W.S. Merwin's "The Last One" was one of the poems that jumped out at me most. First off it was longer and felt more like a piece of prose, a piece of flash fiction. Merwin does not give a concrete description of who 'they' represents. He uses repetition by starting several of his lines with 'they,' which I assume is the people cutting down the trees. I had some trouble with this poem. I saw 'they' as representations of people from the very beginning. "Well they'd made up their minds to be everywhere because why not. Everywhere was theirs because they thought so." The way people are clear cutting and moving in on the woodlands and forests, today, shows that they believe that anywhere and everywhere is their own property. They only care about how the trees can benefit them; "some to have some for burning." They do not care how they are effecting the environment, the world.
At the end of the third stanza, nature seems to be plotting against man. The shadows, or what I saw as the souls, of the night and the tree have taken enough of a beating, and 'Now' want to fight back. Man cuts down the last standing tree, but the tree's soul is still there imprinted on the land and water. They cut the ground, laid boards, and even set fire to try to rid the area of the shadow. Through all of their attempts, they only fuel the fire as the shadow continues to grow. Until it finally begins to cut down the men and steal their souls. "The ones that could see and stood still, it swallowed their shadows, then it swallowed them too and they vanished." The 'lucky ones' got away and went away as far as possible. They were lucky because their souls were still intact, but also because they had maybe learned a valuable lesson.
I think Merwin is successful, because he touches on a serious problem in an interesting and mysterious way. The forest is often seen as a magical place, so Merwin plays off this idea and gives the tree the power to fight back. In the end, whether I'm right or wrong, his poem has pushed me and challenged me to think about the human relationship versus the non-human world.
"In the Garden of Eden" was another poem that stood out to me. She starts out describing the vultures comparing them to gods, as if they represent much more than just birds. The last two stanzas change the tone of the poem. This is where I realize that this is not just about vultures but about something more. "And they were happy. They could not imagine, what they would become." As if the vultures, which could represent us, were once innocent and a part of the land in Eden. But people have changed. Over time they have become unsatisfied and gluttonous, something they would have never seen themselves as.
I like the nature poems that are detailed and descriptive. Short, but strong, metaphors weaved in throughout that jump out and hit the reader causing them to slow back down and think. In the end, after what is disguised as something about pretty flowers or birds becomes something much deeper and relatable. There are several layers, and the reader is forced to go back and reread, trying to discover the real meaning, the truth.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Sunday, October 25, 2009
What a Tease!
Sunday, October 25, 1:15 p.m. - Walking into the woods and trying to hold Manny back from ripping out of his leash, my foot gets caught in a root crawling across the trail hidden by the leaves. Booby-trap! I make it to my log keeping my wits about me. A tree to my right serves as adequate protection from the burning sun. This is my first trip to the woods in a few weeks where I haven’t been annoyed by frozen temperatures and rain. Instead of sinking like quicksand, the ground crunches with every step of my boots. Manny’s whereabouts are easily heard with his paws smashing the leaves as he ambles from weed to weed.
Everything seems clearer and more open. It’s weird how a little bit of sunlight and warmth can change an environment, a feeling. (What a tease! These mini stretches of good weather aren't helpful in preparing for winter.) I don’t feel rushed or overwhelmed. The calm and comforting weather is inviting, unlike the rain and frost that seems to always force me homeward. Manny even seems more relaxed. He lies back in a pile of leaves while nibbling on the brown, withering leaves of a weed. The area is open. I can see more trees, openings through the trees, and even houses tipping out beyond the trees. At the top of a tree, wrapped in vines, in front of me sits an abandoned bird’s nest. I don’t see any movement or hear any chirping, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.
A light breeze tickles the remaining green leaves clinging to branches. The woods seem brighter and more colorful; it has to be the sun. My log even seems healthier. The sun has moved and shoots golden bars into my right eye reflecting off my lenses. The buzz of crickets and insects drown out any kind of singing the birds might be compelled to express. I expected animal life to be more active, but the only action I see is from two birds.
