Poems of Nature and War
4 poems
*
I’ve chosen a few more poems from the stash of my poems previously published in a wide range of magazines in the United States and internationally, back in the 1980s though the early aughts. Afterwards I decided my poetry, and possibly most poetry, was not benefitting from attempts to fit it into the stated and unstated strictures and expectations of that small publishing community.
I think my decision had as much to do with the feeling that there wasn’t much opportunity for me or my poetry to be delivered to some other more inspiring level by continuing the laborious and often costly process of submission and seeking publishers, as well as what seemed to me to be the startling and absurdly alarming happenings in the world, especially in the US, because of its repellent and self-serving, duplicitous, response in the aftermath of 9/11.
These repulsive and surreal patterns are still in play.
Setting the record straight though: I think nature poetry is political and as revolutionary as any poem that serves an ages old primary purpose of poetry… shouting out, lamenting, human cruelty and self-destruction.
*
*
In the days of her affliction and wandering Jerusalem remembers all the treasures that were hers in days of old. When her people fell into enemy hands, there was no one to help her. Her enemies looked at her and laughed at her destruction. -Lamentations 1:7
*
“But ask the animals, and they will teach you, or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth, and it will teach you, or let the fish in the sea inform you. Which of all these does not know that the hand of the Lord has done this? In his hand is the life of every creature and the breath of all mankind.” – Job 12:7-10
*
“[...] Countless are the resources of Mother Earth, from whom flow the rivers of wealth in hundreds of streams, Worship Motherland as you worship God From time eternal, the Mother Earth is giving life to her children — you owe debt to Her” — Atharvaveda 12:1:45
*
War is raging in the countryside;
Beacon fire blazes far and wide.
Grass and trees stink with bodies dead;
With blood the streams and plains turn red.
Where can I find a happy land?
Why do I tarry here and stand?
Why not from my humble home part
And march away with broken heart!
--DuFu
***
*
Contents:
Storm Over Higgins Lake
At the Mouth of the Two-Hearted River
I am Obsessed by Making My Yard Pretty
Lizard Woman
*
Storm Over Higgins Lake I wait in the sun for the storm cell’s erupting roses to reach me. They never come, jabbing the southshore hills with sudden stamens of tight hard light. Through the thunder I stay dry. The lake blossoms in bands out from this little beach: clouded runoff, then green, then churlish, blue. Look a tribe of birds slides so slowly from the stormy side. First I am sure they are fronds of weeds. Then one honks, rises, blooms toward the threat of the sky. They stretch and thin, separate and reconvene, amorphous florets opened completely to bird, bird, bird and more bird far enough away from the spangled shore. Cimarron Review Issue 152 Summer 2005 "Cimarron Review" was a longstanding journal out of Oklahoma. Many of my choices for submissions were made specifically to magazines that had established some longevity and respect, many were products of University English Departments.
At the Mouth of the Two-Hearted River Exhausted from living in the all day blow we finish our cribbage early and put the pins away almost ready for bed. There is that last line of ineffable light over the water. We struggle to stay out of the sack long enough to stare at the stars. Last night, up before dawn, she said the moon had totally hazed away the western firmament. She thought it was fog. There was no wind. I’ve taken a white white stone from the berm of smooth stones the lake always clatters. I’ve a way to get there, down a path where the smell of jewel weed keeps me wary for snakes and bears. We hear other voices, see one huge pine catch sunset at the mouth of the Two-Hearted River. There are wizards in our books and out over the foaming curls on the dim horizon another country lies across the cold dusk. We have often gone there, slept near the same water where there are cliffs, ancient pictures and huge clefts in rusty rock just wide enough to walk through. The Small Pond Magazine of Literature Spring 2002, Volume V.XXXIX #2 "Small Pond" is a sweet and informal appearing little magazine that had been around for many years. I like the typewriter font used in the magazine; editorial standards were high, and the writing well presented. I can't tell you how many times mistakes in lineation and spelling were made in magazines that published my work, even in those considered quite prestigious. There was rarely if ever a notice or attempt to rectify these errors. This is another poem that belies one Michigan publisher's claim that my poetry didn't represent Michigan enough for their uses. Most of my poems that take imagery from Michigan were published elsewhere... "Small Pond" is out of Connecticut.
I am Obsessed By Making My Yard Pretty i I do not believe that twenty-four missiles fired from two separate seas will all land on a specific and comparatively speaking tiny complex of buildings in Baghdad. ii The ambassador faces cameras swimming all around him. He says there are no numbers of dead yet. They are too busy trying to pull the rubble apart so they can reach the bodies. iii Before I learned about those hissing missiles I was planting columbine. It will be columbine for one child killed. I have not heard of any child killed. I know there has been one. iv I am obsessed by making my yard pretty. Every time I read another news story about children clinging to their mothers as more madmen arrive to slice out their hearts I put in another perennial. v Canterbury Bells when the Muslim children of Sarajevo are slaughtered. Delphinium as Liberian babies are beheaded still on the back of their mothers. Lilies for the smashed open young Gypsies in Germany. Liatris for small Somalians starved. vi My nasturtiums seed themselves for children I know die somewhere our collective conscience isn’t interested in. Perhaps the kids in Detroit. It has been a cold wet spring. I read another poem empty of the death of any child: they have flowers in them, and fields, quiet fields, safe fields, bloodless fields, warless fields blowing seed and black-eyed susans and dust that sneaks in from far, far east. A young man throws a rock to the other side of a river where his grandfather once lived and he is shot down. Inside the sound of birds rising the moment that rock lands is the fragment of another child’s shooting, his moment of death falling in that place the child was told is home. I plant hardy hibiscus for these. Afterthoughts Spring 2000, Volume 6 #1, Issue 15 I was pleased that a magazine took this poem, and I am still proud of it and feel it passes the test of time in regard to its relevance to current events. "Afterthoughts", another magazine out of Canada that published my work, had an appearance that belied the challenging nature of the range and subject matter of the work it published. I am pretty sure no American lit mag would have published this piece, there being an unstated norm in the States that such poetry could only be published in magazines that had a stated and primary political bent.
Lizard Woman The lizard woman wakes in this dark womb, black butterfly from a chrysalis of knowing she is what she is not. Hips propel her, small handful breasts slink behind, hands always clutch and smooth anything, anywhere they are held. She roams a room beating thick with music, dancers in every combination: Women with sharp hair staring through the thunder of lights hypnotized but easy in their movement, black on white and shining. Men together as they know they should be, touching touching starved for that touching. In her black skin dress and wild yellow hair the lizard woman winds into every corner. She opens the door labeled ‘Men’ pulled by her exaggeration hips, the dress that stretches over her cock and balls. her smugness says: ‘this is what I can do’... Everyone recognizes her, her table is a shrine. She is as thin as electricity, as smooth as a slow river. She lies with no one. She lies with everyone. Orbis; an international quarterly of poetry and prose #101/2, Summer/Autumn 1996 This is another poem of mine published by Orbis, a magazine out of Great Britain. I always appreciated the overall quality of what was published in this magazine, their professionalism and editorial standards, as well as the risks they took regarding subject matter and the range of styles and subjects.
