of paper or card, and spread them out before you. Move them around, looking for connections of sense, texture, taste, emotional resonance, or any other organizing theme, then re-organize them by color or size or chronology, or any other category you see emerging. Then write a poem incorporating the pieces that fit whatever threads you discovered as you improvised.


November: Life Works

November 24

This poem ponders the relationship between dreams and life, between the stories we tell about ourselves and our deepest truths. How do we narrate, revise, retell and talk over our life-work, our essence? Poetry can give a slanted entry to other modes of consciousness, to reminders of the untamed portions of our stories.

Hide and Seek

       palimpsest: a manuscript or piece of writing material on which the
       original writing has been effaced to make room for later writing but of
       which traces remain. (Oxford Dictionary)


We inscribe our day on the palimpsestManuscript page
of last night's dream;
the scratching of the day-pen crowds out
the murmur of night voices
that whisper inscrutable things.

If we could remember,
our lives would be changed utterly
but we dip the pen instead
and mark the page.
This is life, we write, what I write with my hand

And so we are not what we dream
but neither are we entirely what we seem
as we follow the slow progress
of our pen on the vellum of our skin
our day, our year.

We write a story on the palimpsest
of the shaved-down hide of our dreams.
Sometimes I see I am leaving too much behind
too much unsaid, my deep self scratched down
and covered over by someone else's text.

--Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:
Leaving a blank space under every line, write or type a lyric description of a dream or memory or imagined experience. Free-write for 10 minutes -- just write without planning or editing what you are writing; simply try to capture the image without worrying about accuracy or consistency. Next, in the spaces between the lines, revise the description with a more logical, consistent, "reality-based" version. Which elements do you retain? Which do you replace or revise? Is there anything "more real" about the dreamscape version, in terms of insight or perception?


November 17

KnyttingIn an interview with Bill Moyers, Lucille Clifton said, “Poems are about questions, not about answers. We don’t know. We know very little.” I think she’s right. One of my students said that a trustworthy pattern for a poem is question → answer→ deeper question. Though poetry tries to put into semi-comprehensible words the puzzlements of human life, its destructiveness and generosity, its murky confusion and its brilliance, most poems ask questions, sometimes subtly, sometimes right out in the open. They ask with anguish and wonder, “Why?” “Why not?” as they probe the mystery of goodness and evil. This poem questions war and especially war’s deadly habit of claiming religion and even God as allies for their side.

Knytting
"The genes have to go to war." (Oliver Stone)
"God knytt us and onyd us to hymselfe." (Dame Julian of Norwich)

How, Julian, "shalle alle be wele
and alle maner of thynge
be wele" while war
still lurks in our genes
like moths morosely
eating?

Even if we confess ourselves
foxhole atheists
and denounce
those who scream the Name
as war-cry
prayer
or curse

and even if we throw away
our holy flak-deflectors—
those steel-cased Bibles
guarding hearts
that beat out rage
and hate—

even then we bear
God into battle
and back home again
on the banner of our flesh—
one cunning strand
of the double helix.

But maybe God goes willingly.

For were she to unknytt
herself from trigger-
happy fingers and grenade-
glad hands
would humankind
unravel
and incarnation be
undone?

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

Invitation for your writing:

This idea comes from poets Rita Dove and Eva Hooker: Write five questions that "rattle your heart." Then:
--Write a line with a color of two in it.
--Make a one-line statement about a place you loved as a child.
--Write a line describing a broken object, person, or place.
--Finish a line that begins, "I wish. . ."
--Write a line about work or a job.
--Finish a line that begins, "Next year at this time. . ."
Then write a poem in which you answer one of your questions, using as many of these lines as you can, in any order, changing them as the poem requires. If you can and if the poem lets you do it, end with a new question—or a new version of the first one.


November 10

Mara invited us last week to think about how writing poetry can give us an imaginative avenue to understand the experience of a person from another place, time, or culture. The process of exploring, creating and refining a text into a concentrated poem can also give us access to empathy or understanding for members of our own families, people in our inner circle whom we assume we know fully. Like the DNA that links us to one another, our features, talents, preferences, fears and joys, tendencies and reactions can follow a complex and intertwined pattern. There can be moments of surprise that enlighten us to radical differences. There are also moments of great awareness of kinship beyond what we thought or knew; the recognition can be both grounding and liberating, both terrifying and comforting.

