there are transitional moments, spaces filled with
wildfire and earthquake and avalanche, yet wilderness
speaks more of the sun pouring his heart out in dapples
and of the paced stew of the ever-changing seasons,
the promise of rough paths alongside the lives of trees,
the lonely lakes that mirror endless sky-play, and always
those smart birds hitching free rides on thermal columns
how cherish-able is the insouciance of the backcountry, prized
for its medicinal value, for its stringy-barked eucalyptus and
frizzy moss, for its innocence in tossing up and carving out
the weathered mountains, the rugged expanse of palisades,
the high-principled stone obelisks rising from frothing seas; Oh! how treasured is the untrammeled earth, the wilderness ~
so reverent in its prayers, its songs of praise, soaring
tower-like, a marvel of primordial cathedrals spinning
past the cruciferous hallmark of hawk against the blue and
cloud-bedecked sky; ageless, these untamed places are
rock-solid sanity and tree anchored, feeding those who sit
one with them, who own the wilderness essence from the heart’s
unbroken core, finding their own soul as incorruptible as stone
“Thousands of tired, nerve-shaken, over-civilized people are beginning to find out that going to the mountains is going home; that wildness is a necessity” John Muir, OurNational Parks
This week’s prompt is short and sweet. How does wild nature make you feel at the very core of your being? Tell us in prose, poem or even photography. If you feel comfortable, leave your work below or, if it’s too long or it’s photography, leave a link to it that we might all enjoy. Your work will be featured here at The Poet by Day next Tuesday.
LESSON FOURTEEN, Establish a Private Life: “Nastier rulers will use what they know about yu to push you around. scrub your computer of malware on a regular basis. Remember that email is skywriting. Consider using alternative forms of the internet, or simply using it less. Have personal exchanges in person. For the same reason, resolve any legal trouble. Tyrants seek the hook on which to hang you. Try not to have hooks.” Prof. Snyder, On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century
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WEDNESDAY WRITING PROMPT April 26, 2017 ~ Climate change is on our minds these days – perhaps more than in the past given the regime – and we are feeling one with Mother Earth and all her creatures and gratitude for the people who marched on Saturday. What pictures come to mind when you think of our home? How do they make you feel or respond? Tell us in prose or poem . . . and several readers took the challange creating work that rewards your time spent. Enjoy! … and do visit their sites. Get to them better and let them get to know you.
Costa Rican boat tour by Isadora DeLaVega
Wonderlust Rain Forest
Approaching fading blue skies, we wandered silently through the
Costa Rican Rainforest on our private boat tour. Reaching peaceful estuaries
quietly seeking the wildlife that inhabits this forest.
Silently listening to nature at play, we soon reached the end of our destination.
Unspoiled waters filled with hope for natures future.
Isadora DeLa Vega is featured for the first time on The Poet by Day. Since I’ve enjoyed her creativity for years, I’m pleased to have her response to last Wednesday’s writing prompt.
Isadora blogs at Isadora Art and Photography, A Place for Visual Creativity. She began her career in her late thirties after raising her children. For twenty-eight years, Isadora created award-winning silversmith art jewelry. When she retired due to failing health, she knew that she still needed to be creative. She decided to explore photography because she is inspired by and passionate about luscious colors. She says, “They’re the manna that feeds my soul.” Before long she realized that writing and poetry were good outlets as well for conveying her thoughts. Her long-term goal is to one day publish a book with her photography and quotes.
and
in the wobble & bulge
of the hurtling universe
I am the sound of blackbirds
and the flutter of a butterfly wing
the shifting shadow on the summer lawn
and the tall tree wind getting up;
all this fixes me for the moment
along with the ancient memory
of two maternal relatives we visited
in Wimbledon Park—it seemed quite often
though it might have been but once or twice…
their lawn turned into a pathway
round a herbaceous oblong
to follow which seemed a minor mystery—
one that transposed many mysteries
to lead to this moment now
darkening shadows and squawk of pheasant
and beeflies above the mouldering sundial
The fox follows her along the byway to reach untouched forests
those forests unfettered by time and pristine oceans devoid of human touch
and each time always she passes freeways littered with a garbage landscape
the fox glances at bottles and fast food wrappers collecting
on roads under construction on a continuum of future whys
where the smell of black tar invades with stinging and burning
she should be accustomed but wrinkles her nose in disgust
as does the fox now her shadow trusting she will reach a destination
not concrete and black asphalt now covering the richness of earth
and does she still hope windows rolled and closed will be enough
enough to keep her safe or will they be unable to block
out the constant drone of the noise of a civilized world
a world that is one built impinging on nature’s habitat
one adding insult to injury and becoming a macabre graveyard
to endangered species & the fox wonders if he will be next
but he cannot bring himself to let himself be absorbed
into track homes swallowing up citrus groves as the raccoons have done
stealing into the night to rob garbage cans of their next meal
this becoming an unnatural habitat as it has for bears and possum
and he feels oddly fortunate that tigers and lions do not live here
but he can still hear them all screaming in pain underpinned with sorrow
and the fox listens as he follows and always the level of noise increases
increases exponentially with every tree cut down and concrete poured
and the fox feels his shadow growing less as theirs becomes more
where claustrophobic habitats are multiplying housing for a rising populace
and the need to reach the forest to be able to stare in awe at the ocean
propels them down the road and she knows she is like the fox
and that no amount of polish will shine and bring it all back
to bring it back to a time delegated to past histories before her
before the fox became her shadow on a journey to find survival
the only solution being the ability of technology to merge with nature
to be a part of the answer in preserving the beauty here long before us
long before becoming tarnished goods in the midst of climate change
long before the fox became her shadow and she became the fox’s shade
we will not have blankets, if there are none, take the old rags, layer , stitch and stitch by hand till fingers bleed.
