Author Archives: Phyllis Klein
Elm
Here is another poem about cutting down a tree.
Elm
So think like a tree, he said, but all I
could do was remember the elms of my
childhood marked with large orange Xs that said
this tree is diseased and must be cut down.
I’ve been watching this elm in my yard two
years as it towers over the lesser
maple and ash trees, drinking in the light,
elbowing aside its comrades while they
stand content to play the understudies,
showing up every year in hopeful green
robes, knowing no one will ever pay much
attention to them. The nuthatch beeps down
the trunk of only the elm, the blue jays
scream their backyard profanities from its
branches alone. Briefly in fall, perhaps,
the maple’s flames engage our jaded eyes.
There, I’ve already erred, talking about
plants as though canopy were consciousness.
Try again: fifteen feet up a split limb
grows in two directions. If it breaks off
it will smash my deck, cripple another
tree, or snap in two my daughter’s swing set.
And so the elm waits for the tree men to
take it down.
Waits? All it has ever done
is wait, but waiting suggests pause with cause,
anticipation, expectation. Try again.
It stands there oblivious, green,
in fall, its limbs thrusting sixty feet up
the sky.
Today I arrive home, notice
extra space in the sky. In the back yard
I see the elm is gone. I count twenty-
two rings on the stump, a small dry sadness
rippling through me like undulations of
a pool in which a stone is dropped. Twenty-
two burgeoning summers reduced to logs
for burning and chips under children’s feet,
sawdust. Pondering the economics
of prudence, I try to prune my regret.
Steven Luebke
*From the CD: Tree Magic: Nature’s Antennas, SunShine Press Publications, Longmont, CO, 2004
Printed with permission of the author.
This tree is alive when it is cut down, a different circumstance from the dead tree in the last post, although each felling causes grief and loss. The poet here takes on a conversational tone and the conversation is with himself–giving the poem an interesting slant and a personal, intimate feeling. The narrator struggles to come to terms with taking down this towering tree elbowing aside its comrades while they/ stand content to play understudies. He ponders the economics of prudence while trying to prune his regret.
This tree has personality, it’s big and strong, doesn’t mind crowding out the other trees in the yard, who know that they stand in the shadow of the larger tree. Even the birds prefer it’s branches. The decision to take down such a monolithic tree could never be easy, even though it is posing danger to the humans underneath its branches. This tree is almost a father figure, a symbol of patience and grandness– definitely not weakness or danger. This is the paradox of life. Strong becomes weak, love and even protection can turn into danger.
The poet grapples with his understanding of trees and the world of nature–childhood memories of diseased elms, honor and admiration for the quiet twenty years of growth “his” elm has given to the world. He tries to understand what it would be like to be a tree, realizes this is impossible (There, I’ve already erred, talking about
plants as though canopy were consciousness) then comes to terms with the necessity to cut the tree, despite loss and regret. Twenty/-two burgeoning summers reduced to logs/for burning and chips under children’s feet, /sawdust. The poem is his elegy and tribute to the nameless, beloved, patient, prideful tree, the elm in his yard.
In using this poem to inspire your own writing, you may remember natural habitats of your childhood or in your adult life that have changed, been cut down, burned, or otherwise lost. If you have been involved in the decision or responsibility to take down a tree, what was your experience? Did you delay the decision because it was too painful? How do trees affect you and what do they mean to you? What are their personalities?
Try using Steven Luebke’s idea of writing your inner dialogue into your poem.
As with the previous poem, loss, grief, and regret can be very healing to write about.
I am writing this post on April 26th, which has been dubbed as “Poem in Your Pocket Day”. We are asked to carry a poem in our pocket and offer to read it to whomever we would like, from friends to family to strangers. This sounds like a really great idea to me! Find a poem you love, perhaps one with a special healing message, and share it with others as you feel moved to do. Why save this for just one day? Sounds like an occupation for anytime hope is called for.
Birch
Here is another poem in the series of tree poems.
Birch
He was older than I expected–his wife
chirped like a girl on the telephone–
coarser, looked like nothing other
than the blunt fact that he was.
Stained overalls, square face, skin
alligatored from years in the sun.
I walked across the yard to shake hands.
“That’s the tree,” I said,
pointing to the lifeless birch.
“We kind of liked it. It was alive
when we bought the house two years ago.
I hate to cut a tree.”
