Increase

July 7 2019

Here, in the land of rocks and trees

the forest shoulders in

in that persistent methodical way

of nature,

as if all that matters is more

and increasing itself

life's essential meaning.

Reproduce, survive, grow;

even if the malignancy kills you,

even if you exhaust the earth

and starve yourself to death.

So I have given up

on the manicured lawn.

The patch of garden

behind its wobbly wire fence

on bent metal staves

going to rust.

The flowerbeds

overrun by webs of choking vetch,

dandelions

with their white cadaverous heads,

and alien-looking weeds

on leggy stems

grasping upwards.

So greedily ravenous

I can almost hear them grow.

I am no horticulturist.

My philosophy of gardening

has become live and let live.

So now, like walls closing in

the forest pushes closer

enclosing me in greenery.

A free-for-all of plants

shouldering up against the house

almost blocking-out the sun,

competing

in their striving canopy

and silent underground.

So when I look out the window

I am reminded of my place;

my brief undistinguished life,

my cracked foundation

and rotting beams.

Bury me

at the base of the tallest white pine.

In a hundred years, we will burn,

the forest, renewing itself

while I chimney-up in smoke

spread evenly around the world.

So that every creature on earth

will breathe me in,

a single molecule

of my posterity

in at least one breath.

Way too much math for my taste and for poetry, but when better brains than mine do the calculations, this turns out to be true: we do have an excellent chance of breathing in the same molecules as Napoleon or Julius Caesar did, and possible even the molecules their decomposing bodies released. The planet is a closed system, and matter is conserved.

I had no idea, of course, the poem would end with this. A poem takes me by the hand, and the pen goes where it will. The original idea came from my negligent gardening and lawn care. Especially living out here in the wild, where the forest seems relentless and inexorable, and weeds appear as if by spontaneous generation.

Contemplating this imperative of growth leads me to life's ultimate purpose. Which, when distilled down, seems simply to be more life: more process, than a measurable end or some ultimate meaning. Especially being an atheist, who discerns no divine if inscrutable purpose, the meaning of life seems simply to be to carry on and create more or it. There are no higher or lower organisms, no hierarchy of worthiness and entitlement. So as well as an essential malignancy in this, there is also a kind of unity.

Fire is a great equalizer. The forest is adapted to fire, needs it, and it will eventually happen. Fire allows the circle to close. Instead of life consuming itself and leaving a scorched inanimate earth, there are cycles of death and renewal, and life goes on.

... “A poem takes me by the hand, and the pen goes where it will.” Indeed! Here's the short note I wrote when sending the first rough draft to my first readers:

One of those that wrote itself; which seems to be happening a lot, lately.  There is a pent-up desire to write; there is a central idea, which I've been putting off, but which has been percolating unconsciously; and then there is the actual writing, which disinters all these intuitive connections of which I'm unaware  ...and so the words flow -- as if I'm taking dictation.

It was much the same with the blurb. Just kind of came out. Unlike those letters I write, which are meticulously thought through, constructed, edited. 

A little mysterious, but quite a lot of fun, actually!