Long days spent in front of computer screens certainly make me long for trees. But it’s late and pouring outside, so tonight I venture into the forest via this poem by David Wagoner (1926-) and remind myself to stand still.
Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you,
If you leave it you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.
Thank you, Robert Creeley, (1926-2005) for this incredible poem.
love you some-
take care not
to hurt, you
I heard words
and words full
is a mouth.
The opening poem from D.A. Powell‘s Chronic. Those of you in the Bay Area should definitely come hear him read tomorrow night (February 7th) at Stanford. You will not regret it.
plain cloth cast upon the cool banks, the mere warbling frogs
an interrupted repast, uninterrupted pile of leavings
the parallax of bodies which are and are not ours
uncomfortable shift, uncomfortable shuffle
so many of the best days seem minor forms of nearness
that easily fall among the dropseed: a rind, a left-behind
I watched the bluejays provoke each other, eager to scrap
if I could make the world my own and be satisfied
I’d say that you did not see them, nor hear their anxious fuss
but you were watching. I, in fact, was not
forget that hour of meanness. we should not have been
perched on the vestige of evening, treading that same gunny cloth