One bounces from branch to branch and floats to another tree leaving his friend close behind. They relax on the swaying branches taking in the fresh air. I wonder if they’re all business always looking for food and a mate. Do they find time to just sit back and do nothing? Right now, it seems that way. They rejoin each other on a lone branch hiding in the shade. I slide down the log to find a slither of shade like the birds retreating out of the brightness.
I’m reminded of Oliver’s poetry. Is there any tension out here now? On the surface, everything is beautiful and positive. There has to be a reason for the calmness of the birds or Manny. Like the lilies working to break through with open fists, maybe something in the woods, beyond my sight, is trying to break through. There are things outside of my recognition, everyone’s recognition, which are growing and living and surviving. While Oliver points out the light hearted side of nature, there are deeper and more complex meanings to her insights.
Everything seems clearer and more open. It’s weird how a little bit of sunlight and warmth can change an environment, a feeling. (What a tease! These mini stretches of good weather aren't helpful in preparing for winter.) I don’t feel rushed or overwhelmed. The calm and comforting weather is inviting, unlike the rain and frost that seems to always force me homeward. Manny even seems more relaxed. He lies back in a pile of leaves while nibbling on the brown, withering leaves of a weed. The area is open. I can see more trees, openings through the trees, and even houses tipping out beyond the trees. At the top of a tree, wrapped in vines, in front of me sits an abandoned bird’s nest. I don’t see any movement or hear any chirping, but this is the first time I’ve seen it.
A light breeze tickles the remaining green leaves clinging to branches. The woods seem brighter and more colorful; it has to be the sun. My log even seems healthier. The sun has moved and shoots golden bars into my right eye reflecting off my lenses. The buzz of crickets and insects drown out any kind of singing the birds might be compelled to express. I expected animal life to be more active, but the only action I see is from two birds.
One bounces from branch to branch and floats to another tree leaving his friend close behind. They relax on the swaying branches taking in the fresh air. I wonder if they’re all business always looking for food and a mate. Do they find time to just sit back and do nothing? Right now, it seems that way. They rejoin each other on a lone branch hiding in the shade. I slide down the log to find a slither of shade like the birds retreating out of the brightness.
I’m reminded of Oliver’s poetry. Is there any tension out here now? On the surface, everything is beautiful and positive. There has to be a reason for the calmness of the birds or Manny. Like the lilies working to break through with open fists, maybe something in the woods, beyond my sight, is trying to break through. There are things outside of my recognition, everyone’s recognition, which are growing and living and surviving. While Oliver points out the light hearted side of nature, there are deeper and more complex meanings to her insights.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Blue Iris
"For there I am, in the mossy shadow, under the trees." Mary Oliver finds complete remembrance and comfort in the shadows of nature. Against ambition's suggestion to leave, her mind and body is at ease when holding "the wrists of idleness." Writing and coming up with lyrics for poems can not entirely fulfill her like the presence of the black oaks or the bleeding-heart plants.
Throughout Oliver's poems and essays, she focuses on the changing of seasons. "Not tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn pull down the frozen waterfall, the past." The ice or past is overcome by the strength and the risk to move forward. The frozen pond is melting - winter to spring; death to life - and with the coming of spring comes beauty and life. She points out the minute details and wants to appreciate the smaller things in life, like her grandmother did. We tend to get caught up and stressed out over uncontrollable dealings in life when we just need to slow down and breathe. Take a look around and embrace our natural world. As Oliver reflects on the "glossy bush, with many small red hearts dangling" that never miss a spring, we need to analyze our shifts and changes. "What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty." Life's trail or journey is never absolute beauty, but there are stops along the way that stand out making the trip well worth the struggles.
"One day they tear the surface, the next they break open over the dark water." Oliver depicts the struggle of the lilies breaking through "that mud-hive." Giving the lilies human qualities, she shows the battle between the two. "The fists crack open," as if relaxing from a fighting position, readying themselves for a beautiful bloom. From a seasonal slumber or death the lilies are born again. As in her other poems, Oliver breaks for a moment of reflection or thought. "Slippery and wild," the lilies are tough to hold a certain meaning; the lily symbolizes many different ideas (birth, purity, devotion, wealth, death). Just as the lilies are urged to bloom every summer, Oliver notes that people must break free from the baggage of the past; we must move forward with every coming season.