The man raised his gaze and sniffed,
looking at the tree, started to lug
his chainsaw and a coil of rope.
“Need help?” I asked.
He shook his head and trotted up the slope.
I went back to be with my wife.
We liked the tree.
We watched him angle two notches
into its trunk so it would fall
away from the wires and windows,
then with a fierce swipe, he sliced
right through the middle.
It fell across the walkway
and he cut it into pieces for firewood.
When he finished I approached him.
He looked me over, cleared his throat.
“Twenty dollars?” I asked and he nodded.
I gave him two crisp bills
which he stuffed into the wide middle pocket.
He waved goodbye, then tossed his tools
into the truck and drove away.
“He didn’t say a word,” my wife said.
True, I thought, no words;
but I saw him gently touch the bark
for no reason
before making that first deep notch.
Louis Gallo
*From the CD: Tree Magic: Nature’s Antennas, SunShine Press Publications, Longmont, CO, 2004
Printed with permission of the author.
This poem elegantly tells the story of cutting down a well-liked tree. The spare poetic language fits the character of the tree-cutter who looked like nothing other/ than the blunt fact that he was. In this garden of simple narrative, images shine out like flower arrangements. The tree cutter has alligatored skin, cuts the tree with a fierce swipe gets paid in crisp bills.
Sound and silence are also highlighted in this poem. Because the tree-cutter never says a word, I found myself hearing the sounds of the story ring out, from the chirpy voice of the wife on the phone, the sniff of the tree-cutter as he surveys the tree, the chainsaw being lugged out of the truck, his feet hitting the ground as he trots up the slope, of course the chilling slice through the middle of the tree, the falling, the throat clearing as he waits for his money, and the sound of those crisp bills. In thinking about this more, I realized that I didn’t hear the sound of the chain-saw cutting down the tree. It’s more powerful to me that way–visualizing the act of slicing through the middle rather than hearing the saw cutting through.
The story is about human relationships to trees and trees relationships to humans. It’s interesting that the author emphasizes his and his wife’s like of the tree, while the end of the poem clearly points to the tree-cutters love of the tree. The poem becomes a spiritual story on the cycle of life, the taking down of trees that are dead– beautifully symbolized by the gentle touch on the bark by the tree-cutter before he takes the big slice.
This poem opens up many avenues of writing:
Silence and taciturnity, it’s value in the world of so much talking.
People you know who don’t talk much and how you feel around them or stories about them.
Watching trees being felled–what if the tree is dead or what if it is alive?
Death and dying of plants, animals, people, or machines, how life moves on, and stories about connections with people working in the care-taking professions (including doctors, nurses, or plumbers, carpenters and car mechanics).
A story, memory, event, person, or place that struck you vividly and stayed with you over time.
Word-Music
Here is a poem written in response to one of my blog entries at a recent gathering of poets at my office.
Word-Music
Sing.
A melodic duet of human beings embracing
nature’s numerous symphonies.
A song – as a baby, a poem – as a birthing
from human soul inspired by the world’s beauty.
The loss is only if it remains unsung.
Claire Adalyn Wright, MFT
San Jose, California
March 3, 2012
Claire’s melody-filled website is clairewrightmft.com
I recommend you visit her there!
Fruit Trees
Next in this series on tree poems comes Cynthia Gallaher’s whimsical poem “Fruit Trees.” This poem evokes childhood memories with characters like Old man Peesel to paint a picture of girls growing up on the outskirts of Chicago.
Fruit Trees
for Mary
Old man Peesel’s cherry orchard
of the empty lot prairie,
reddened our fingers and lips,
until the shotgun glittered
from his garage window
across the alley.
We bolted past the pear tree
into a neighbor’s yard,
three years waiting before
green fruit and no partridges.
But at the end of summer,
apples and wild plums
found their way to the streets
on their own,
a mad smash of pulp and
tangy fragrance,
our shoes to carry
a portion of their crushed sweetness
back to school.
Leaves turned rusty,
but thorn apples
still clung tightly to
park district trees,
branches we girls climbed
higher than boys on Thursdays,
thanks to acrobatics and ballet
on Wednesdays.
We plucked sour-smooth fruit,
cradled each in bent fingers
like a dart,
and aimed,
whipped,
right at boys’ throats,
to take their breath away,
until we found
other methods.
