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Another Spring Poem

Coming a close second to Gerard Manley Hopkins’ spring poem I wrote about last week is e.e. cumming’s #65 (he had an anarchistic irreverence about capitals and titles), especially because it is a poem that the love of my life read out loud to me on the ocean voyage where we (so very romantically) met:

I thank You God for most this amazing

day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees

and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything

which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(I who have died am alive again today,

and this is the sun’s birthday; this is the birth

day of life and of love and wings and of the gay

                                  great happening illimitably earth)

……….

I taught poetry writing and appreciation for years, and on the first day of class I always asked my students to find a stethoscope and listen to their own heartbeats (alternatively, they could submerge themselves in a bathtub and get a friend to pound rhythmically on the outside). I wanted them to realize that poetry was not ultra-sophisticated and to be afraid of but as ordinary and familiar as their own heart beats, which go ta TAH ta TAH ta TAH in standard iambic pentameter.

The thing about Hopkins’ and cummings’ spring poems is that, when you read them out loud, you find a sequence of TAHs surrounded by a hodgepodge of tas in no such regular relationship.  It’s all in the accent, or downbeat, and that’s what makes their words leap around so festively.

It is spring, and we could certainly do with a bit of leaping around and festivity.

 

I like to play in yellow mud

all squishy-squash between my toes

I’d rather play in yellow mud

than smell a yellow rose.

 

(traditional children’s rhyme, in iambic pentameter)

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Spring Poem

I have always loved poetry, and I have always loved spring. Far and away my favorite poem in the world is Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “Spring”:

Nothing is so beautiful as spring –

When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush,

Thrush’s eggs look little low heavens, and thrush

Through the echoling timber does so rinse and wring

The ear, it strikes like lightening to hear him sing.

Try reading it out loud.

Did you notice something about the sounds?

It is written in a Welsh poetic tradition full of alliteration (words starting with the same letter) and “internal” rhymes that occur within the lines as well as at the ends. And the words sound just like what they are describing – anyone who has heard our American Wood Thrush, a relative of the English variety, knows how its song really does “rinse and ring” through the forest canopy.

I was so in love with Hopkins’ Welsh prosody (Dylan Thomas’s as well) that I wrote my own poetry in it. Fame-wise, that was one big mistake:  in the sixties and seventies, when terse verbal minimalism was in fashion, I was often dismissed as “Tennysonian,”  too “nineteenth century.”

Oh well,  my poems sounded terrific when I read them out loud; I was quite popular on the poetry reading circuit and was once known as a “Georgia” and, later on, a “Wisconsin” poet.  sic transit gloria mundi.

 

 

Our Coyotes

It all began the first time I heard them calling back and forth to each other in the  northern Michigan night: first a yip, then another slightly away from the first, then a third to the rear, until I realized that it was a whole pack, signalling their positions as they stalked wild turkey.

They seemed exotic when they howled from a hillock, though more menacing when they padded down our gravel road on the scent of a Yorkshire Terrier.

coyote

Then they turned up downstate.  One frosty  morning  I was carrying a mouse in a bucket to set loose for a better life, when I realized I was not alone. There was a coyote padding along behind me, intent upon my bucket. I knew that coyotes don’t attack human adults but I decided he might make an exception to this little old lady so tantalizingly redolent of mouse; I took the coward’s way out, dumping my mouse to suffer nature’s less beneficent aspect before  hastening guiltily away.

Coyote, nonetheless, seemed  pleasant  suburban neighbors, like the rabbits and squirrels and chipmunks and possums that lighten my days. Then, one morning, a distinctly non-cute coyote trotted up my driveway on the trail of my neighbor’s indiscreetly yelping Chihuahuas.

It was taller and longer than any coyote I had ever seen, with a fluffy grey tail and healthy coat of  fur.  I realized it was a Coywolf, a new species created by the mating of wolves and coyotes in Canada that had recently arrived in Northern Michigan and now, it seemed,  were taking their place among us in the Detroit suburbs.

Coywolf

In “The Ever Wily Coyote” naturalist Cathy Wesley describes the Eastern Coyote, larger than its western cousin, as a Coywolf. When I queried her about this identification she replied that

the Eastern Coyote is actually a type of Coywolf, because it is the Western Coyote mixed with the grey wolf. . . Some people actually want to separate the Eastern Coyotes into its own species and call it Coywolf.”  Heron Tracks Volume 9 Number 4 Feb 2017.

I admire the way that nature morphs and varies. In this sad time of diminishing species, the coyote/coywolf story is a heartening display of adaption for evolutionary advantage.

 

 

 

THE ROAD TO BEAVER MILL

On the front page of my web site I described Bethany leaping off a cliff into a gale. With the publication of the third volume in my Infinite Games Series, The Road to Beaver Mill, you can find out what happens next.
While eleven year old Bethany is excited and enthusiastic about soaring through the wind on a winged pony, her mother is purely terrified. Nonetheless, Clare must ride into the storm while the rest of the Marshlanders leave their refuge on Cedar Haven to climb the perilous Cliffs of Doom. It is time to call their allies to battle lest their enemies succeed in entirely draining their marshlands.
The problem is that everyone knows about these plans but Bethany, who is too stubborn and self-willed to trust with such important secrets. She visits her friend Ben’s Western Fisher folk, who want nothing to do with her; her own Eastern Fisher folk cousins welcome her warmly but she runs away from them too, stowing away on a ship heading for the dangerous merchant city of Brent.
My new novel is a Kindle Select Book, available here from Amazon.com .