"He said that he composed his poems just about anywhere. Usually, he said on another occasion, he got most of his ideas when on a walk." --Wallace Stevens obituary, New York Times, August 3, 1955.

"[Poetry gets you to that] which is beyond even the concept of reality, that which transcends all thought. The myth puts you there all the time, gives you a line to connect with that mystery which you are." Joseph Campbell, 1988.

"I don't pretend to understand the Universe -- it's a great deal bigger than I am." --Thomas Carlyle, 1795 – 1881.

Preface

Connections

Watch for those times

in your life

when you come alive,

animated, he says;

see your arms gesturing

like two old men in the market

relating the news—

pay attention;

there lie the clues

to authenticity,

authority,

author.

go to that place;

write it down.

7 Mar 08

Pay attention to when you come alive. These were words from a wise counselor years ago. I listened. When I hike through the woods, usually a simple two mile loop that follows a bridle path, I am at one with the universe. Time stops. Breathing is underlined. Words flow. I am elated, enlivened anew.

I was reminded of the relationship in words in a lesson on etymology during a recent silent retreat in the woods of northwest Connecticut. Some of these poems are from that retreat and those preceding it. (For more of the "Lenten Poems" see www.fairfieldreview.org/fairfield/fairrevw.nsf/lnk/lent ) While we were studying monastic spirituality, our teacher would often start a meditation by explaining the Latin and Greek roots of the word we were studying, like humility and hospitality. Walking through the woods is a getting back to roots, getting back to sources, and reading the dictionary of ourselves.

It is with these thoughts that I offer this small collection of poems written on scraps of paper while walking through the woods. Come, join me. Breathe deeply. The air is clean here and the starlings are announcing your arrival.

Summer

August

So full the air—

embroidered!

Run your fingers

through its texture

like the wind

in a field of wheat

still green—

awns fat

balance on tall slender stalks

and yield,

following the rush of wind;

sit down,

let it wave over you

breathe in every nuance

and become the wine—

in the late falling leaves of October,

remember.

24 Nov 07

On seeing “August Rush.”

Man in Black

For Richard

There is an old bridle path

that runs past my back door;

it travels along rock walls

that some Connecticut farmers

stacked on the borders

of what is now a wood

of oaks, hickory, beech and birch.

Walking this way,

one walks with saints.

I once marked this trail

with white blazes,

one for "continue on"

and two for a turn.

The way rises up and falls

rises up and falls

through the openings

in the stone walls,

through the hardwoods

that stand and watch--

they move gently from their crowns

touched by a finger of wind

as if to a pool of water.

There is a place

where the path is washed out

the footing unsure, slippery,

as round rocks move

one over the other--

a walking stick steadies me,

a mast staked down,

a point around which I swing

like a door on a hinge

Some time later

I emerge into a field,

tall with grass

that undulates in the breeze,

sopranos of sunlight sing

the Hallelujah Chorus

and the sky is shockingly blue.

I meet a man in black,

peaceful eyes

white hair.

thinning hair.

hint of hair.

~~hint of white hair, peaceful eyes.~~

He tells me a story

of rock walls,

hardwoods and stones,

the staff and the hinge,

long green grass and blue heaven.

I write it all down

on scraps of paper

with ink that is indelible.

He is my guide,

making a way for me.

At these last turns

in the trail, I am back home;

he is holding the door open for me,

there is mulled cider on the stove

and crusty bread on the table.

30 Jun 07

Glorious Day!

Glorious day!

The blue and white:

luminous;

the greens:

showing off their pale

undersides

in dry gusts

of summer breeze,

proud;

rust branches

from an old Christmas tree

still nightlight

a once

evergreen

21 Jul 07

The turning

Barn swallows cut

large sweeping strokes

across the top

of a field gone to weed;

small insects dodge,

grasshoppers jump from my path

and the grass elbows

A cedar stump

has turned to iron ore

green hickory nuts

fall thru leaves

with a sound as if reaching out

for a limb again and again.

I sidestep an old pile of manure

and witness raspberry bushes

gone neon wild--

plantings from jays engorged

last year;

Small black butterflies

with lightning royal blue stripes

stand out smartly.

In the distance

the high cry of a red-tailed hawk

Looking hard,

I stumble

as I should.

