Last weekend I came across 50 Ways to Help Save the Bees by Sally Coulthard. This short book is filled with relatively simple steps we all can take to protect these engines of our ecosystems. One step is to plant a pollinator garden. I’ve been gardening for years, but never focused specifically on bee-friendly flowers. Coulthard includes a list of “Blooms for Bees” and one of my favorite annuals, cosmos, is included. Anxious to get my bee-friendly flowers started, I planted packets of cosmos, sunflowers, and cornflowers (indoors–it’s not warm enough here in western Connecticut to sow seeds outdoors). This poem was inspired by all that planting.
Dozens of bees orbit a galaxy of blossoms, probingpollen-packed pompoms bursting from the shining center of the cosmos.
This month I have been writing poems in response to the ideas, connections and echoes between All We Can Save: Truth, Courage, and Solutions for the Climate Crisis, edited by Ayana Elizabeth Johnson and Katharine K. Wilkinson and Rooted: Life at the Crossroads of Science, Nature, and Spirit, by Lyanda Lynn Haupt. I’ve focused more on Rooted and the fundamental beliefs, or tenets, that are at the heart of rootedness. “Everyday Animism,” is one of these tenets. Haupt explains that “all ways of being, from hominid to dandelion to dragonfly to cedar tree, possess a kind of aliveness.” (p. 24) She also states that “It is time to acknowledge animal consciousness–both the continuities that we share and recognize, and the mysteries that we may never comprehend.” (p.137) Today’s poem attempts this acknowledgement.
On the verge of night, I stand at the edge of the field. I see only the black tufts of his ears. He senses my presence; Becomes one with the spikes of grass.
But he is on a mission, and it’s growing dark. His whole head rises. I stare into his coal black eyes. They carry this plea:
Lyanda Lynn Haupt lays out twelve fundamental beliefs, or tenets, that are at the heart of rootedness. One of these is that “all is sacred.” Haupt explains that “a recognition of the sacred in all of nature is the source of any movement toward reciprocity–inner and outer. It hallows our life and work.” This wreath should have come down months ago, but it will stay a few more weeks, until it’s now sacred task is completed.
forgotten weathered Christmas wreath shelters new life resourceful mama
In Rooted, Haupt includes creativity as one of the tenets of rootedness. She writes that “the joining of our own unique arts to those of the collective whole is the deepest — perhaps the only — hope for the continuation of a wild earth.” (p. 28) So on this day after Earth Day, here is my contribution to the collective whole.
Ode to an April Morning
This April morning the world vibrates with life.
Day-old goslings, swaddled in gray and yellow down scramble onto the edge of the pond, follow mama and papa to a patch of fresh grass, nibble their first meal.
Painted turtles bask in the warmth of the sun, heads raised in celebration.
A pair of cardinals dart in and out of a holly bush, scouting out the perfect spot to build their nest.
And in the field, violets shimmer with possibility.
My National Poetry Month Project has gone off the rails. Instead of writing poetry this week I’ve been changing the diapers of my 3-week old grandson, reading and singing to him and his 2-year old sister, and helping their parents transition to life with 2 kids.
Early in April, I read an article in The New York Times about microplastics hitching a ride on marine snow to the bottom of the ocean. Scientists fear that this will disrupt the food webs throughout the world’s oceans. This has gnawed at me ever since, but I couldn’t figure out how to write a poem about it. Then I found this quote by Wendell Berry. The last line felt like a perfect strike line for a Golden Shovel:
Here’s my very drafty draft:
How can we pretend to know with certainty the ripple effects of our inventions on the world? Tons of plastic, that miracle convenience*, floats and swirls through our oceans. Now we learn that this “indestructible” scourge breaks down, that microplastics have infiltrated what were once thought pristine, unreachable depths. Is no place safe from the blizzard of debris we’ve unleashed on the Earth? What good is all our technology if we can’t protect our only home for our grandchildren, for all of nature? They deserve it.
* See this article to find out how plastic was marketed to our parents in the 1960s. There are many, many articles online about ways to reduce our plastic use. Here’s one with an extensive list of ideas.