Close Encounters

Heeding the yellow light at Warner Road my foot squeezes the brake,Close Encounters
eyes roving left, right, back to the mirror. The red light gives me time
to reach into the marshmallow bag, hand three to each quarrelsome
car-seated voice (Pink! I want a pink!) and to grope for the ones that dropped.
I manage to catch the light changing to green, and swivel again to the seething
Alma School Road before anyone can honk or race an engine at me.

It was then for a second my mother looked out from behind my eyes,
through my eyes – she saw the same intersection riddled with danger
streets steeped in uncongenial movement on the lanes.
I blinked and shook my head, felt the hair on my neck begin to rise.
Suddenly I was driving an enormous station wagon, no seat belts in sight,
four children all elbows tumbling into each other at every turn,
a roiling, bickering mass of juvenile confusion. I want to cry,
Stop that screaming! Do you want me to hit a truck?
That would have been my mother's voice, her threat
I now realize was her fear. I say, Let's use calm voices for the car
and hand back another dose of sugary pillows.

It happened again just before we got to school. I felt my face
reshape itself and we were stern worried women
alone in a car hurtling toward a crash, shepherding kicking lambs
along a high speed chase, and very much afraid.
All the safety features and vigilance quiver
as the mother's eyes rake the road ahead.
What will hit my children? And how hard will they land?
Will it be a tragic accident (news at eleven) or a violent hand,
or the sound of glass tinkling above depression, eyes tightly closed,
arms flung about their heads? Or will there be a cushion of drugs,
or the lostness of vague plans that never quite take shape?

A clammy smell lingers in the air as I park the car in a shady space.
I take a small shaky breath, my face firm again behind my hands.
My children, still secured, bored in their separate safety,
wait for me to come around. I hold tight to the illusion of control,
which has worked better than you'd think for a long, long time.

It's now I can't keep the wheel from bucking in my hands.

       --Karen Lynn Erickson

Invitation for your writing:
Write a paragraph full of concrete details describing a family member who is very like you. How do you resemble one another? Then write another paragraph about a family member who seems very different from you. How is this person unlike you? Compare the two paragraphs, and note if there is any surprising resemblance between the two descriptions, any unforeseen kinship or paradox or new awareness. Write a poem about the surprises and insights arising from family likeness, and from perceptions of individuality within kinship.


November 3

birds in a window

All people deserve the right to speak for themselves - to say, "This is who I am," "These are my experiences," "This is what I believe." Poets exercise bedrock human freedom in every word they write. But not everyone has this basic right. In every age and place, including ours, there are individuals and whole groups whose voices are silenced; their words, when they do speak or write, are suppressed, erased, discounted. Part of the work of poetry is to give a voice to the voiceless, until they can speak for themselves. Speaking in the persona of another person is an act of empathy and imagination that changes the poet in some subtle way. It often rests on the sturdy foundation of research, which is also an essential part of poetry's work.

This poem imagines what a young woman buried alive in the so-called Magdalene laundries in Ireland might have thought, felt, and said, had anyone been listening.

The Magdalenes

Mary Magdalene stood weeping beside the tomb. Even as she wept
she stooped to peer inside, and there she saw two angels.
"Woman," they asked her, "Why are you weeping?"
She answered them, "Because they have taken my Lord away
And I do not know where they have put him." (John 20:11-14)

My name is gone too, stripped away by the sisters
of Our Lady of Charity who tell me Jesus will love me again

only when I am scrubbed as clean as the priests' linen shirts and my belly
is as flat as prison sheets wrung through the mangle.

My scared parents sent me here at the first whiff of sex
and now the great green Connemara world has shrunk

to these high convent walls and this round aluminum tub
where my hands, pale as flounders swimming among the priests'

underwear, will have only each other for comfort when the baby
my body will never get to love is borne away

to Australia or the orphanage. They'll swear she has no father, her mother
is dead, and there's the end of it.

The nun keens Our Lady's rosary—"the Angel of the Lord
declared unto Mary and she conceived of the Holy Ghost. . ."

She's shapeless under her habit but she was young once too,
jolly, maybe, with curves the boys liked. But out of all those girls

one had to go to the convent, every Irish family knows that.
Now she hasn't wit or will and takes a sour joy

in cutting our hair short and ragged and drowning our voices with her prayers.
My face crinkles in the steam, cooks to a pudding,

featureless and red. I imagine smuggling us out,
myself and the baby inside me, in one of those great bags

hidden among the prison uniforms or parish napery, but whose hands
would we tumble into? The priest's, with his dour mouth turned down in a C

like the first word of a curse? Not Christ's, for they have squeezed him so small
he's a stone fit only to be hurled at wayward girls.

