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Beauty is the sole legitimate province of the poem.-Edgar Allan Poe

Poetry is when emotion has found its thought and thought has found words--Robert Frost

Poetry is an echo, asking a shadow to dance--Carl Sandburg

I have nothing to say, I am saying it, and that is poetry--John Cage

You will find poetry nowhere unless you bring some of it with you--Joseph Joubert

Poetry is what in a poem makes you laugh, cry, prickle, be silent, makes your toe nails twinkle, makes you want to do this or that or nothing, makes you know that you are alone in the unknown world, that your bliss and suffering is forever shared and forever all your own. ~Dylan Thomas

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And So It Grew: A Poem in Response to a Request



Today's poem is written as a request for Missy Dayberry-Avey of St. James, Arkansas. (You do still live there, right?) Back in the early 1980's, Missy and I used to sit around the court square in Mountain View on Saturday nights after the walk-in movie was over and wait for the Hootnanny to end. I think the Hootnanny ended at midnight. I will not tell you how old we were then because I wouldn't anyone guessing our ages, but, suffice it to say, we were just kids. Missy is the first person who is not a family member to request a poem on my blog, so, of course, I hope that I made this one a keeper.

Missy asked if I would write a poem about peace, love, and happiness and to put all of those things in one poem. I do often write about such abstractions, but I really wanted to stay with nature themes that I have been exploring in the latest "set" of poems. I am a very strongly theme-oriented writer. Almost all the poems in Atheist and Empty Spaces are about atheists, empty spaces, or both. I hope that Missy does not mind that I stuck with the nature theme in presenting her request.

When I think about what I am going to write about, I am equally concerned about how I want to present the ideas--the form which they will take. The first idea that came to mind when thinking about this poem was Tennyson's The Lady of Shallot, a fairy tale-like poem that is about art, artists, and public interaction with the artist and art. Tennyson's work is highly stylized and would never be confused with ordinary conversation. I, too, am a fan of high styles. I want my poems about nature to be song-like. I do not want them to mimic ordinary conversation. I find lyrical modes of poetry more memorable and memorizable, which would seem to make them more enjoyable. I suppose readers will ultimately be the judge of that. As always, all that I request is that you enjoy! And don't forget. I do write poems upon request if the request is not too difficult.

Today's picture is of the outlook over Greer Spring that I took when Kellie and I made a hike a couple of week's ago. I have got to get back to taking pictures. I am running out of them.



And So It Grew


I. Birth

An acorn with a woody crown

Let go its twig and tumbled down.

It bounced upon the leafy ground

And rolled into a soggy mound

Left softened by a recent flood.


In darkness did its brave heart swell

Until, at last, it burst its shell

And sent a tendril snaking out

To seek the sun and boldly sprout

Into bright air up from the mud.


The seedling thought,

“I will only do all I can do.”

And so it grew.


II. Peace

It grew as fast as any weed

Augmented by a sibling seed

Who said that peace with all is made

By sharing food and giving shade

And shelter from the sun and rain.


And so the two, but of a mind,

With roots and branches intertwined

Lived tranquilly and heart-to-heart

Until a storm tore them apart

And one was gone and one in pain.


The sapling thought,

“I still can do all I can do.”

And so it grew.


III. Love

The tree’s blithe limbs provided rest

For mating birds to woo and nest.

They sang sweetly in swaying boughs

And affected conjugal vows

In life-long parings like the dove.


The deer and squirrel above its roots

Survived by munching on its fruits

Offered to them summer and fall

With no return required at all,

A perfect example of love.


The young tree thought,

“I’ll always do what I can do.”

And so it grew.


IV. Happiness

Within the broad oak’s cooling shade,

Contented children laughed and played,

Mocking flight upon a tire swing.

Oh! What great joy a tree can bring

With notions and a piece of rope.


The tree enjoyed the play as well

And every day its heart did swell

When creatures of all shape and kind

Within its limbs, arbor, and mind

Gathered to live and love and hope.


The great oak thought,

“I can only do what I can do.”

And so it grew.


V. Death

Through many years, both good and bad,

The oak tree grew until it had

No wish left in its heart to grow

And no desire to leaf out, so

It showed bare limbs to the Spring sun.


The sun, who knew this mighty oak,

Accepted its request and spoke,

“In your duties, you’ve never ceased.

From all of them, you’re now released

And all that you can do is done.”


The wise oak thought,

“I’ll always do what I can do.”

And so its promise grew.


Comments


I find that I cannot exist without Poetry--without eternal poetry--half the day will not do--the whole of it--I began with a little, but habit has made me a Leviathan.-John Keats

We do not quite say that the new is more valuable because it fits in; but its fitting in is a test of its value.-T. S. Eliot

A man may praise and praise, but no one recollects but that which pleases.-George Gordon, Lord Byron

The great beauty of poetry is that it makes everything in every place interesting.-John Keats

Our faulty elder poets sacrificed the passion and passionate flow of poetry to the subtleties of intellect and to the stars of wit; the moderns to the glare and glitter of a perpetual, yet broken and heterogeneous imagery, or rather to an amphibious something, made up, half of image, and half of abstract meaning. The one sacrificed the heart to the head; the other both heart and head to point and drapery.-S. T. Coleridge

The purpose of rhythm, it has always seemed to me, is to prolong the moment of contemplation, the moment when we are both asleep and awake, which is the one moment of creation.-W. B. Yeats

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