Nature Poems: Final Revisions (For now)

The Trouble with Charlotte

A rage in her center, she pulses,

beats outward, veins reach

the wilds of South Carolina

a city willfully bellows,

sucks air in

scratches our throats

in flat lines and hill sides

in four wheels and Escalades

On the bank side

North side oozes cholesterol, thick

ozone and particulate matter,

erect heads, not even pestering

carpool lanes to IBM, Wells Fargo,

Bank of America

spreading, sprawling,

like a galaxy of half walls and gray carpets

scented with blue shirt starch,

steam rises from chain restaurants

while lifting burnt forests with a ball point pen

so upper-middle class homeowners

can drive forty-five minutes to Brazilian

steakhouses that fly seafood in.

Sink a fork into eighty-three pounds per person

vehicular emissions

South side bides its time in country clubs

licking up tidbits of the sewage treatment plant

over by the mall

and carrying the 3,325 pounds of waste

per annum, per body,

per Pottery Barn home delivery.

East side dredges up the past, talks about roads

and mass transportation and needing

a way out,

a way in,

abandoned store fronts down

Independence Boulevard,

riddled with squatters and dealers and

the last lonely head shop in a strip of

former drug stores and mom and pop diners.

West side gentrifies, newly develops, props

better government housing,

puts a fresh coat of paint on re-use, mixed-use,

smart-use development, writes its spin,

a small town kid wanting to be “world class,”

desperate to fit in

the trouble with Charlotte is

all that breeding and importation

of the bodies and the breaths of

those born here or north or west and looking

for a better way of living.

The Pavilion

Resting on the rear rock wall

where old movies are shown in summer—

Cary Grant slaps women,

Marilyn skulks in throaty whispers,

slipping in and out of great plumes

of smoke and depression—

my legs numb at the knee.

I sit cross-legged, shielded from rain

Watching from inside this frame of arches

a place ordinarily viewed from picnic blankets

On the hill side, under night skies of chardonnay and pinot;

no movement on yellowed grass,

no swallows perched on stripped branches,

a quiet unease

envelopes cracked stage floors

I wrap my fists in my sweater and think of you—

a wink and in a moment

the filter was removed and I bent

with you into the queasiness of presence

under the clapboards of rain and echoes

into droplets on the squirrel’s back

and the pecan shells falling.

The Coats of the Imperials

-for TC Boyle

We used to make terrariums

up in the Blue Ridge

before my father’s weekends

stopped coming;

we’d look for mosses

and salamanders, how to arrange,

create pools, place the British Soldier

in the glass ecosystem,

my fingertips pressing earth,

careful not to smush their spears.

He is with me

on this blunted mountain,

this sweaty February day,

he is the absence of that British

soldier lichen, crimson-tipped,

the coats of the imperials

I have been looking

all these years now

but this

canno’t survive

the cities—

this Cladonia christatella,

is rare to perk is tilted head.

But I cannot find salvation in the trinity,

My hands shake to cradle the wild—

an injured dove, its snapped leg,

hunkered in holly branches, I break

down into the bleak skies,

shoulders hunched, feet tucked.

Yet TC Boyle sits on a metal chair

in red socks, looking like

an 80s rock star so there must

be some kind of hope

A thing, a mighty thing

Singing in the last of us

To know lions.

A Bridge

I can still taste

the tail end of winter,

feel its fur

swirl in my mouth,

wood smoke in my tonsils,

feel the engineer’s hands working

in stone’s rise and fall;

chills soak through my legs

a bluebird calls tur-a-lee,

a magpie preens

At the horizon, the gravel road curves

Footprints stain sand

but my feet grow mortar, dig in

thinking of the old man

in a sea hat,

whose ears sweat,

encased in Sherpa,

Arrested by his leafy, salt smell

his jowls, his thickened pink nose

I go guttural, stumble over vowels

of protest, tell him no,

I’m not coming to the wedding.