In this place only the birds are free. Ah, Jesus,
maybe the skylarks, singing as they rise

on strong brown wings, will carry this Magdalene's name
to the living world.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB
Credit: From Still Birth. Copyright© 2013 by Mara Faulkner. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com.
The Magdalenes.mp3

Invitation for your writing:
Listen to the recording that accompanies this poem. Then take a favorite poem of your own or someone else's; read it out loud and think about the sounds you might add to amplify the silent voices in the poem. If you feel inspired to do so, record the poem with the sounds. Send it as a gift to a friend.


October: How sound works

October 27

In a Certain LightHearing this poem at a reading, our friend, the exquisite soprano Dr. Carolyn Finley, said the poem really "spoke to her," and said she would gladly sing it if I set it to music for her. Though I had set other poets' work for choir or soloist, and had written songs for guitar as a young person (mostly with horrible, predictable lyrics), I had never tried to set a poem of my own. This poem had provided me with an avenue for grief at the death of my grandmother, and it was a poignant challenge to shift from spoken to sung word.

In a certain light

In a certain light if I stretch just right
my ribs crest again, thin cage from Adam
drawn right around my softened heart
cushioned now with the dough of years

Almond crisps, angel cookies
ginger snaps, one by one hugged my tongue
my waist, my hips, thighs, just as I would hug
my grandma as she baked and let me taste

Swelling in the heat they'd soon cool to comfort.
I remember my first swells and worries of new
contours, the first "No" to diet-banished sweets.
My grandma, terse, says, "If God wants you fat,

you'll be fat," impatience vying with love.
There's no fighting with God, the cook's
theology maintains, and there she must be right.
In her high heels and hats her round form was beauty

She danced us all off the floor at the legion hall,
polka, schottische; she danced the way she cooked
and it went on rising, rising. In the soft, chewy center
I always knew she'd love me, plump or thin, as I loved

all the pillowed laughter and fragrance
of her zest, wooden spoon heaped with yeast
and doughnuts frying in the crisp air
After her stroke, her mind at rest elsewhere

Her heart would not stop hugging life.
Her body thinned and sank beneath her ribs
as she slowly passed away. It is my waist now
that is comfort, my chest a warm pillow.

If I stretch just right I feel her round my heart.

--Karen Lynn Erickson
Credit: From Dwellings. Copyright© 2013 by Karen Erickson. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com.
In a Certain Light.mp3

 

Invitation for your writing:
The French Renaissance poet Pierre de Ronsard advised poets to read their verses aloud, and even better, to sing them out, to test their quality and power. Singers learn to project their sound by using the resonant cavities of mouth and sinuses, and by making the most efficient use of their breath. First read this poem silently, then read a stanza aloud. Read another stanza, but sing it out. What kind of melody are you creating as you read out the lines? Finally, listen to the recording by Dr. Finley and Dr. Turley (mp3 file) from their album, In a Certain Light: Mostly Minnesota Composers, produced with colleague Dr. Kent, and used by permission (available soon on Digital [email protected]/SJU). What do you hear in the poem when a team of professional musicians interpret the text in a musical setting created by the poet? Now choose one of your own poems or write a poem about an experience filled with strong emotion (grief, joy, fear...); read your poem silently, then aloud, then by projecting in a singing tone. Does the act of "voicing" give new insight into your poem and into your experience?


October 20

Poetry helps us hear the music of language. It also helps us hear the eloquence of silence, endangered in our noisy lives and world. The white spaces within and around a poem's words are filled with meaning and emotion. William Stafford's wonderful poem "Sayings of the Blind" alerts us to all we miss because sight dominates the perception of the world for most of us. The poem includes such wit and wisdom as this: "Edison didn't invent much" and "What do they mean when they say night is gloomy?" (http://www.inwardboundpoetry.blogspot.com/2006/03/85-sayings-of-the-blind-william-stafford) Inspired by Stafford, I tried to imagine what a silent world is like and what sensual wonders I'm missing by depending so much on my ears.

Sayings of the Deaf
(after William Stafford's "Sayings of the Blind")Sayings of the Deaf

Silence has big soft hands that say,
"I want to be your friend."

