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The NaturalistPoetry, storytelling, and reflection on humankind's relationship with nature and the universe. Author: Micah
The Naturalist Podcast is a collection of poems, thoughts, and conversations from The Naturalist newsletter. micah.substack.com Language: en Contact email: Get it Feed URL: Get it iTunes ID: Get it |
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Poetry Reading #3
Thursday, 30 April, 2020
This week’s poetry reading includes thirteen poems from The Naturalist. As always, the text of the poems are below and their titles link to the original post. This is the final poetry reading for National Poetry Month, but based on the positive feedback I have received, I’ll be doing more readings in the future. Enjoy! Pouring TeaGold liquid back lit,by the sunshine comingand going behind frozen clouds,forms a glowing pillar abovethe dandelion surfacebraided first then,as the flow slows,a cylinder becomes wavyas impact climbs up the columnback into the teapot.Three to four minutes beforeat one hundred eighty degrees,the clear water dividedballs of rolled leaves,half on top, others belowslowly breathing, curlinginto the space between,regenerating their sun-capturingplant form, but onlyin appearance while raysfell on deaf cells and shimmeredlike old bronze door knobs.Drinking TeaFog forms in the late afternoonon wire-frame glasses and catchespale sun from between tall buildings,blinding the wearer from their journal.Ceramic cup scrapes its saucer,scouring inelegantly for its seat,finding it only to leave again.Tapping over and over like charcoalsearching the walls of a cave.ForgivenessThere is an old cast iron fencethat I walk along to sit at a barand drink burning whiskeyor eat stale popcorn. Outsidea gnarled dog, who has been taughtnot to love, pulls at his leashand collar and bares his teeth.It would be rude not to greet him.GracePhantom form of a sparrowrests in the soft yellow grass,beside the tired storm drain.Collecting fallen leaves under her wing,holding them close to her white bones,hopeless against the coming June rain.Soon the leaves will break free,she will float away to feed flowers,consumed by the world,better for the love she gave it.Space #1Pin pricks of light skitter the blue-black expanse,visible waves of invisible energy in betweenlift and pull the stars across the surface of the pond.Space #2The tree you lean againstbranches into a galaxy of trees,grows in a forest long and dark as the sky,reaches higher until it ignites.Space #3Heron pulls up from the water,her long beak tracing first the riverbankthen lumbering clouds over head.Ducks walk on ice by the shoreand pick at leaves and twigs floating slowly.All together, they take to the wateras the sun finally finds an opening to the fishand bends light across the length of the current.Heron finds no comfort here,prefers to hunt in the shadows.She picks up her tired legsand draws a silent blue-grey bandbeneath the buckling willow.Space #4As I move through these woodsspace feels more and more rigid,all other things are stubborngoing about the tasks that make them—mouse is combing through grass for bugs,the oak tree is drinking sunlight and breathingdeep breaths that float away as clouds.Owl was watching from the jagged leaves,but closed her eyes to get some rest.There are fungi turning deathinto toadstools for the elk and beetlesrest in the mushroom grove and brawl in the dirt.The only thing that feels flexible is time,whiskers twitching in slow motion,each ancestor tree forming a silhouettearound the branches I see nowshaking as owl floats away.Space #5Breathe in and out and let the calmwater glint in your eyes, there are broken wavesand broken driftwood and cracked shellson the rocky shore as well as feathersand other lost things and maybe thats a bone,how carelessly they have been placed here and there!Oh, how the spruce leans for the water,trunk bending uncomfortably over stonesand what was once a spruce friend.Breathe and lets figure outall these little messes you have here, Lake.When was the last time you cleaned debrisoff your long white shore? Breathe!I tell myself all the ways I would make this lakebetter and none of them are right.I walk along the shore and feel coldand blessed and small.The Shape of RainWeeks and no shadowsfrom the arching sunbehind the cloud walljust great bland buildingsmelting into the streetsand soggy shoes dryingat the bottom of the stairsaway from the sounds of teacoming to a boil and coolingtoo far from warm blankets.The Shape of the SunCold wind from the waterpulls ribbons of cloudfrom charcoal mountainsdown the city streets,morning light castinggold lines along the sidewalk,washing trash through the gutter,illuminating huddled bodies,backs to the glowing range,faces without sun.RecursionThere is something in the sound of the woodpecker,in the weight of the moose shoulders,that is also in the branching of the mapleand reflected in the roots below the green sea.The cracking sound of beak on bark echoesalong the paths through the forestthat fragment at each moment of past indecision,weaving in and out of this moment.There is something in the school of minnows,in the wildebeest migration across crocodile river,swirling tadpoles in thunderstorm pond,drying up into the sky that turns red then black then blue.There is something in flowers—each and every flower that unfurls and fades,falling onto the ground under shadow—that is like a memory, like a cloud of memories,bright and brittle as each neuronal flash.HopeFlowers open cautiously, joyously,ignorant of the forecasted rain,content to be as they will be in their time.One may be thought of as a tragedy—to see these delicate blues and yellowstopple to the earth so soon and float away—but together they are a triumphendlessly spillingbright colors into this world. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit micah.substack.com