The white cloud

opposite the sun

is so bright

the sky glows blue;

It hurts.

White tail deer flash as

can-can dancers

When the twig breaks;

Toto is yapping in some yard

and Lassie adds the baritone.

I am so far from home;

I am on my way

22 Jul 07

Morning glory

There is a late morning glory

here amidst the weeds

on the bank of a gravel path

into the wood.

The bee delights in its cone

crawling down to the mouth

of nectar.

Even the goldenrod

further up the hill

in shouting yellow abundance

cannot not match its simple,

insistent white.

Under blue sky so sharp

it cuts into the very green

blades of grass and leaf-full trees .

The wind waves branches

and the upright prickly wild things

growing taller than the vines.

This flower of the dawn

is still;

it has caused me

to stop on this path

and turn back.

18 Aug 07

Silence

When is the time

to be wise?

what hour rings

with the ball of a comma?

I sit on a bench

overlooking a still pond

thick with weeds;

a young tree has fallen,

lies old in dry digits,

like bones from last-year’s kill,

just short of the bench,

not quite

here.

What words did it yell

into the unceasing wind

before it fell?

what groans did it make

broken on leaf-strewn earth?

The others left standing,

ringing this circle

of contemplation,

do not say;

they wave in the wind

as if to say goodbye,

we do not know.

18 Aug 07, for Guss Stepp, died Aug. 7, 2007

Counting stations

Through this wooded trail

comes a stray ray of sun

let in by the swaying crowns

of green leaves atop majestic oaks—

old stone monuments

every hundred yards or so

dot the way.

I stop to read the Roman numeral

and gaze at the weathered

bronze bas-relief—

stations of the cross

set on a pebbled path

that rings a lily pond.

Now a conference place

of manicured lawns

and sand-cast brick buildings

for meeting, eating and sleeping—

the trinity of the offsite meeting,

I surmise this was once another retreat.

I count,

one and two and three,

Six and seven and eight,

Ten – eleven—

I stop to read them all, my eyes

trailing over the sculpted plaques

as I imagine fingers over Braille—

even the turtle stretches its neck

into sunlight to see

who is looking out from the wood.

Where is the twelfth?

I trace back the path

and see stone steps leading up

the hill—thirty pieces of fitted rock

beneath my feet, I climb

to St. Mary’s cemetery

and there the image on the tree

looking out over the iron fence

and the markers of the priests and brothers

lain to rest beneath a well-kept patch of lawn within.

From here are thirteen—down from the cross,

fourteen—into the tomb—

how many are there?

Am I at the end?

Later in the day, during a break,

I wander out with the others

who sit on the lawn, make calls,

light cigarettes, stare into a perfect sky.

Across a parking lot to a smattering

of picnic tables, I go to sit.

English walnuts fall, crack on the table tops,

tumble to the turf.

There behind the clearing,

overgrown with weeds and saplings

is a grotto, empty, no number at its peak,

nor bronze marker onto which to gaze—

just New England granite piled taller than

any man could stand,

open to the eastern sky.

18 Aug 07

Landlocked

At first they are tentative,

not willing to hazard being first--

I drop the small bits of rolled-up bread

on the murky water’s surface,

waiting for the fish to rise and snap

in this bit of stream

between the long lake spillway

and the impassible

gravelly shoals.

First one, then three,

then a swarm of sunfish

begin the feeding frenzy.

In this place of no escape,

neither an up or downstream

way to go,

I stand at the edge,

a local god

dropping manna on the hungry.

22 Aug 07

The Loons Call

For Ann Moore

The loons call to me—

haunting—

the wind moves

through tall stark trunks

of mystery pines

and brings a fragment

that draws me back

to a place

where I weep

for what is not here.

16 Aug 06

Magnolia

The stamens tumble

into a bowl of petals

that are pure pearl,

lotioned flesh-soft silk

that flashes an audible

touch me now!

Run your fingers across

the curves that arch

from the centered stem;

grab me, pull me off

this earthbound anchor;

I’ve already sung my song.

14 Sep 07

For Faith’s photo

Fall

Grounded

Crossing a grassland field

under so much blue sky

I am insignificant.