A Glimpse

Barely twenty,

skinny, with a hymn

of golden brown skin.

She says to me,

as she looks me over,

you don’t have children,

do you?

My hips are not swollen

neither are hers, she says

I could never feel her pain, I

see her fingernails

chewed down to the quick.

She tells me her breasts are engorged,

She hasn’t released since 7 o’clock—

It’s nearing 9pm.

I glance down,

looking for circles of wet

nothing shows

behind her uniform.

Jealous of her ease of talk,

I glimpse this club of mothers

for a moment

I am part of it, this femaleness

but then I remember

what could be a nursery

is a cat room.

Staving It Off

She’s had this colostomy

Since I was a girl

Folded at her leg

Pinned tight against the skin.

I can’t imagine what it is to

Carry that stuff with you

For all to see its bulge

Smell its smell

Hear the air bubble leak

And the need to plan

Trips to the grocery store

To McDonalds

How to buy underwear

When the racks are filled

With thongs and bikinis.

I watched her cleaning

The open wound when I was young

Before I knew the anxiety

And thought it was just something

Grandmother’s had.

I wondered if I’d get one, too

So I paid attention to the

Way she applied the glue

How she snapped the belt

When she finished.

Thirty-three years of this

But without it she’d

Die slow and painful

Gutshot by her own organs

Trying to escape.

To the Turkey

I held their difference like cotton,

Mesmerized by their simple lifestyle

Until your time came.

I wish I could tell you,

how I swore then to give up meat

when you hung

by your feet, tied

to a thick branch, a bare forest,

feathers flying from the struggle

on this Thanksgiving spent with

a family of artists and teachers,

Jewish and living above

the father’s glass-blowing studio,

compact and soda free

his beard, his hand, veiny and exact

the knife to your throat,

the jerking, the quieting, the stillness,

the syrupy red puddle, steaming

but I didn’t realize then the poverty,

the connection between your body

and their salvation.

There is life, still

In your belly licked clean of fur

In your rough patch of skin

Where the needles go

In your snow washed feet

And lioness blaze

In your hazy jade eyes

In your missing teeth

And pungent gums

In your doctored paws

In your puckered cheeks

And striped tail

In your glucose levels

In your black pads

And brownish pink nose

And keratin coated tongue

In the brown spot on your hind leg

In your scabby skin

And your half tongued meow.

The Smallest of the Tiny

Your brown eyes and wisped tail

Make me want to believe,

To recognize divinity,

Sanctity in your climbing,

Your presence on that branch, solidified

In the crinkled leaves and busy creek

In the smell of fresh water,

Metallic and mossy.

I want to speak to you

The milkweed, silken filaments

rounded, sticky, toxic,

And the creek’s spacious trellis

of sediment catchers

Along the banks

The rocks: human-placed,

Reticent against the currents

That I have lost my faith in greater things

And put it in the smallest of the tiny

In the pool that holds two mallards

Looking out for each other,

Taking turns tucking their beaks,

Pacing the rim, standing

On one webbed foot.

But you chickadees—

Your minute bodies

Your chirp, your black cap, your gray

Your fee-bee-fee-bay,

Your stillness, your rootedness,

Your charity, your dive and return

Test my failing faith like humans

At the fourth wall, flailing, climbing,

Begging to get in.

Prompt Blog #8: Considering the Impact

When I started this class, I had read little nature writing outside of Thoreau and Emerson. Over the course of this semester, we encountered a range of voices more diverse than I would have thought possible. From the lyric to the cantankerous, the serious to the comedic. Through the process of these readings and the writings here on this blog, I have learned to slow down and notice the small things. I think Pattiann Rogers had the most profound impact on me. She broadened my idea of what nature and nature writing are and could be; it is everything. I have become a great fan of her poetry and I hope to do similar types of work. I appreciate the brutal honesty of her work. I have found that I really love the nature poem in all its vastness and smallness. One can say so much in a nature poem. I hope I have with mine. In my fiction, I have started using more description of weather and small things as well. One of my toughest characters is beginning to soften her edges by being outdoors, hoeing the garden and planting seedlings. Birds are making their way in to my stories. My stories are becoming more alive.

