Poetry Garden Party, or “Forever is composed of Nows...”

If there's poetry in heaven, I think it looks like the garden party I attended a few weeks ago. Walking from the sidewalk into a yard artfully scattered with sculpture, paintings, musicians, and refreshments I thought—I've come to the Elysian Fields. The sun shown gently and the hosts welcomed everyone generously.

The main attractions were three houses from "The Little White House Project: Dwell in Possibility" by Peter Krasznekewicz.

Paintings by Sandy Denis hung on the fence. Good thing it didn't rain that day! This one says, "To tell the Beauty would decrease / To state the spell demean" - Emily Dickinson

Mary Clare and Vi's granddaughter, Lily, made sure that everyone got a "happy happy stone." I snuck a blue one home for Jen, too.

They'd also paired poems by Emily Dickinson with various features in the yard, so poems about flowers stood beside flowers and poems about stones stood beside stones. This one begins, "How happy is the little Stone / That rambles in the Road alone, / And doesn't care about Careers / And Exigencies never fears—"

Here's the poem I wrote from prompts that were available on the table, culled from Emily Dickinson and other poets.

Now’s to Be a New Road 
The grass does not appear afraid

of me. It does not accuse me of anything.
Why are all these stems so generous?
Echinacea, barley, oats and tansy
sing the sun song and rain song each day.
In the gourd birdhouses, no passenger
was ever known to dissemble or dismiss.
The everyday weight and business of life
is one fact by our side.
This summer’s monotony of blooming
is another.

The party is also described in more luxurious detail by Trish Crapo in this Greenfield Recorder article. 

Thanks to Mary Clare and Violet for a beautiful and inspiring afternoon!

The Garden Man

I wrote this poem in response to the sculpture "Garden Man" by Bob Turan at Art in the Orchard. What I love about this piece is how the figure's body becomes whatever is behind him. He's solid yet transparent. He's static, but when something moves in him, he seems to move, too. He's also making an opposite gesture from Mount Tom (seen in the background), which makes him seem to me like another mountain watching over the valley.

The Garden Man

Today a dog and three people

passed through my heart.

The apples were ripe

and they’d come to pick.

They didn’t see me:

I am everything they already know

but I welcomed their motion

in my stasis of green.

I was made to shelter growing things,

not to move them.

And in the sheltering

I become them.

My arms are squash blossoms

and the apple-laden orchard.

My legs are the soil,

my shoulders the mountain.

The blue above is an opposing force

as I lean into the road, the grass.

My head is the sky.

Transparent to the valley, I breathe

green life. Yet even though

my muscles are made of air,

everything with wings

seems beyond my reach.

After sunset

I change completely,

become a bone—

starlight for marrow.

The moon crosses my mind

once in a while.

Fireflies and bats

keep their distance.

What we are made of defines us:

for me more than most.

Usually I’m a lens—a frame—a container.

But today a dog and three people

passed through my heart.

The dog ran, the people gathered fruit.

They didn’t see me

or know me

or need me

and in those moments

I was free.

Feathers from Home

In Costa Rica, we saw many birds, insects, reptiles, and mammals that were colorful, exciting, and exotic. But there was also something special about seeing species that live in New England for part of the year. This prose poem is about a few of them. The "hourglass" refers to the shape of the Central American isthmus that all migratory species funnel through if they travel between North America and South America. Since I don't have photos of any of these birds, I've included one of the boots that are so helpful for walking along muddy rainforest paths.

Migration

Seen from the air, the “rich coast” is a rough-hewn jewel. On the ground, it is a busy rainbow: thin neck of the American hourglass through which all migratory species must pass. Hello, wood thrush! I saw you last in New Hampshire. Ruby-throat, did you visit me in Hadley last year? Oriole, I have never been to Baltimore, but maybe you’ve perched in Boston? Old friend red-tail, it’s so good to see you. I will look for you in May when I am back and you have also flown home to nest.