Even in winter the earth vibrates.
My feet feel the early seeds
Stretching and yawning.

People's mouths move constantly
But their hands
Are dumb as dodos
Long dead.

Pockets are prisons for poetry.

Even in the heaviest gloves
With one hand behind my back
I can say
I love you.

Sometimes the flag says hello.
Sometimes it says goodbye.
Sometimes it's too sad to speak.

Why do hearing folk love mimes
But want to fix me?

Silent jokes are the funniest.

There are two kinds of words:
The splintery kind
Black and spare as trees in winter
And the voluptuous ones
Shaped by warm-blooded hands
And bodies
Swaying in the wind.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

 

Invitation for your writing:
Make lists of words that appeal to each of the five (or maybe six) senses. Start at the top of the page and don't stop until you get to the bottom. They can be words you love, words that describe things or people you love, or words/things/people that are distasteful or ugly. Then start anywhere, grabbing words from your lists as you go along. Let the words take you someplace unexpected. You might want to concentrate on a sense that you usually neglect.


October 13

When a poet chooses to write a poem in a pre-existing form, with an expected rhyme scheme, there is a particular pressure on each line, and pressure on the poet to avoid the kind of easy rhymes Mara described last week. When we write in free verse, we are free to improvise, but there is still pressure to make the most of every word, and the form, line length, and repetitions of sounds have to come from within the poem itself. This poem began as a notation, an effort to capture a sound-thought, an experience of listening, and gradually emerged from the block of prose like a carved figure.

Out of the beat

The drummer looks left,
far offstage; wrists supple,
he brushes the skins
clips the cymbal, hangs something
I can't hear in the air.
It seems to me he left out a count
but they all dive in after the solo,
perfectly together,
no bumps on Route 66.

I nod, tap a toe, a finger,Out of the Beat
watch the horn player trace the melody
before escaping on a musical ATV
off-road, off the leash.
I catch a note here and there
like a blaze along a rough-hewn trail.
They track with shoulders down
almost without looking –
I am listening to jazz.

Once or twice I lose myself and
forget I don't know where I am –
muted horn calls to the sax
piano anchors in thin air
a chart that tells them
where to go and who they are
sequentially alone
playing with the beat
toying with it all.

A cool nod recognizes
the applause of the crowd.
It was never about making time --
It's the space between pulse and life,
silence lost and a paradise regained.

--Karen Lynn Erickson
Photo courtesy of Joe Sullivan

 

Invitation for your writing:
Choose a sensory experience you wish to capture in language, in order to relay it to someone who was not with you at the time. Write a prose paragraph describing the sensations, and then transform the paragraph to free verse. How many words can you remove without losing the evocative power? Where will you create breaks between the lines? Do you find yourself revising your text to create rhyme or to emphasis the pulse of the poem?


October 6

In the olden days, most poetry rhymed, partly because poems were passed from person to person orally, and rhymes made the lines easier to remember. But that wasn't rhyme's only reason for being. Pretty much everyone, from the littlest kids listening to Green Eggs and Ham to rappers and slam poets, delight in the music language creates through rhyme, rhythm, and a host of other appeals to the ear. We love the ring and friction of words alongside each other and the rhythms of lines and sentences. Rhyme and other sound devices are silent partners, helping to make both music and meaning.

Rhyme has gotten a bad name, maybe because we poets too often reach for the expected word combinations rather than the surprising, meaning-making ones. In this week's poem, "How Poetry Comes to Me," although I hope that the letters and syllables echoing off each other help you hear the sounds and silences of the poem, there is only one exact rhyme tying the last two lines together. When you have a word like prayer, it's tempting to reach for an easy rhyme like share, care, or bear. But our minds hydroplane over that slick surface. Prayer and despair do rhyme's double work: even as their meanings pull in seemingly opposite directions, the rhyme tells us that they are closely connected, even inseparable.

"How Poetry Comes to Me"

I go to meet it
At the edge of the light.
--Gary Snyder

Poetry leads me by the handHow Poetry Comes to Me
          to where an old man sits
          clasping one by one the hands of friends
          who've come to mourn his daughter—
          the third of his children laid to rest in this church.

           He won't talk about it, they whisper, worried.

          His stricken, puzzled face,
          his big hands as warm and grained as weathered oak
          say all there is to say: No words can wake my Mary.