*From the CD: Tree Magic: Nature’s Antennas, SunShine Press Publications, Longmont, CO, 2004
Printed with permission of the author.
It’s wondrous to think of all the ways that trees are a part of childhood. This poem vividly takes us back to the cherry, pear, apple, wild plum, and thorn apple (crataegus or hawthorn) tree as bastions of the delicious, the longed for, the messy, and the girl-weapon. Interesting that folklore about the hawthorn associates it with fairies, and being deadly to vampires. I wonder if Cynthia and her friend Mary felt either of these two powers when climbing these park district trees and pelting the boys!
This poem also conveys a sense of place, with the old man and his shotgun, the kids running around the neighborhoods, tracking smooshy apples into school, and climbing trees. It may not seem like it, but it’s a city setting. The scene is reminiscent of a play or movie, such as “To Kill a Mockingbird” or “A Christmas Story.”
I love the girl-power in this poem! These girls know how to take the boys’ breaths away, and they’re not too afraid of the shotgun, either. They’re also using acrobatics and ballet in some innovative ways.
By using this poem as a springboard for your own writing, you can write about how trees influenced your own childhood. Which kinds of trees were in your yard and neighborhood? What stories can you remember about them? How did they influence your life? Did you have any favorites? How would you describe the trees? Gallaher uses imagery sparingly, which makes it stand out in the story line of her poem. Two examples of this are leaves turned rusty and sour smooth fruit. What about friends: How did you play and grow up together? Use the playfulness of this poem as a guide to help you play with your writing.
Harvest
I have been contacting a few of the poets with poems published in the book Tree Magic, Nature’s Antennas, and getting permission to use their poetry in this blog. Poets who like each others poems are already friends! I love how art that is public fosters connection and dialogue. My friend and colleague Perie Longo and I have written an article about this called The Therapeutic Benefit of Poetry published in The Therapist and another article called Poetic Dialogue published in The Journal of Poetry Therapy. My hope is to continue using writing about trees as a focus of poetic discussion, ideas for writing, and the healing that comes from hanging out with poetry.
My first poem in this series is Harvest by Gail Golden.
Harvest
Gail Kadison Golden
The sign said: ‘Pick your own apples’,
and I, heavy with a child as yet unharvested,
came into the orchard, impelled, as if
the sign were a mandate.
The trees and I, clumsy with ripe fruit.
weary beneath a dying autumn sun,
knew each other, sang but one song–
sang, ‘This is precious beyond all reckoning,
this moment before the harvest.
I seize it, breathe it, elongate the seconds,
this last moment in which I am
both the tree and the fruit.
I am all, all of it.
It is all of me.’
To let it go, to let it fall away from me,
becoming other, is like a dream,
as it is a dream in February,
to hold a winter apple,
and remember that it comes from trees.
From the CD: Tree Magic: Nature’s Antennas, SunShine Press Publications, Longmont, CO, 2004
Printed with permission of the author.
In poetry therapy we read poems out loud and then talk about what we liked in them, what they might mean to us, knowing that poems usually have multiple meanings. We look for language, phrases, images, and word-music we like that might become a jumping off point for our own writing.
What I love about Harvest is the connection between a mother ripe with a baby, and a tree heavy with apples. We can picture this mother coming to pick apples in the autumn as she is preparing to have her child. I love the following words and phrases: the child as yet unharvested, the dying autumn sun, elongate the seconds, the last moment in which I am/both the tree and the fruit, and to let it fall away from me,/becoming other, is like a dream, (what an amazing way to describe childbirth!) I picture the mother with her new baby holding the winter apple, feeling the sense of wonder about how things are born.
The art of writing poetry is starting to write about a tree and letting the poem take you in whatever direction it wants to go. Perhaps the poet started with the memory of this apple picking while pregnant scene and let the writing intertwine the woman and the tree, the baby and the fruit. The idea is to let the poem move where it wants to, not forcing your writing to go where you think it should.
If you were to use this poem as inspiration, you could take a line or phrase from the poem and use it in your writing, at the beginning or embedded into your writing. Or you could write about things that are pregnant and see where that takes you. Or you could start with a tree laden with apples or a tree laden with pomegranates. Maybe you would start with the tree in your neighborhood that is leafless but filled with the flames of ripe persimmons. Or a story about what happened the day you took a walk and discovered that tree when you first moved to California and realized that persimmons grew on trees. See where your writing takes you.