work is steady, absorbtion as if the outside world is ended. looking up find it has not. stitching can be rhythmic, and never mind the capitals. other words confound. birds beat the window.
the questions came that i cannot answer here or ever. did not count this time only the final one. noticed the first ones are now undone. the wrong knots.
maybe we need to check our numbers at the end to see if one or more are missing. ? we need to count them carefully, one side then the other?
work along the coast with thread and diligence. gather wools, layer carefully, we shall have warmth this winter.
eight thirty till five. it could have been easy, yet there were issues of the electronic kind meaning wasting time with wires and connections.
“We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”
O, your presumption did not account
for the delicacy of flesh and bone,
the death wish of the human soul.
You had an impact on my future,
I’m not sure I forgive you.
There is your clear signature
in the fossil record , an observable
sudden decline
in the abundance and diversity of plant
and animal life. Perhaps we should
define your time from here.
Did it start when we traced your pulse
at the start of the Industrial Revolution?
Your carbon-dioxide pulse that underlay
what you thought was global warming.
O, your dreams to guide mankind towards global, sustainable, environmental management. How could you see
the juggernaut was unstoppable?
LESSON THIRTEEN: Practice Corporeal Politics “Power wants your body softening in your chair and your emotions dissipating on the screen. Get outside. Put your body in unfamiliar places with unfamiliar people. Make new friends and search with them. ” Prof. Snyder, On Tyranny, Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century
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What’s it to me? …
A knotted and nasty old poet of introverted time
wearing five-dollar sweats
dressing in black on black like a fly
with silver earrings tinkling softly in the winter breeze What’s it to me? …
A Madwoman, a Madonna, a Medusa
Traipsing neighborhood streets, city parks and country lanes
Nibbling on sharp yellow cheese and glossy red apples
Sitting down on some wayward curb to sigh in wonder at
noisy birds and children, wizened old men, whiskered grandmothers
Dogs walking their humans by the side of the road
Feral cats scratching out a living of pigeon stuffed with stale bread
Muttering, muttering, whispering, watching, writing
Writing long poems and short about what it was to be us
through clocked days trapped in pointless, punctilious youth
Enjoying now the wild, gnarly randomness of life
and the music of our dusty blue souls jingling as we walk … What’s it to me? What’s it to this so lately untamable me?
Gill Scott-Heron (1949-2011), American jazz poet, spoken-word poet, musician and author
“All I really want to say Is that the problems come and go But the sunshine seems to stay . . . “
My son sent me On Coming from a Broken Home (an excerpt from the album,I’m New Here) for Mother’s Day in 2011. Since then I publish some version of this piece every two years. I think Gil Scott-Heron’s message here is important.
Gil Scott-Herondied around this time in 2011. He’d started out fiery and angry. Some will remember his forceful The Revolution Will Be Televised and other such works. He was always an artist of political integrity. It showed in actions such as refusing to perform in Tel Aviv because “we do not like wars.” Over time his style mellowed, but his ideals remained.
Gil Scott-Heron is considered by many to be the grandfather of rap and the father of political rap. Famously, he didn’t accept those titles; he was critical of young rappers, felt they needed to study more, to promote change and not perpetuate the status-quo. He is quoted in ChickenBones: A Journal as saying …
“They need to study music. I played in several bands before I began my career as a poet. There’s a big difference between putting words over some music, and blending those same words into the music. There’s not a lot of humor. They use a lot of slang and colloquialisms, and you don’t really see inside the person. Instead, you just get a lot of posturing.”
In the poem shared today it’s interesting to see what Heron does with his personal experience. I like that there’s nothing of the victim mentality in this piece. I like the way he talks of dealing with life as it is. I appreciate that he points out that single-parent homes are not always the result of abandonment but are often made so due to parents who were lost in war or in jobs as police officers, firefighters or pilots.
“They lost their lives, but not what their lives stood for.”
On Coming From a Broken Home (video below, escerpt fromI‘m New Here) is a good example of how art can explain, validate and give us new perspectives … perhaps even encourage us to talk with one another. The piece is from Gil Scott-Heron’s last studio album, I’m New Here.It came out in 2010 not long before he died.
As always if you are viewing this post from an email, you will have to click on the link to this site to see and hear the piece.
Header photograph/Heron at the WOMARD festival in Bristol England, 1988 by Robman94 under CC BY SA 2.0 license.
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We continue with the current recommended read: On Tyranny: Twenty Lessons from the Twentieth Century by Timothy Snyder. Left, right or center – American or not – it’s a must read.
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