A tangerine butterfly

of no name

is my guide

to the end

of this tractor shorn path

to a wildlife blind

and abundant garden.

Here monarchs feed

with a slow pump of wings

on violet heather

with bumble bees so large

I could ride them

on the quiet breeze

that breathes in

and out.

Turning back

as we all must do

on an old rutted road

I see grandfather maples

sentinels so grounded

their reach

is.

5 Sep 05, Topsmead State Park, Litchfield, CT

Parting the Red Sea

The wood is not accepting;

each twig cracks beneath my shoes

as small shots—

deer choose,

run left then right, to the road;

a squirrel accelerates,

shaking its tail like a finger,

bounds up the far side of an oak;

chipmunk is an exclamation point

appearing now and then.

In the field,

the blades of tall grass

bend before me;

grasshoppers jump ahead

again and again;

the cicadas loud

on this cloudy late summer day,

hold their wings;

even the red-tail hawk

soars to a higher tree.

Along the near-dry stream bed

frogs sound the alarm,

hop into dark pools

and disappear

Turning into the clearing,

the wind fresh in my face gasps

a Moses sent,

stand still before my Red Sea—

in the silence

before the demand of the divide,

I stomp my staff on stony sand

and part the world

22 Sep 07

South

Autumn has taken a deep breath

and is blowing out bits of summer;

the late white wood asters are waving wildly

among browning blades of grass;

hickory nuts fall with thumping finality

in the wisdom of latter days;

the red-tail hawk circles,

has yet to fly to its south.

29 Sep 07

Far Buoy

This is the poem

I don't want to write down;

better to leave it

to the wondering if…

perhaps it is the curse

of middle age,

the dawning of the acute sense

that somewhere

in ones forties

the far buoy

has been passed--

it is late

and this ship

of racing sails

has turned back to port

and there is a cold

stiff wind

nudging me to lean

into the dark.

1 Oct 06

Stopping where the path turns from the field

Something has spooked the geese

at the other end of the field

and they startle me

enough to stop and write this down.

I should say how the sun is low in the sky

and the shadows of the border trees

are long in the pale grass,

how all these brown and yellow October leaves

sound like chewing corn flakes

as I shuffle through;

there is an insistent one-note bird

yelling go, go, go, go

willing me to make my south;

the wind wondering, wild,

rides the hair from my collar;

overhead are unseen aircraft

one after another

traveling elsewhere.

I thought you should know

before I move on.

6 Oct 07

Autumn Again; New England Shouts

The October geese align

in a honking vee,

starlings infect a maple tree

with a storm of chatter,

and screaming orange is

again the rage--

Such is the noise of autumn

in New England,

a grand shift into the cool

internment of days

that end before the evening repast--

it is a wonder that hope

still takes wing

that these Crayola leaves

that fall and blow

to heaps crunching brown upon the ground

rise up as swollen buds

of singing green

some other day

too far away

28 Oct 05

Throwing off the familiar

Days before All Saints,

wading through all

the beauty that is

October death, vibrant

colors falling to brown,

hickory nuts split in half,

their centers plundered

by squirrels in haste;

the cold wind rushes through

as a snagged thread

from the eye of a needle,

causing the red, yellow orange

to dance in the slice of light

from the west;

the hiker's pace quickens

toward elusive warmth;

on the rise of the trail

the leaves so thick

they have the sound

of ankles galloping

in surf before diving in

to the rich absence.

28 Oct 07

Fresh Kill

While hiking on a well-worn trail

we come upon a squirrel twitching on its side

blood oozing from its neck

the cry of a hawk echoes in the air;

we've been here before,

the trail familiar in its rise and turn;

a field stone wall bounders along,

a carefully set companion

where once fields of corn or wheat were planted,

now trees, saplings, vines, briar--

and a dying squirrel.

We are startled by the drama--

nature runs its course across our sometimes path--

and we are immovable at our foundations;

heads turn, eyes avert;

there is an exhale of breath,

a morbid sigh,

and we wait for it to pass--

this moment of respect

for what was gathering among the fallen leaves

the seed of a rugged oak or smooth beech

that will not be.