I have learned to appreciate Charlotte for what she has -a canopy of trees nearly unparalleled by other cities. This project has helped me to accept our move back here. It has helped me wash away a lot of the negative attitude I had about being in Charlotte by connecting me with the physical world here. I have learned to love the quiet spaces and the urban nature that surrounds me. I have learned that Freedom Park is not just a social gathering place. It has moods, shades, aspects when you stop to pay attention. When I started this project, I thought I knew the place already. After all, I had grown up in Charlotte and I have memories at the park from childhood, adolescence, and adulthood. But Freedom Park had been a relative I saw on holidays or special occasions; it wasn't a relationship, not really. Now, I know I can go there on a weekly basis to help myself stay grounded, to relieve anxiety, to appreciate the joy of being alone or being among sunbathers and guitar players, caterpillars or ladybugs, squirrels and geese. Yesterday, I felt closer than ever to my place. Two mallards came up out of the water and walked right up to me. This was after I wrote my blog in the hours I stayed there, reading my book about Turkey, pondering what's to come on the next adventure. I knew I would be picturing that moment as I walk on shores half a world away in a few weeks.I will think of the sound of leaves rustling. I will think of the honking of geese. I will think of the wide reach of the willow oaks, of the way the cherry trees looked in March. I won't give up this relationship. I will maintain it. 

Place Blog #8: The Rustling of Leaves

I should have worn my hair up today. The wind is blowing so hard, I can't keep it out of my face. It makes is hard to sit and write. Paper and hair all flapping. Today is the first time this year I've noticed the sound of rustling leaves.  I can't believe the sound has returned. Between the 87 degree weather and the mellifluous sound, I'm getting sleepier by the minute.  I wish I had brought a blanket like some of the people stretched out on the hill.  They're sunning themselves. Pale skinned turtles, bellies toward the sun, stretching their limbs, napping.

I feel something on my leg. I think it might be a string of pollen but when I look down, I see it's a caterpillar -silken black, gold, and cornflower blue. It's smaller than most caterpillars, thinner. I marvel at how it came to be here crawling up my leg. It must have been blown out of the willow oak I'm sitting under. It crawls over my knee. The smell of cigar smoke blows by; a lady across the pond is smoking black & mild. Its sweet and kind of sickening. The caterpillar crawls onto my notebook. I stop writing. I hold the paper by the corner. It goes straight for my pen.

Two guys with guitars walk behind me toward the pavilion. I can see their shadows moving; the sun is at my back, warming my shoulders. One of the guys says, "Two houses!" then mumbles something about Capulet. He can't remember the opening lines of Romeo & Juliet but I think it's cool that he tries. Some ecstatic girl in a sun dress recognizes them, runs toward the bridge with her Big Gulp.

The caterpillar climbs my pen. I sit still.

The girl, in her drop waist dress, walks with toes out, as though she had on ballet shoes, but she is barefoot. She twirls. They walk off together toward the hill.

The caterpillar hangs from my pen. To the sound of water lapping at the rock wall, I carry him over to the trunk of the Willow Oak I'm sitting under and deposit him at the base of the tree. I hope the fragile critter doesn't get eaten by a bird. I watch for a moment. The caterpillar continues to climb.

Spectacular things happen here. I love this place.

