Nature & Poetry
We met at Hewnoaks Artist Colony for the fifth annual gathering of writers to enjoy poems by beloved poets and, using themes of the natural world and a wide range of techniques, wrote poems and shared with each other. Wind blew off the lake as sun warmed us. The following week, writers from the Hewnoaks workshop and others from surrounding communities read poems at the Charlotte Hobbs Library. Thanks to all participants and to the Charlotte Hobbs Library, the Greater Lovell Land Trust, and Hewnoaks Artist Colony for co-sponsoring these events. We hope you enjoy these poems.
by Susan W. Golder
Spoons and cups clatter.
Clans sip and gab in a communal chant to the awakening day.
I steal away.
Measuring my steps until voices fade,
I go to the place that beckons me
to be still …
to be silent.
I land, as I mostly do, under the canopy of a mighty pine.
I watch its needles fly and float in silent homage to the dawn.
I feel its trunk, solid and strong at my back.
My feet settle onto its tangled and ancient roots.
I am still. I am silent.
Here, with the mighty pine, I am one.
By Mark Cadman
A moving hulk, moss covered stone
The snapping turtle stands alone
Traveling far from its watery abode
Crossing field, farm and road
To lay pearl-like eggs in warming sand
A new generation close at hand
This slow moving relic of eons past
A dinosaur that was built to last
A tank built of leather scute and bone
Yet graceful and free in its watery home
A testament to the great mystery
Of God's greater plan for turtles, you and me.
by Judith Steinbergh
What is it that makes us love wild things?
That after long patience and a kind of thirst,
after speculating on the slap of water, whir of wings,
out of the grainy dusk, some wild creature bursts
from the forest. Before we focus on its shape,
almost before it can be named,
it twists back, leaps, makes its escape.
Whatever it was, we know it can’t be tamed.
Do we want the whole deer quivering under our gaze,
the fox frozen as a statue in its track?
No. Only the glaze of eyes, the lightning bolt of legs,
the otter’s wake. We want the power to attract
wildness. To be skimmed, sensed, not faced.
We want to love wildness, to feel that we’ve been graced.
By Dakota Ward
Do you know what it’s like to fly?
I don’t, but sitting at a window
Rain pattering on a tin roof and
Dripping down the windowpane
Maybe the crow i saw helped me
Awkwardly falling out of home
Then catching himself
To soar over the world,
I flew up into the unknown, the mist,
visible to the world, but unnoticed
A young thing with wide eyes, taking
Wild guesses upon how to fly, listening for
For a moment the world was gray but
Filled with hope and ideas and plans for tomorrow but
Among the raindrops, an acorn, and i was back
At the window, listening to the past in my
A Leap Across The Road
by Ken Rose
Sighting a young deer,
leaping from the road,
landing on grass and gravel,
my vision was hijacked.
The fawn climbed a hill,
head turning, bright dark eyes
like headlights staring at me,
the white tail vanishing into the woods.
A fleeting moment,
escaping to places unknown.
Memory frozen in time.