"The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water" touched home to me most. I feel the pressures of life weighing me down; the leeches' of authority trying to suck the life out of me. Like the "reeking leaf-yard Oliver describes. There are times when I want to associate a meaning to something, but "they are devoid of a meaning." Certain things may just happen, because they are supposed to happen. Sorrowing over the uncontrollable is a waste of time. This fight allows for brief moments or seasons of rejoice and reward. The one day that I tear the surface is when I can thrive in the moment and flourish in bloom over the dark water.
And before my amble to the bus
She catches my arm,
While I dream of daisies and roses -
For which my neighbors' gardens provide -
To pick for the girl on the bus,
Lunch and a kiss on the cheek Mom provides.
She opens my hand
And drops three furry, red-veined leaves.
The smell of mint captures my palm,
Even after they dip into my pocket.
Fresh streams from which they grew
Ripple through my mind,
As I lose track of my lovely plan.
Throughout Oliver's poems and essays, she focuses on the changing of seasons. "Not tenderness, not longing, but daring and brawn pull down the frozen waterfall, the past." The ice or past is overcome by the strength and the risk to move forward. The frozen pond is melting - winter to spring; death to life - and with the coming of spring comes beauty and life. She points out the minute details and wants to appreciate the smaller things in life, like her grandmother did. We tend to get caught up and stressed out over uncontrollable dealings in life when we just need to slow down and breathe. Take a look around and embrace our natural world. As Oliver reflects on the "glossy bush, with many small red hearts dangling" that never miss a spring, we need to analyze our shifts and changes. "What blazes the trail is not necessarily pretty." Life's trail or journey is never absolute beauty, but there are stops along the way that stand out making the trip well worth the struggles.
"One day they tear the surface, the next they break open over the dark water." Oliver depicts the struggle of the lilies breaking through "that mud-hive." Giving the lilies human qualities, she shows the battle between the two. "The fists crack open," as if relaxing from a fighting position, readying themselves for a beautiful bloom. From a seasonal slumber or death the lilies are born again. As in her other poems, Oliver breaks for a moment of reflection or thought. "Slippery and wild," the lilies are tough to hold a certain meaning; the lily symbolizes many different ideas (birth, purity, devotion, wealth, death). Just as the lilies are urged to bloom every summer, Oliver notes that people must break free from the baggage of the past; we must move forward with every coming season.
"The Lilies Break Open Over the Dark Water" touched home to me most. I feel the pressures of life weighing me down; the leeches' of authority trying to suck the life out of me. Like the "reeking leaf-yard Oliver describes. There are times when I want to associate a meaning to something, but "they are devoid of a meaning." Certain things may just happen, because they are supposed to happen. Sorrowing over the uncontrollable is a waste of time. This fight allows for brief moments or seasons of rejoice and reward. The one day that I tear the surface is when I can thrive in the moment and flourish in bloom over the dark water.
And before my amble to the bus
She catches my arm,
While I dream of daisies and roses -
For which my neighbors' gardens provide -
To pick for the girl on the bus,
Lunch and a kiss on the cheek Mom provides.
She opens my hand
And drops three furry, red-veined leaves.
The smell of mint captures my palm,
Even after they dip into my pocket.
Fresh streams from which they grew
Ripple through my mind,
As I lose track of my lovely plan.
Friday, October 16, 2009
Where the Wild Things Are
Friday, October 16, 2:15 p.m. - My breath, little white clouds disappearing in front of my face, dances in the air. Winter is here. My fingers and my nose sting from the bitter air. The trails are gone. Leaves - yellow, red, brown, black - cover the ground. My log is soaking and rotting away. The recent rain has turned everything into an oatmeal mush. The green that remains screams out against the dull, dreary backdrop refusing to give up the fight against change. Birds are at full throttle like it is the first day of spring. It's not raining, but the birds above my head bounce from limb to limb causing for mini spurts of rainfall.
Manny is chewing on everything - weeds, leaves, even my log assisting to its destruction. No one seems to be out and about today. Silence creeps through the trees and across the sinking ground. Out of nowhere Manny takes off like he's caught scent of something irresistible. He sprints kicking up leaves and mud past my feet and then comes to a sudden stop. He runs back and forth three or four times, until he hydroplanes and nose-dives off the trail. He slowly regains his composure, gives his body a shake, and resumes sniffing and chewing on the growth.