Place Blog #7: Sharing My Place

Sunday afternoon it was 71 degrees and sunny so Ben and I decided to pack up the border collie and take him for a much needed walk at the park. The cherry blossoms had browned but the dogwoods were in full bloom as were the pink buds. The sweet gums drooped with their broccoli-looking pollen as did the willow oaks with their brown stringy type that gathers and blows like tumbleweed across sidewalks. It got caught in Desmond's fur and coated our shoes and caused our sinuses to swell and heave. But the day was worth the discomfort. It was worth the watery eyes and itchy skin. The park was overrun. Dogs, humans, and geese reigned. Children threw bread crumbs and cheerios into the pond, a few men stood with fishing poles, casting above the heads of passersby, catching nothing. I wondered why they'd bother trying to fish in a two foot pond, why they didn't try the creek instead. The hill had thick blotches of sunbathers and Frisbee throwers. A yorkie chased a ball that was bigger than him. The smell of suntan lotion and damp grass ruled the air. Children sped by on scooters, bikes, wagons, roller blades, and skateboards. There was even a food cart with hotdogs, cotton candy, popcorn, and snow cones. Everywhere we were surrounded by blue-lipped glee. We walked until our bodies grew sore, until even Desmond slowed. He dodged children, sniffed some dogs, ignored others. When he was close to exhausted from the walk and the blaring sun on his black fur, he met a black lab puppy and nudged her with his nose. She refused to walk. She had found her spot by the water fountain.

I'm reminded of the day a few weeks ago when I didn't want to share what I had come to feel was my space. In my Abbey-esque mindset, I'd learned to love the silence of cold, rainy days there, alone, roaming where I would without care of intruding or being watched. It was time I needed to settle back into Charlotte -to face the past, to come to terms with the future and the obstacles ahead. As I sat on that hillside, resting with my husband and my dog, I felt hope in our synchronous breaths. 

Prompt Blog #7: A Sugar Maple

I laid my hands on its trunk and branches almost daily for three and a half years -in bouts of weather both frigid and suffocating, steamy. It stands, one of two trees, in that field in South Carolina. It is the larger of the two and more centrally fixed at the high ground, at the east end of the landscape. It's an adolescent tree, the circumference of its trunk is about twenty-four inches. Its bark feels supple, not hardened like some of the older Willow Oaks in Charlotte. It is still vulnerable. I wonder how it was left alone in that field, who it was that cared for it when it was an infant, who let it be and I want to go back in time and shake his hand. Someone with a mower had to have spared it. I imagine it was a farmer who had an affinity for the red leaves in autumn. He thought the field needed some color, some shade for future lovers, or dreamers. I always meant to take a book and a blanket there. I suppose I should make a point to now, even though I don't live there anymore.

It is a whole world -a whole ecosystem and for whatever reason, I could catch my breath there among the ants and beetles. We talked about sacred places this week. This is mine. I wonder if I could breathe a story as lovely as the one of the sisters ascending Devil's Tower. They are the stars of the little dipper. Desmond and I are the maple's children, covered by its shadows, its light, its sweet breath. There was no anxiety there.

The breeze blew there even on the sweatiest mornings out with Desmond. It was a good half way point on our walks, so I would plop down under the tree and loosen the lead on his leash. He'd sniff around, pushing his nose in the dirt and grass, kick his back legs up in the moss, walk in circles until he laid down. We'd spend about twenty minutes there every time we stopped. I took deep breaths, sort of meditating, reminding myself that life wasn't so bad when you stopped to pay attention to the fuzziness of the moss beneath a tree, when you stared up at the palm-shaped leaves, back lit and luminous. I got dirt in my nails, scratching at the ground. Once, I pulled off an injured limb and laid it at the tree's base, picked leaves, folded and tore them into bits, and wondered if I'd ever have the courage to write the truth, to write at all, to put a voice to it.  

Place Blog #6: Mae and I Face the World

In this week's readings, Couturier talks in "A Banishment of Crows" about what the Celts call "a thin place." This is in my mind today. I think about these geographic locales in which the past, present, and future are never far apart. Charlotte is my thin place.