30 Dec 06

Winter

Winter lands

on prey,

stings with the venom

of frost, sleet—

like the yellow-jacket

landing on the spider’s web

strung across my window—

I watch as she out-stings him,

wraps him in a shroud of snow white

for sucking whatever life was left

out.

30 Nov 07

Three O’clock

In the wrap of winter,

three o'clock burns through

the snow weighted boughs

as a late hallelujah

comes to roost

on the forest semaphores

sidling along

a plowed road

that disappears into

darkness.

Yesterday…

flames tailing from the fins,

the classic Chevy passes by,

radio razzing, window down,

driver’s elbow on the frame,

he yells

just loud enough to hear--

"Are you with me?"

2 Dec 07

Starlings

The starlings are staging

a mass demonstration

out my wall of windows

their silhouettes x-rayed

by the sun against my blinds

shut for the southern glare

a week before the solstice.

I thought they were late leaves

blown by the gale gusts

of wind in the wake

of the weekend storm.

Peering out between the slats,

half-blinded by the sun,

I'm startled by the feathers

hitting the windows again

and again like moths around

the back-porch light.

I presume it is their reflection they see,

only so at the angle of the light,

and they are trying to be

a flock of one that keeps mirroring

instead--

all at once the tragedy

of love is illuminated.

17 Dec 07

Punctuation

A red-bellied woodpecker

(it has that weight)

is writing down his story

at an Underwood;

his hunt-and-peck story

deliberate

measured

I stare hard into the barren crown

of the tree

but do not see him;

I catch only the punctuation,

the emphases,

and long intervals of silence

when I imagine he is checking

my every move.

Later

approaching the edge

of the field that ambles down

into a dark wood

I hear the rush that first sounds

like tires on the gravel drive

but soon adds the gurgle

of a telltale stream after a mid-winter thaw,

I push my pace

anticipating the rapid flow

around the boulders

and large branches

fallen in the way

27 Dec 07

End of December

At the edge of the field

a light wind teases the dry brown leaves

of the beeches still holding

onto their withered stems,

shakes them as if a tambourine of shells;

in the distance the stream plays clarinet

while two crows and a catbird

sing the chorus;

for the finale

the geese return with horns

crying

29 Dec 07

Geese

The late year sun low in the trees

blinds the field

where the geese are still,

waiting;

the curtain of night is rising

and they are motionless,

the cutting cross-light

at their backs;

they take turns chattering

a half-honk;

perhaps I am the god

of whom they are wary;

I raise my staff as if to speak

the opening lines,

but they have taken wing

full of voice and choreography,

fly into the solar spot beyond

the naked trees

I am without my voice.

30 Dec 07

The Edge of Epiphany

On an afternoon walk

in the infancy of January--

a baby-blue-eyes sky--

the edge of freezing--

gloves on--

head phones pumping

into my ear canals,

I pass a jogger

for the second time.

She smiles somewhat perplexed,

gesturing above her head,

something about her hair.

I nod and smile

wondering

what in the world

she said as she runs by.

Looking up in the tree-tops

I see

a hundred starlings

shining in the spaces,

late for the flight south.

I silence the music,

take off my gloves

clap my hands

and they flock to the next tree

like early pollen in the wind.

Perhaps she said:

It's raining birds

in my hair

and I don’t have your hat.

Head uncovered,

I hear the chatter

from the trees

between the gray and blue.

7 Jan 06

Geese II

The geese are foraging

for the rare blade of grass

on this winter tundra of a field.

I make my best dog imitation,

barking and flailing

as the path rounds

to the rock wall at the border—

I am the prophet.

The geese are not impressed.

Last week it only took an appearance,

low sun in my face,

but now over the rise

I lack the presence;

they go on eating

and I turn into the wood.

26 Jan 08

Omens

Behind this eighteenth century rock wall

a fallen cedar is rusting to an orange stripe

across the path;

the stream is eating thru the ice,

gnawing at the fixed and stolid edges;

a hollow trunk, a ghost,

barely stands on two toes

curled into the earth.

I weep for the owl

hidden in its tremerous bark

26 Jan 08

Omens II

In the distance

a hawk is hoarse in the winter air;

the sun is a memory

in the barren crowns of tree.