Poetry leads me to his garden
          where he kneels
          his crippled hip resting on an overturned bucket.

          He stakes the tomatoes
          lays the onions to dry in the late summer sun
          gathers spent vines for the compost heap
          sweet corn to feed his living children
          the old-fashioned flowers his wife loves—snapdragons, asters—
          and seeds for next year's planting.

          All we hear are crickets, the wind,
          and the sudden plop of plums too ripe to hang on the tree.

Poetry comes mute with compassion
          carrying the bodies of children.
          Knowing it can neither save nor redeem them
          still it refuses to lay them down
          or let me turn away.

Poetry comes to me like prayer—
          the last resort before despair.

          --Mara Faulkner, OSB
Credit: From Still Birth. Copyright© 2013 by Mara Faulkner. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com.

 

Invitation for your writing:
How does poetry come to you? Free write from this poem’s first line, going wherever that line takes you. Then write a poem on that subject. See if rhymes appear, either at the end of the lines or within the lines. Ask yourself if each rhyme is fresh and if it pulls the two words together, even as they are pulling apart. Then try writing the same poem without the rhymes. Which one is truer to the experience the poem is about?


September: Earth Works

September 29

Poets, like many people, turn to the natural world to find what Wendell Berry calls "the peace of wild things," when "despair for the world grows" in us. That respite is essential, but the real work of poetry calls us to steadfast attention to the many faces of the world, natural and human, in all its vast and terrible and glorious complexity and contradictoriness. A poem that has changed my life as a poet and an inhabitant of this world is "Brief for the Defense" by Jack Gilbert. (I urge you to read this remarkable poem at http://www.poemhunter.com/best-poems/jack-gilbert/a-brief-for-the-defense).

These are the lines from that poem that I don't want to forget: "If we deny our happiness, resist our satisfaction,/ we lessen the importance of [suffering people's] deprivation./ We must risk delight." This week's poem and the photo that accompanies it "risk delight," even in a dangerous world.

Dear heart,

There where you lie curled in a thicket of daisiesfawn
having learned the first lessons of life
after love—fear and camouflage—
come out now into the flickering light,
the pungency of clover and wild rose.
Walk lightly through tall prairie grasses,
big and little bluestem,
penstamon and yarrow.

Come out into the open field
where the yellow finch rocks
on a black-eyed susan,
in danger
but singing,
blooming.

--Mara Faulkner, OSB

Invitation for your writing: Free write about three things that delight you, especially in the midst of fear, sadness, or loss. After a couple of days, read your free write, looking for a line or detail that draws and holds your attention. Begin your poem there, letting your free write and your imagination take you where the poem wants to go.

Photo courtesy of S. Tamra Thomas.


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
Credit: From Still Birth. Copyright© 2013 by Mara Faulkner. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com.

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


September 8

oak treeSeptember's theme engages the beauty, fragility, power and force of nature, and the ways the earth works with and upon our human understanding. Sometimes it takes a contemplation of the natural world to make sense of an inner reality, to accept something in us we are struggling to accept.

I am probably an oak

I want to be a maple, to spark gasps of marvel
at dazzling crimson aware of near falling
trumpeting color all the same.

But I give shade, drop acorns
for the squirrels to store in their cheeks,
their caches, their forgotten places;

I hold onto my leaves--burnished, earthy
even into the winter wind.
Or I could be sumac, flamboyant and shocking,

Electric, poisonous, dangerous
invasive and unmanageable – Carmen, Liszt
virtuoso and flagrant with many secrets.

But I am probably an oak
a rooted canopy, slowly big
my wealth useful, ordinary, my richness brown

a church choir in solid pews ready to sing each Sunday
rising and sitting and kneeling in a familiar cycle
wide arms relaxed at my sides

no triumphant hurrah at the end of the whirling dance.
I want to be loved just once with a fatal passion
to be a whip, a crack of lightning

not to stand firm, bending only in hurricane,
uprooted by tornado and nothing less
I want the fragile, breathless, beloved filigree

But I am probably an oak.

--Karen Lynn Erickson
Credit: From Dwellings. Copyright© 2013 by Karen Erickson. Used with the permission of The Permissions Company, Inc., on behalf of Finishing Line Press, www.finishinglinepress.com. [Cover image]

Invitation for your writing
Follow the model of this poem, filling in what comes to you from the works of nature: I want to be a(n)..., but I am probably a(n).... How does the mirror of nature help you see your nature?