I am having a bad day, anxiety wise. My chest hurts. My hands shake. My shoulders rise and knot. I came to the park later today -after my work. I'm wondering if that wasn't a mistake since I also skipped the morning walk with Desmond. I brought my papillon, Mae (aka "buggy"), with me to the park today to try to soften the edges a bit. Sometimes it's easier to be in the world with a dog, but Mae, she's just as anxious as I am. She barfed on the ride over.  She shakes now, too -she seems to be experiencing sensory overload with all the kids, people on skates and bikes, birds and the sounds of trucks in the distance.  I need to bring her out more often. The only way to cure her of her anxiety is through repetition. She flinches as three mallards fly toward us. Papillon means "butterfly" in French. I think of how Monarchs fly such great distances and how Mae came to be mine. All the things that had to happen. I had to lose a cat named Cosette whose favorite spot in the world was my shoulder. She had to be rescued from a puppy mill in Missouri by a group out of Atlanta. I had to find Papillon 911 rescue group and fill out a book of an adoption application. There was a home visit. They were thorough. They had to meet my other dog and make sure our home was safe. They had to pick her for me. They were our match makers. I had to drive to Atlanta to get her. It took months for her to settle into a normal life; she was so scared of everything.

She watches everyone that walks by -dog, goose, duck, or human. After about ten minutes of sitting at a bench, she licks my nose and settles into my lap; her shaking stops. I haven't stopped shaking, but it has lessened and if I weren't under dressed for early spring, I might let my shoulders down.

The ducks and geese seem quieter this time of day. All but the pair of mallards sleeping under the blooming forsythia are in the water, drifting. Mae drops a big, gloppy drool on my lap and snuggles up against my ribs. Her warmth and the chattering of the mallards is of comfort to me. My eyes are starting to itch because of the gathering pollen. There are yellow dunes left from puddles that dried after yesterday's rain.

A mockingbird seems curious about us -flits about from the pond wall to the tree to the ground beside us. There's no nest in the little cluster of birch trees next to us. The white spots on his wing feathers and his quizzical eyes make me happy I'm here. As soon as I try to take a picture of him, he flies away to the cherry trees, which are also in bloom. The air is thick with their smell. The sun comes from behind a cloud and warms us -human and dog sitting on a bench on a cool spring afternoon.

I notice a ladybug on the arm of the bench. Grateful, again for a moment of peace. One of the sleeping mallards wakes, flies to the water.

On the walk back to the car, I notice how much has changed -how everything is flowering. Mae still clings close to my side but at least she's no longer shaking.

Prompt Blog #6: The Charleston Area

August, 2008

It was the slow dive before the swell. That week on the Isle of Palms. I recall Faulkner’s Wild Palms, a seldom read piece of his where two lovers wreck each other. I wrote a piece about how modernist art influenced the structure, the bleed of visual artists. It was on my mind that day. We drove in at the wet simmer of a tropical storm; we couldn’t even see the river when we crossed over the new bridge with its stark cables jutting up like fish bones rearranged. They looked fragile but I had to trust the engineers. The rain slapped the speed out of our cars; it took twice as long to get there as it should have.

The house was a disaster zone. It would make the HGTV people cringe. It smelled like mold so much downstairs that the whole family –Ben’s parents and his uncle, and Ben and I all had to sleep upstairs; we were thrown together in a place with grungy furniture and damp carpet. It’s no wonder the place was pet friendly. It was a dump and to make it worse, we were all broke for that trip. We’d spent everything we had just to get down there. We all needed a vacation so badly. The year before had been a rough one complete with the loss of a beloved pet, a mistake of a move, and a mistake of a PhD program.

There was no way the weather was going to stop us from going down there. We had about three sunny days in the middle of the trip, but we didn’t let the rain stop us. We meandered the cobblestone streets, carted our umbrella down to the sea, snickered to David Sedaris and trashy magazines, learned about the local wildlife at the aquarium, and visited a preserved plantation house where we pondered how they cleared the land in the 1700s. Ben’s mom and I sat in the library of a guest house built on the property some time later and listened to a lecture about the history of the property. The lady told us of the descendant of slaves that stayed on as a caretaker for most of his long life. It’s all I remember. The live oaks hugged the ground and spread out like opening hands. We took a picture of ourselves, the manicured lawn in the background, our damp faces pronounced. I wore a turtle sanctuary hat I’d gotten at the aquarium. Her curly hair fell below her shoulders. We expected something lavish but the home was unfurnished and the paint was fading and there was visible damage to woodwork. The preservation was a work in progress.

