Succession
Feb 28 2014
In a blistering wind
I stop in the trees,
refuge
from its cold cacophony.
Absorbed
by their dense immoveable mass,
the labyrinth
of branches.
Except for the leaves
a million little whirligigs.
And a creaking trunk,
like a weather-vaneI stop in the trees,
refuge
from its cold cacophony.
Absorbed
by their dense immoveable mass,
the labyrinth
of branches.
Except for the leaves
a million little whirligigs.
And a creaking trunk,
seized with rust.
Lightning-struck,
or weakened by drought, or bugs
or heavy run-off,
that record flood
the year I was born.
Or that flash fire
a century ago;
this long-lived survivor, badly scorched,
long before
the succession of forest
renewing itself.
It is hollow inside,
the majestic trunk
deceptively weak.
A passing breeze
might topple it,
tearing through branches, bringing down trees.
Or get hung up
groaning and creaking,
snagged
by a supple neighbour
still standing, for now.
I hunker down,
imagine it looming above me.
In the fullness of time
it will fall,
digging deep
of its depleted strength
in a final heroic spurt;
budding with life
as it slowly dies.
While we go fast
and stubbornly,
deny the fate
of our mortal remains
laid well underground,
bloated flesh
and worm-infested eyes.
It will return to the forest floor,
in the cool murk, that smells
of decomposition
and earth,
rotting matter
where bright green saplings
are growing fast.
Springing up
from the loamy soil,
straining for light.
I wrote recently that when I can't think of anything to write, I always seem to fall back on weather and dogs. I should have added a third category: tree poems. This one started in the refuge of a wind-break in a cold winter, and somehow transformed into summer.
The first person narrative that wends through it was accidental, even though it probably seems like the crux of the poem. The opening line was originally "It's quiet in the trees". This became "I stop in the trees" (and moved to the 2nd line) because inhabiting a person and a point of view is a lot more powerful than the passive "it". And once I began that way, I couldn't very well leave the reader without his surrogate voice. A strong first couple of lines is critical, because I think a lot of readers aren't willing to go much further if they aren't hooked from the get go. In the second stanza, there is a reflective humility to this voice. The tree intersects with his life, as well as bracketing it: so I think his observations contain a sense of the immensity of time set against his own insignificance; of nature as an endless succession, set against the brief flash of a human life.
How hard I try to avoid writing more poems about death; but once I had this slowly dying tree sprouting with new life, the contrast between that and the way we experience death -- both sudden, and final -- was too compelling to resist. So, in the spirit of "go home or go big", how could I say no to " ...bloated flesh/ and worm-infested eyes"? As does the tree, we also return to the earth. But sanitized to the point of denial: embalmed, formally dressed, and contained in heavy burnished box; as if the bacteria and worms will not reclaim us as well. (I hope they harvest my organs and then throw my untreated body into a cardboard box or wicker basket and bury me at the foot of a tree. If the animals dig me up, so be it. I don't see the point of being sentimental over dead bodies. After one's gone, one's mortal remains are just an empty bag of meat. Being returned to the earth is the most reverent thing to be done.)
Fortunately, the negativity is redeemed by the over-arching theme of regeneration and renewal. What could be more uplifting after all, than "straining for light"?!!
Lightning-struck,
or weakened by drought, or bugs
or heavy run-off,
that record flood
the year I was born.
Or that flash fire
a century ago;
this long-lived survivor, badly scorched,
long before
the succession of forest
renewing itself.
It is hollow inside,
the majestic trunk
deceptively weak.
A passing breeze
might topple it,
tearing through branches, bringing down trees.
Or get hung up
groaning and creaking,
snagged
by a supple neighbour
still standing, for now.
I hunker down,
imagine it looming above me.
In the fullness of time
it will fall,
digging deep
of its depleted strength
in a final heroic spurt;
budding with life
as it slowly dies.
While we go fast
and stubbornly,
deny the fate
of our mortal remains
laid well underground,
bloated flesh
and worm-infested eyes.
It will return to the forest floor,
in the cool murk, that smells
of decomposition
and earth,
rotting matter
where bright green saplings
are growing fast.
Springing up
from the loamy soil,
straining for light.
I wrote recently that when I can't think of anything to write, I always seem to fall back on weather and dogs. I should have added a third category: tree poems. This one started in the refuge of a wind-break in a cold winter, and somehow transformed into summer.
The first person narrative that wends through it was accidental, even though it probably seems like the crux of the poem. The opening line was originally "It's quiet in the trees". This became "I stop in the trees" (and moved to the 2nd line) because inhabiting a person and a point of view is a lot more powerful than the passive "it". And once I began that way, I couldn't very well leave the reader without his surrogate voice. A strong first couple of lines is critical, because I think a lot of readers aren't willing to go much further if they aren't hooked from the get go. In the second stanza, there is a reflective humility to this voice. The tree intersects with his life, as well as bracketing it: so I think his observations contain a sense of the immensity of time set against his own insignificance; of nature as an endless succession, set against the brief flash of a human life.
How hard I try to avoid writing more poems about death; but once I had this slowly dying tree sprouting with new life, the contrast between that and the way we experience death -- both sudden, and final -- was too compelling to resist. So, in the spirit of "go home or go big", how could I say no to " ...bloated flesh/ and worm-infested eyes"? As does the tree, we also return to the earth. But sanitized to the point of denial: embalmed, formally dressed, and contained in heavy burnished box; as if the bacteria and worms will not reclaim us as well. (I hope they harvest my organs and then throw my untreated body into a cardboard box or wicker basket and bury me at the foot of a tree. If the animals dig me up, so be it. I don't see the point of being sentimental over dead bodies. After one's gone, one's mortal remains are just an empty bag of meat. Being returned to the earth is the most reverent thing to be done.)
Fortunately, the negativity is redeemed by the over-arching theme of regeneration and renewal. What could be more uplifting after all, than "straining for light"?!!
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