I'm not looking for gray hawks; I'm not looking for anything in particular. I move from the log before I become a frozen shard for Manny to chew on. About thirty feet from my normal spot is an opening of trees that is landscaped by the chalky sky. Most of the trees have some vegetation, although discolored, but one tree stands out. It bears no leaves; it is naked. Only the branches sticking out like arms of a giant coat rack occupy the space. Unlike the others, it welcomes the cold having already shed its medallions of spring and fall.
Here, I witness a "silly playfulness of the birds." Some are so small they seem almost toy-like. Two of them dodge and weave around each other. One shouts, "Tag, you're it," after slightly nipping at the other's dark feathers. Being in the woods or seeing nature always takes me back to a child. It makes me think of a different world. I think of Where the Wild Things Are (probably because of the recent movie), and I imagine myself on mystical adventures exploring the unknown, the dark places, getting out of this space.
A gust of wind bullies my head into my hood and my hands into my coat sleeves. My boots sinking into the muddy quicksand are covered with leaves. Many snaps, again, and begins another sprinting session. He would spend eternity running through the trees, nibbling on leaves and bark, or tip-toeing across little creeks, if it weren't for me. When he finds himself tangled in the weeds, I tell him that it's time to go. He sits at my feet in a pile of leaves and stares at me with a face of disappointment. We walk out of the woods and head to the dry, warm comfort of home.
Manny is chewing on everything - weeds, leaves, even my log assisting to its destruction. No one seems to be out and about today. Silence creeps through the trees and across the sinking ground. Out of nowhere Manny takes off like he's caught scent of something irresistible. He sprints kicking up leaves and mud past my feet and then comes to a sudden stop. He runs back and forth three or four times, until he hydroplanes and nose-dives off the trail. He slowly regains his composure, gives his body a shake, and resumes sniffing and chewing on the growth.
I'm not looking for gray hawks; I'm not looking for anything in particular. I move from the log before I become a frozen shard for Manny to chew on. About thirty feet from my normal spot is an opening of trees that is landscaped by the chalky sky. Most of the trees have some vegetation, although discolored, but one tree stands out. It bears no leaves; it is naked. Only the branches sticking out like arms of a giant coat rack occupy the space. Unlike the others, it welcomes the cold having already shed its medallions of spring and fall.
Here, I witness a "silly playfulness of the birds." Some are so small they seem almost toy-like. Two of them dodge and weave around each other. One shouts, "Tag, you're it," after slightly nipping at the other's dark feathers. Being in the woods or seeing nature always takes me back to a child. It makes me think of a different world. I think of Where the Wild Things Are (probably because of the recent movie), and I imagine myself on mystical adventures exploring the unknown, the dark places, getting out of this space.
A gust of wind bullies my head into my hood and my hands into my coat sleeves. My boots sinking into the muddy quicksand are covered with leaves. Many snaps, again, and begins another sprinting session. He would spend eternity running through the trees, nibbling on leaves and bark, or tip-toeing across little creeks, if it weren't for me. When he finds himself tangled in the weeds, I tell him that it's time to go. He sits at my feet in a pile of leaves and stares at me with a face of disappointment. We walk out of the woods and head to the dry, warm comfort of home.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Our Wildflower Garden
Waking up Sunday morning was a little rough, but I was excited to get to the farm. Driving out of the hectic city and towards the country brought back memories of my childhood before my life in suburbia.
I moved to Pennsylvania in the first grade, but the five years prior to the move I lived in Virginia. We had one neighbor, Mrs. Jones, and she lived across the two-lane highway. Land and woods occupied the rest of the area. Back then my dad was a big-time hunter and fisherman. We would explore the woods and make our own trails. I had much more freedom than probably any of the five-year-olds running around today. We had a German Shepherd named Hannah, who was super smart. She would chase me around the yard, and I even have a picture (because I really don’t remember) of Hannah pulling my pants down with her teeth as I attempt to escape. Most of my memories from Virginia stem from pictures. I was an only child then, so I guess one could say I was a bit spoiled. My yard was a playground in itself with swings, a jungle gym, and my own personal pool, which in fact could only hold my big toe now. I was a country boy with a slight twang in my voice, my mother said, until we made the move to PA.
