Succession
Jan 22 2015


Wild blueberries grow
in the blackened scars
cleared by fire,
in eerie silence, acrid smell

a sign of life.
Under charred trees
in scorched soil,
where shrivelled roots, starved of light, begin to die.

The way raw earth
on a freshly dug grave
quickly greens,
invading weeds
fill vacant space.

Wild berries
are small, dark, intense.
At the peak of ripeness
I rake my fingers
through green confetti leaves,
and they fall, easily
into open hands.
Unless there's been bears,
bushes stripped
where they gorged,
blueberry scat
like posted warnings.

And now, in the depth of winter
I mine the freezer
where they were frozen, fresh,
for pancakes, porridge
banana bread.
Or straight, by the handful.
Blue-stained fingers
as in summers past.

The succession of seasons
is like the inexorable greening
in the wake of fire.
As bushes, to trees
aspen to pine,
winter leads to spring
and summer follows.
August heat
another crop.

As is often the case, the desire to write -- all caffeinated, and immersed in words -- but no idea what. So I suppose there is something to be said for snacking, since it was my "famous" blueberry/flax/banana bread that handed me an obvious subject, and one I'm surprised I hadn't already honoured. Because who doesn't love blueberries? And after my rant about climate change (Contented Frogs), it's a relief to return to my usual preference for microcosm -- for the diurnal and small.

Several things I think work well in this poem.

In the opening stanza, I was playing around with overwrought words like "barrens" and "wasteland". But eerie silence, acrid smell is so much better: not only does it show instead say, it recruits both sound and smell: a nice complement to my usual emphasis on the visual.

I like green confetti leaves. It started as small, green leaves. But "small" is not only anodyne, it appeared just 3 lines before; and when confetti somehow came to me, I realized that it was the perfect description of those little leaves.

Earlier, in the same stanza, it's an omission that pleases me, because it not only required the discipline of less is more, it made me renounce a clever rhyme (and if nothing else, I always like to show off cleverness!) It was originally Unlike their farmed counterparts/ wild berries are small, dark, intense. Which I found not only a bit digressive, but a lot less punchy. This way, the line better reflects the sharpness of small, dark, intense.

And since I'm confessing my weakness for the clever rhyme, I might as well note a delectable one here: gorged ...warnings ...porridge. It was originally "oatmeal", and took me a awhile to realize why porridge slipped in so much more mellifluously!

I know blue-stained fingers is pretty prosaic, not to mention obvious. But again, it's the use of all the senses that pleases me: in this case touch, because you feel this as much as see it -- cool, sticky, wet. Just as hands -- and hence touch -- preceded it in rake my fingers, and open hands, and straight, by the handful.

Inexorable seems to be one of my favourite words, insinuating itself into nearly every other poem! Maybe it's the sound. Or maybe the way the sound, to me, seems to contain its meaning. (I think it's that short "e", which almost invites you to draw it out.) Or maybe it's the idea of inexorability itself: slow, irreversible, almost predetermined. There is a powerful feeling of inertia and inevitability in the word. Here, as well, it conveniently picks up the short "e" of succession.

The theme of this poem is a familiar trope with me: discerning patterns; taking comfort in cycles, natural rhythms, predictability. It didn't start out that way. But as I began by considering the succession of plants in a regenerating forest, and then later found myself eating blueberries out of season, it was natural to think of seasons the same way: one following the other, as predictable and timeless as the succession of plants in a burnt landscape. And so the poem pulled together, found its form. Although really, all I wanted to write about was blueberries; and all I had in my mind's eye were those blue-stained fingers!

Of course, any blueberries you find in my freezer will be found pre-packaged from the supermarket: they may be wild; but sure weren't picked by me!

(A note for any foresters and botanists and boreal forest fans. I think jack-pine precedes aspen. But aspen (along with the other predominant deciduous tree, birch) definitely precedes white pine. So I think the poem is technically accurate. And if not, then I can always claim poetic license!)