Half a dozen geese fly

in funeral formation, lights on,

a sign in the windshield

and a slight tap of the horn

to cause me to stop

left turn signal blinking

26 Jan 08

Pileated

A pileated woodpecker swoops

in from the field and settles near the top

of a rotting tree.

He works his way down

oscillating from eyeing

the fractured bark

and me.

I wait for the crack

of it's hammer-to-chisel swing of a beak

with a thwack into the softening wood;

but the rapid running timpani stream

behind me plays over the solo shot

to the rim of a snare drum afternoon.

3 Feb 08

The Juncos Sing

A dozen juncos

have gathered on my lawn

with their blue-grey coats

and rhythmic pecking

that is more like bowing—

yes, this is a gathering

of the extended junco family

greeting each other

by keeping their eyes

on the ground

and bowing

like geishas—

yes,

wearing blue-gray silk

kimonos,

holding fans

of tail feathers—

this must be a dance

an opera perhaps—yes.

If this were not

a warm spell in the midst

of winter

and I had not paused

at the kitchen window

with my empty tea cup

I would have missed

this elegant

performance

and it would just be

another day.

5 Feb 06

Lent

Not yet March

Not yet March,

the wind is the lion’s breath;

at the top of the rise,

it lifts.

Limbs of two trees

rub together and omen

like an un-oiled hinge to an old oak door opening—

difficult, memorable.

The wind is the underside of a river teeming

where a lone goose cries

and circles,

headlining its loss.

The red-tail hawk swoops

further away

and I

in the midst

of starlings in a coffee shop

chattering each over the other

am lost.

10 Feb 08

Poetry

I stop to write this down,

lay my walking stick on the fallen trunk

where I sit.

When I'm done, I get up,

walk briskly to the trailhead,

cross the road and head home;

past the pause,

I realize I've left my staff

leaning on that log.

Like the poem, I go back.

10 Feb 08

Pointed moon

There is a halo of mist

about the full moon tonight.

If you count the stars,

he said,

within this high collar of softening night,

you can tell the number of days

until the storm.

There are no stars.

This omen of inclemency is upon us

without even portent

for now has no preparation

no turning from the eye of evening,

light to the darkness

sleep to the dawning—

No.

This is the moon shot

that stops you dead in its tracks.

19 Feb 08

Stopping

Across a field

new snow on the ground

the forest is punctuated—

snow commas on each tree

bring them to life

in their winter slumber.

I pause on the trail,

walking stick tucked under my arm,

snow shoes planted in the dent

of the path beneath

and marvel

as only stopping can

bring.

23 Feb 08

Two sides of the same scene

Four buzzards glide

with grace across thick grey clouds

rounded above tree tops stabbing

gently into their undersides.

The stream rushes through the snow

as blood draining

from the white slaughterhouse floor

we watched in the movie last night;

the piercing sounds

are muffled in the pure tufted snow.

23 Feb 08

Disconnecting the dots

She called them blowers

with the wonder of a four year-old;

she held it by the stem

a tiny constellation

at the purse of her lips

and blew--

all the stars in this orb of spores

tailed off into the wind

its dots disconnecting

into the air,

scattered, random.

I was left

with a stamen moist at the end

of a shoot that leaves stains

on my fingers.

It is gone;

or just becoming?

Is it is?

7 Mar 08

Slowing

The river slows here,

full of froth

from the rapids upstream;

it makes a turn,

nudged by this rise of land

as a liner coaxed by a tug--

it moves with a weight

of all that is.

I go to the summer,

a slowness in the air

legs and arms

over the inner tube,

floating

7 Mar 08

The Unmoving

The uphill path

through the pines

has remnants of ice,

pine needles,

bark;

half-way up the rise

two naked pine trunks

have fallen across the way,

short limbs of broken branches

radiate out as the spokes of a ship's wheel;

I grab hold as if to turn

and lean into the unmoving.

8 Mar 08

Speaking out loud

In the midst of naked trees

x-rayed wet with cold raw rain,

the lichen shines as lime dots

of paint on a grey canvas--

fog hangs over the river

and the luminous

is not silent.

8 Mar 08

After the storm

After the storm,

the river surges

angry at its banks;

in a small eddy

four white mergansers

forage;

the sun is still new,

the shadows long,

and this quartet

eats the silence,

feeds on the being in the world.