Moving from the warmth of the car to the fresh air of the farm was refreshing. The air was cool and the grass was damp – I was awake, ready to get my hands dirty. The open spaces surrounded by woods made me want to run around like I was five again. Instead, I got to work. I might not be the most expressive person, but I really enjoyed the whole class getting together to do this small thing. This class is the first time that I have truly thought about nature and the environment more than hearing about something in the news or seeing a “Green” bumper sticker on a car. I felt like I was actually doing something decent to benefit nature, even if it was just the beginnings of a tiny wildflower garden. (I figure I have to start somewhere.) And now when the flowers are in bloom, we can look back and say that is our wildflower garden.
After the last wheelbarrow of dirt and our healthy lunches (that was definitely the first time I’ve ever eaten a veggie sandwich – not bad), I thought the walk through the woods was incredible. My favorite part was the little pond that used to be used for ice-skating.
I moved to Pennsylvania in the first grade, but the five years prior to the move I lived in Virginia. We had one neighbor, Mrs. Jones, and she lived across the two-lane highway. Land and woods occupied the rest of the area. Back then my dad was a big-time hunter and fisherman. We would explore the woods and make our own trails. I had much more freedom than probably any of the five-year-olds running around today. We had a German Shepherd named Hannah, who was super smart. She would chase me around the yard, and I even have a picture (because I really don’t remember) of Hannah pulling my pants down with her teeth as I attempt to escape. Most of my memories from Virginia stem from pictures. I was an only child then, so I guess one could say I was a bit spoiled. My yard was a playground in itself with swings, a jungle gym, and my own personal pool, which in fact could only hold my big toe now. I was a country boy with a slight twang in my voice, my mother said, until we made the move to PA.
Moving from the warmth of the car to the fresh air of the farm was refreshing. The air was cool and the grass was damp – I was awake, ready to get my hands dirty. The open spaces surrounded by woods made me want to run around like I was five again. Instead, I got to work. I might not be the most expressive person, but I really enjoyed the whole class getting together to do this small thing. This class is the first time that I have truly thought about nature and the environment more than hearing about something in the news or seeing a “Green” bumper sticker on a car. I felt like I was actually doing something decent to benefit nature, even if it was just the beginnings of a tiny wildflower garden. (I figure I have to start somewhere.) And now when the flowers are in bloom, we can look back and say that is our wildflower garden.
After the last wheelbarrow of dirt and our healthy lunches (that was definitely the first time I’ve ever eaten a veggie sandwich – not bad), I thought the walk through the woods was incredible. My favorite part was the little pond that used to be used for ice-skating.
Almost five, maybe six, years ago, my friend and I found a similar pond in the woods of Cecil, fifteen minutes from my house in Canonsburg. In the winter we would trek through the woods with our ice skates and hockey sticks. We made his little brother drag the aluminum hockey net through the jagger bushes (I know jagger is a Pittsburgh thing, but I can’t figure out the true name) and trees. We withstood the burning pain that shot through our fingers as we laced up our skates and ignored the whining of my friends little brother. Our only obstacle, other than the unshaven ice, was a single car tire that stuck out of the ice. We played until it was too dark to see the puck.
I really don’t know much about rebuilding that kind of thing, but I would love to see the pond in its prime. Maybe a project for the near future, if anyone’s interested.
I really don’t know much about rebuilding that kind of thing, but I would love to see the pond in its prime. Maybe a project for the near future, if anyone’s interested.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Bring on the Rain
Friday, October 2, 5:45 p.m. - It's raining. The sky is a dusty powder blue. Today's walk almost feels like my first trip. The woods are quickly changing, and I take my time to find my spot on the log. I hear an orchestra of birds at the top of the trees beyond my normal spot. Before I can reach my nook, I pause to catch my breath. An eerie silence sets me back a step, and I hear a tidal wave of wind swooping above. The flock migrates to another tree. It doesn't take them long to resume choir practice.