Boots at Tirimbina Biological Reserve

Creatures and Wonder

In January, I was lucky to spend 2 weeks in Costa Rica with a biology class from Westfield State University. We visited 4 distinct ecosystems with vastly different flora and fauna, and saw an incredible amount of wildlife thanks to our fabulous guides and the immense biological diversity in Costa Rica.

This is one of a few poems that I wrote during and after the trip. It's in blank verse, my favorite form for narrative. Also, this is the first time that I've included a link in a poem before, but the lizard mentioned is so cool I think you should know about it. All the other creatures you can look up on your own to learn more if you want. Enjoy!

Red Eyes and Pink Eye

After the third day in the rainforest
your eye swells up. You have been touching frogs,
stroking smooth green or speckled backs after
your guide disappeared to the midnight pond,
then returned with a jewel. He showed you the blue
streaked sides, the red webs between tiny toes.
He knows how to hold so they won’t struggle.
That morning he caught butterflies in nets,
held them in his hands, showed you their secrets.
The curled antennae. Front legs that can taste.
The wing where a bird took a beak-shaped bite.
The next day another guide explained birds:
Iridescent hummingbirds’ hide and shine,
woodpeckers tapping trees as a message.
By the pond you heard slap slap slap as the
Jesus Christ lizard ran upright across.
At night she took you to a field, turned off
the flashlights. You saw lightning bugs and stars.
She told you about pheromone ant trails,
owls’ faces shaped like satellite dishes
for better hearing, extra eye membranes.
You went to bed full of caiman eyeshine,
tadpoles, black-and-blue-striped skippers. You woke
eager for papaya, coffee, put in
your artificial eyes without washing.
So after the river float—the howling
monkey monsters guarding trees, iguanas
sunning themselves pleased as rocks, the toucans
flapping red, yellow and black through green leaves—
your beloved eyes ached pink, oozed yellow.
At la pharmacia a young woman
tells you to apply ointment twice a day
and chamomile teabags for swelling.
You are not a creature of the forest:
you’re a creature of grace and gratitude.

Rufus-eyed stream frog

Subways, Instant Oatmeal, and Poetry

Recently I heard this interview with poet Aracelis Girmay. I really liked what she had to say about how poetry helps us slow down and is in many ways completely the opposite of all that's fast-paced about our lives. I was driving on Bay Road in Hadley through beautiful foggy farmland, and this poem came to my mind.

On the Radio, a Writer Describes How Poetry Is the Opposite of Instant Oatmeal

On my morning commute

soil, puddles, corn stalks, two-hundred-year-old maples, dogs, houses, line of pine trees, yew windbreak, rutted mud, rusty wheels, fog, pink sky, a man walking a dog, a woman standing in a driveway, mailboxes

and through them I can already see

blue cubicle, computer screen, coffee maker, Coffee-mate, struggle, window, notepads, agenda items, folders, chairs, notes, lists, schedules, flip charts, the need to retreat

but the existence of poetry

smoothes my gritty alone into a silky alone, paints the man and the dog into a scene by Van Gogh, cheers the woman in the driveway onto a stage.

Poem of a Certain Place and Time

So I logged onto the Writer's Almanac today as I often do, and found a poem by James Tate entitled "Suburban Buffalo." What are the chances that I have seen those same buffalo? I have seen them. James Tate teaches (taught?) at UMass Amherst, which is a short trip down Route 9 away from the bowling alley in Northampton, MA. On that two-lane strip of wannabe highway in Hadley stands (stood?) the Longview Bison Farm, the land of which has been sold and will soon be a Lowe's.

Tate's poem is a wonderful portrait of a surreal moment in real time, which concludes with a fanciful depiction of deconstructed farmers. It seems even more poignant when you know that the buffalo in the poem are no longer there and the poem has become an inadvertent memorial.

Write ye poems while ye may
old Time is sure a-flyin'
the same subject matter that's there today
tomorrow may be bulldozed