Please be sure to visit Matt Forrest Esenwine at Radio, Rhythm & Rhyme for a terrific interview with Leslie Bulion and the Poetry Friday Roundup!
Lyanda Lynn Haupt includes “Enchantment and Wonder” among the tenets of Rootedness. She explains that the word wonder “derives from the Old English wundrian – to be astonished by the presence of the wondrous.” (p. 27) She also explains that we humans, so preoccupied with our busyness, have to be open to the “visitations” of the wondrous. Sometimes I can be a bit too open to wonder. Although I haven’t driven off the road while gazing at some bird, cloud, or tree yet, I’ve come close. That is what happened one day last November. Driving to work one morning, I noticed something hanging from a tree near the road. As I got closer, I slowed almost to a stop. (So I wouldn’t drive into the tree!) Wonder of wonders, it was a Baltimore oriole’s nest! Sadly, it was too far off the ground to get a good look at, but I’ve been marveling at that nest all winter long. Late last week when I drove by, I was enraged to see that the tree had been cut down! I hope whoever cut it down noticed the sock-sized miracle they destroyed. I decided to write a tanka-ish poem in its honor.
hidden since last spring among dense, sheltering leaves, an oriole’s nest, a beak-woven wonder, survived the winter
At its heart, reciprocity is the idea that all beings, plant and animal, “facilitate one another in beneficial ways,” Janine Benyus writes in her essay “Reciprocity” (All We Can Save, p. 9). For several years, we have been witnessing reciprocity in action outside our kitchen window. The stump pictured below is all that’s left of a beech tree that died. Worried that it could fall on our house, my husband and son cut it down, but never got around to digging out the stump. I’m glad they left it to finish its natural cycle.
Red-crested pileated woodpeckers Excavate the stump of an old beech, Carving cavities, feasting on Insects who’ve settled inside the Pitted, pulpy wood, all that Remains of a towering tree, where a multitude of Organisms still thrive, a Community Inextricably intertwined, supporting, Tending, nourishing one another for Years to come.
The Progressive Poem has become a beloved tradition during National Poetry Month. Irene Latham began this annual event in 2012 and organized its creation until 2020, when Margaret Simon took over.
I confess, I sat on the sidelines for several years. I felt coming up with a line to match the tone and timber of the work of so many talented poets was too much pressure! A few years ago, I decided to join in the fun.
This year, Irene got the ball rolling with a line from Emily Winfield Martin’s magical book, The Imaginaries. Yesterday, Donna added the possibility that this could be a poem for two voices. The invitation to adventure in Irene’s line was too much for me to pass up, so I chose a line from The Wind in the Willows that could be a response to Bilbo’s unwillingness to leave his cozy Hobbit home.
Where they were going, there were no maps; (Irene L.)
“Sorry! I don’t want any adventures, thank you. Not today.” (Donna S.)
“Take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!” (Catherine F.)
Over to you, Mary Lee.
Here are the sources for the poem’s lines so far:
The Imaginaries: Little Scraps of Larger Stories, by Emily Winfield Martin The Hobbit, by J. R. R. Tolkien The Wind in the Willows, by Kenneth Grahame
Be sure to follow the progress of our poem each day!
Our house is built on land that was once part of my great-grandfather’s farm. I feel deeply connected to this land, although I never knew this was really meant by the word “kith.” I also know that before European settlers lived here, people of the Schaghticoke and Paugussett nations lived on this land. We have tried to be good stewards and remember that we share this land with others.
Some of you know that we have a new grandson. I know his parents will help him understand that “each element within creation (including humans) has the right and the responsibility to respectfully coexist as coequals within the larger system of life.” (Mitchell, p. 19) Today’s poem is dedicated to Eamonn.
Kith and kin
On the night you were born, the moon bathed you in its silvery light, welcoming you into the world.
Deep in the woods, a chorus of peepers sang out in jubilation, celebrating your arrival.
And sap coursed through trees and plants swelling buds, greening the earth, greeting you, their brother.