The day I don't bring Manny and there's some action. Two separate neighbors are walking their dogs in the woods. It's pouring. Rain pounds my back; the naked tree limbs display a pathetic attempt at giving me shelter. Two black dogs are barking in the distance. One makes eye contact with me and takes off in my direction. It's partner, a bigger version of my attacker, seems as if it is only interested in chasing the other; I am not even in the picture. They jump and lick smelling Manny's scent on my clothes. The owner walks around the trail to avoid me as she yells for her pups. The bigger puppy sprints another lap around me and the trail before exiting with his family.
The woman looked freaked out probably thinking what is this bum doing sitting in the woods on a log in the rain. The ensemble of birds has moved trees, again, and I've lost them. The only thing disturbing the silence is the raindrops pelting off the ground of leaves like BB's hitting off aluminum siding. Or like a child popping a giant sheet of bubble wrap.
Spending time in the woods has helped me to remember a lot more of my childhood. Even after what I said in my last entry about not being able to write about my childhood. I think it is funny how one little thing leads to another. These woods hold tons of memories. My friends and I owned (or thought we owned) these parts. From the drawing yesterday, I came up with so many more memories. Where I am now was where we spent most of our time; I have the fondest memories of placing squares of carpet in our tree house. My friend walk through these trails to a creek deep in the woods where we would dig for crawfish under the rocks.
The good times are shadowed by one dark moment that sticks out in the back of my head. The woods behind my house where we sometimes explored was host to a disturbing scene. Twelve to fifteen foot bike jumps lined the dirt of an area in the woods. My friends and I would sometimes watch the older kids or even weave over and around the bumps of a mini track. One day, an older kid had a bad accident. When everyone was at the hospital and the neighborhood was calm, we checked out the scene. Walking the plateau we followed a trail of blood that seemed to drag across the dirt for half a mile. The next day a crew of bulldozers flattened the mounds.
Here come the bears. These other two dogs are massive; their fur is thick and matted like a wet bail of hay. They leave me with a healthy serving of slobber. I decide to make the trek home as the rain comes down even harder.
The day I don't bring Manny and there's some action. Two separate neighbors are walking their dogs in the woods. It's pouring. Rain pounds my back; the naked tree limbs display a pathetic attempt at giving me shelter. Two black dogs are barking in the distance. One makes eye contact with me and takes off in my direction. It's partner, a bigger version of my attacker, seems as if it is only interested in chasing the other; I am not even in the picture. They jump and lick smelling Manny's scent on my clothes. The owner walks around the trail to avoid me as she yells for her pups. The bigger puppy sprints another lap around me and the trail before exiting with his family.
The woman looked freaked out probably thinking what is this bum doing sitting in the woods on a log in the rain. The ensemble of birds has moved trees, again, and I've lost them. The only thing disturbing the silence is the raindrops pelting off the ground of leaves like BB's hitting off aluminum siding. Or like a child popping a giant sheet of bubble wrap.
Spending time in the woods has helped me to remember a lot more of my childhood. Even after what I said in my last entry about not being able to write about my childhood. I think it is funny how one little thing leads to another. These woods hold tons of memories. My friends and I owned (or thought we owned) these parts. From the drawing yesterday, I came up with so many more memories. Where I am now was where we spent most of our time; I have the fondest memories of placing squares of carpet in our tree house. My friend walk through these trails to a creek deep in the woods where we would dig for crawfish under the rocks.
The good times are shadowed by one dark moment that sticks out in the back of my head. The woods behind my house where we sometimes explored was host to a disturbing scene. Twelve to fifteen foot bike jumps lined the dirt of an area in the woods. My friends and I would sometimes watch the older kids or even weave over and around the bumps of a mini track. One day, an older kid had a bad accident. When everyone was at the hospital and the neighborhood was calm, we checked out the scene. Walking the plateau we followed a trail of blood that seemed to drag across the dirt for half a mile. The next day a crew of bulldozers flattened the mounds.
Here come the bears. These other two dogs are massive; their fur is thick and matted like a wet bail of hay. They leave me with a healthy serving of slobber. I decide to make the trek home as the rain comes down even harder.
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