More on writing for healing grief
Have you wanted to use creative ways to heal from grief? There are many paths. First, it is important to understand whether this approach is right for you at this time. As with any healing process, you may be ready for different endeavors at different times. To be ready to add creativity into your healing it is important to feel stable enough so that you won’t be derailed emotionally by the material that comes up. This means that you may want to have a therapist or doctor if you are on medication to help you decide if this approach is right for you. Sometimes dipping your pen or a crayon onto paper may give you some idea of how you will react. If the writing or drawing, painting, collage, etc. is too upsetting or brings up difficult symptoms of anxiety or depression, then it is good to give yourself a little time before you try again. Learning how to follow your intuition (wise mind) about this is very helpful.
If you want to try writing, and are having trouble getting started, you could start with images, memories, and stories about the person you are grieving. In Perie Longo’s book of poetry With Nothing Behind but Sky, written during and after the loss of her husband, several memories and evocative images show up throughout–her husband taking his last breath, and her husband returning either in dreams, signs, or fantasies that he would actually return. What are the memories, images, colors, things about the person you have lost that you could write down? Did they have beautiful hands, love wearing a certain color, did their hair shine a certain way in the light, or were they going bald? Were they old or young, like a tree or a mountain, what are your first memories of them? Start with lists of free writing and see how it feels. This could lead to a story or a poem.
Some people find it very comforting to have this way of making meaning and remembrance for their beloved lost one. I hope it will be helpful for you.
A tree is just a tree
Here is a way women are put down:
“She has the right to change her mind.” This means she is fickle, a tease, wishy-washy, not to be taken seriously.
A tree is just a tree. It gets to be itself and grow how it needs to. It gets to change its mind and grow towards the light without being humiliated or criticized into conformity or submission.
When hope is called for
What gives you hope, lifts up your mood? In the wintertime, when it’s darker and viruses haunt the hallways, it is important to find hope and light. Yesterday it rained in the SF Bay Area for the first time in a couple of months. Usually the storm gate opens in December, and the rainstorms pile up like traffic at metering lights on the freeway. But this year it’s been nothing but sunny and dry. All talk last week was about the rain expected on Wednesday. It finally came on Friday. Usually by now we are dreaming of beaches in Hawaii, watching the creeks and rivers for signs of high water. But this year, the rain brought relief and hope. Some things about nature seem so simple that we want to take them for granted. Nature may be trying to teach us something about life!
Now there will be snow for skiing, and at least a little water for the trees and plants that need it. By next month the rains may have saturated our spirits until we are begging for relief. I hope that’s what happens.
What gives you hope, lifts up your mood? What do you hope for?
“The true meaning of life…
is to plant trees, under whose shade you do not expect to sit.” This wonderful message comes from a Brush Dance Calendar called “Flower Silhouettes” that I just purchased for the new year. The words were written by Liz Kalloch.
In thinking about the new year ahead, what acts of generosity and meaning might you want to set as an intention? This could include writing a poem for someone you love or admire, giving a “random act of kindness” gift–something no one expects and is spontaneous in the moment for someone you know or for a stranger. A common example of this is to pay for a bridge toll for the car(s) coming next.
Are there people in your life you have been meaning to visit or communicate with. If you haven’t done it, is this a good time to make the time to do it?
And how do we put intentions into action? Resolutions often peter out quickly, leaving guilt and remorse. Try starting small and seeing if you can follow through. If not, go smaller without giving up.
Another quote from the calendar to close:
“Look deep into nature, and then/you will understand everything better.” Is this activity on your list of intentions for the new year?
If you would be a poet
Go often among trees…
This is the title and first line from a poem by Timothy Walsh in Tree Magic, Nature’s Antennas. During this time of cold weather and more darkness, it is even more important to find time with nature. Here in the Bay Area there are infinite numbers of places to visit. I recently heard about a park in the SF Tenderloin district called the Tenderloin National Forest (http://www.carbonfarm.us/tenderloin.html) located in Cohen Alley off Ellis Street in the San Francisco Tenderloin. This is an oasis amidst traffic, grime, poverty, and humanity. I hope to get there soon with
a notebook and pen ready to go. It’s helpful to try to find time during any busy season, for writing, meditation, and reflection. Let me know where you find refuge in nature.