9 Mar 08

Passing

For Ann Moore

In less than a season

of Sundays

all these gray and broken limbs

will be swept behind

in a sea of green

I will remember

the robin's nest in the tall rhododendron

and the chick out on the branch

not sure this is a good move.

Parents will be screaming from the oak

encouragements,

reminders to flap hard,

don't look down.

I will remember then

that you left

at the turn of spring

and despite all the wishes

platitudes and best intentions

this will become an empty place.

Friendships evergreen

winter with their leaves;

we will pull up empty chairs

to a table with white linens

and wish

for the warmth

of a listening ear

the touch

of a knowing smile.

28 Jan 06

Spring

Under a common sun

The two of us go out into a cool morning that’s thawing,

each with a camera that has the few pixels

with which we can still connect,

he with the youthful, slim Olympus

and I with the bulky, aging Canon—

we take pictures of the patches of fog

rising like ghosts from the snow and ice

left from a late winter;

he takes vertical portraits,

while I take broad landscapes.

The light slices through the fog,

writes shadows in the semi-frozen grass

not yet green,

under this second day of spring sun.

A common marvel—

at something seen for the first time together,

not owned or possessed, one before the other

in a banter of wisdom and ignorance competing

for who knows—

but together

as the curtain lifts between us.

Later at my impromptu desk at the kitchen island,

staked out for the way the light comes in the window

and promises longer days of illumination;

I write, looking out

on the camouflaged patch of lawn

where just yesterday we were tilting cameras just so,

trying to capture these passing

minutes of fresh water

hanging in the air to dry under a common sun

and disappear.

24 Mar 07

A phone call with Holly before she turns four

I tell her I went snowshoeing today,

and ask he if she knows what a snowshoe is.

"No," her tiny voice answers, clear as a single high-note bell

I search for the words to tell her.

"They're like really big shoes, but made of metal--

like clown shoes, and you can walk on top of the snow."

"Oh," she says.

"Does that sound like fun?"

"Yes."

I imagine her smiling,

thinking of round serving trays strapped to my feet.

Her mother reminds me that when the snow is crunchy,

she can walk on top with boots.

"Oh," I say, realizing that the wonder of walking on snow

is one of those things that a three-year-old just knows.

29 Mar 08

Seventh Day

Six catbirds crowning the oak

greet me as I wheel luggage

to the car—

they are announcing the turning

of the play—

their Greek chorus of clicks

and caws,

bobbing in turn

like a stadium wave,

an omen

beyond the point of rest—

I am wary,

full of joy on this spring

Sunday morning;

the week dancing

out ahead,

I close the trunk

and drive.

22 Apr 07

Out of the Woods

Out of the woods

the trail turns,

the field rises

verdant,

dormant grass

now impetuous,

wet with morning drizzle;

the path narrows,

a bevy of birds

an urgent chorus,

moisture seeps

thru the eyelets

of my shoes,

my socks are damp,

the bottom of my jeans

capillaries,

the bark on my

walking stick

peeling away,

a dry stream bed now

gargles;

all is naked,

insistent;

I float

thru morning,

become a lifting fog

2 May 97

Morning Constitutional

The old white roan

lifts her head

and watches me

on this curve of road

that leads to her pasture.

Dogwoods sentinel in whites and pinks

a large sun does pull-ups

at the cloud line.

I pace to the weathered fence;

she leans out to me

sad poet eyes so large

I'm lost

Pulsing nostrils

draw me in;

I hold my hand out

for her to sniff

as if I'm Pope.

She nods,

I turn back,

and wonder,

blessed.

4 May 06

On top of powder

I head out, up the rise,

wind in my face, snowshoes strapped to my feet,

the sun buffs blue sky to cerulean,

tall pines nod their agreement

and the sound of the shoes on the new snow

is of doors swinging on a short arc

one opening after another

29 Mar 08

An invitation to breathe

A sea of crocuses

rolled in early

and surprised me,

violet so not the shade

of winter,

but the stole of Lent--

oh the hope and welcome

in that upturned cradle

of a delicate palm!

15 Mar 08

Saturday, March 15, 2008

Parting the Red Sea

Autumn Again; New England Shouts