The last night we ate at a fish shack on Shem Creek. Shrimp boats lined the docks. The air smelled like char and sea. They played 80s hair metal and Bob Marley. I drank icy beer and shelled peanuts and felt peace for the first time in a year, watching his family talk, smiling and drinking. The conversation faded into the din of the place and I sighed. Less than two weeks later we would find out Ben’s mom had breast cancer. We would hold onto this moment through the coming years of her treatment. 

October, 2002

We listened to Nine Inch Nails on the drive down. I forget which album. We bounced around in the jeep on a cool afternoon; the shadows had lengthened, the summer haze had finally dissipated. The hotel was nicer than we’d normally spring for; it was our first anniversary after all. It had historic reproduction furniture –a king sized sleigh bed, an armoire, and a view of a church built in the 18^th century. We dropped our bags and headed to the beach. We’d never been to the islands outside of Charleston and it was a perfect day for a walk on the beach. We took our Nikon we got as a wedding present from Ben’s uncle. The land flattened and it was just us. The photographs are singles of us, sitting with our pant legs rolled up, standing with feet in the ocean, gazing off at the sunset with sunglasses on. Later that night, he dared me to go into the hallway naked. It was only a split second but I did it and laughed for an hour. We created a breeze, the trip was so quick.

New Poems (In Progress)

The Smallest of the Tiny

Your brown eyes and wisped tail

Make me want to believe,

To recognize divinity,

Sanctity in a moment of grace

Your presence on that branch, solidified

In the crinkled leaves and busy creek

In the smell of fresh water,

Metallic and mossy.

But I see things you do not

A rage against the dying

My plight and yours

And I want to scream to you and yours

The trees and milkweed

The spacious trellis of sediment catchers

Along the banks

The rocks: human-placed,

Reticent against the currents

That I have lost my faith in greater things

And put it in the smallest of the tiny

In the pool that holds two mallards

Looking out for each other,

Taking turns tucking their beaks,

Reconnoitering the rim, standing

On one webbed foot.

Your size, your chirp, your black cap

Your fee-bee-fee-bay,

Your stillness, your rootedness,

Your charity, your dive and return

Test my failing faith like humans

At the fourth wall, flailing, climbing,

Begging to get in.

I close my eyes and listen.

The Coats of the Imperials

TC Boyle says it’s too late.

I sing an apology to the blue bird

And the trinity in the domesticated

And the predicament of the wild,

If that word means anything anymore

The wild is dying

The domestic is dying

As are we humans

On our way to overheating

Overeating

Over living our boundaries

Bodily and otherwise.

But still he’s writing

And going on Bill Maher

So there must be some kind of hope,

a thing, a thing, a mighty thing

Singing in the last of us

To know lions

The last of us to ignore

The last call of a generation

Or four.

TC Boyle is with me

On this blunted mountain,

In this sixty degree day in February

On the road to discovery

In the museum of natural history

In the twisted wing of a blue heron

In the absence of that British soldier lichen,

Its crimson tips, the coats of the imperials,

I’ve been looking for these years now

But it’s unable to survive cities

This Cladonia Christatella

To the Turkey

I wish I could tell you the impact,

What you did to me that day

When you hung by your feet from

A thick branch, a bare forest,

Feathers flying from the struggle

A family of artists and teachers,

Jewish and living above

The father’s glass-blowing studio,

Compact and soda free

His beard, his hand, veiny and exact

The knife to your throat,

The jerking, the quieting, the stillness,

The blood on the ground, steaming.