A New Poem: Elemental

Here is a companion piece to my last post - a poem that came out of the Writers' Intensive.

The wind is my lover.

Sometimes he sweeps my mind clean.

Sometimes he caresses my cheek.

Sometimes he is gone.

 

The water is my mother.

She rocks and holds me as if I were a child.

Unlike the wind, she is constant,

and I cannot live without her.

Every morning and evening I I look to the sky, to wind’s home

and admire its changing face.

But water is my solace.

 

Let the bed remain rumpled and unmade.

I have more important things to tend to –

the flickering candles, the morning birdsong, the blank page.

 

I once watched new land being born,

lava pouring down the pali and across the old land

to pour into the sea, creating new earth in a fanfare of pluming smoke.

Why do I think of this now?

Air and water grew lonely for fire and earth.

 

So, here they are, all assembled, my friends, my family.

Fire says, “Where would you be without me?”

Earth replies, “Show-off!”

Fire retorts, “Look who’s talking?  What do you call what you do

with springtime?”

Water flows in, “There, there everyone.”

Air breezes by, almost, but not quite, blowing out the candles.

I recently attended (on Zoom) a week-long writers' intensive with Deena Metzger.  It was wonderful and, well, intense!  Some of the writing I did was on the theme of place, which has shown up here quite a bit of late.  Here's a piece of what came out of the writing at the workshop.

Down at Glen Echo Creek, the dappled light filters down through the trees, illuminating patches of grass and brown earth layered with tangled exposed tree roots.  Cascades of bright orange nasturtiums with their round green leaves spill in profusion down the steep but short bank.  The water runs swiftly on its way down to Lake Merritt, which opens its mouth to the estuary and finally the bay.  The water burbles and sings as it hits a curve in the bank, flowing around the rocks and roots that form a tiny peninsula.  There is a green smell, part fresh and just a bit rank in  this damp and shady slice of an otherwise drying June landscape.

Sitting on rugged tree roots jutting up just above the creek, I can imagine that I am deep in the natural world.  I can avoid looking up at the green house on the other side of the fence at the top of the opposite bank.  Of course, I know that Piedmont Grocery and all the other shops on Piedmont Avenue are only a block away, but here there is a hum of insects, a few occasional bird chirps, the caw of a solitary crow.  A host of tiny insects dance on a patch of almost still water.  Down a ways on the other bank, a tumble of gray rocks rests just above the water, bearing patches of sunlight, holding and sharing their slow stories.

What do I not notice?  There are sounds of passing cars on the street only a dozen paces away and the steady drone of vehicles on the freeway a few blocks from here.  I prefer ignoring those.  There is a sudden wafting aroma of tacos.  A foghorn sounding from way down at the bay.  The knowledge that a few short blocks from here another homeless encampment has formed beyond the iron fencing the city installed to keep them from settling under the freeway overpass.  There is an ache in my left hip from sleeping uncomfortably last night.  I'd prefer ignoring that, too.  What I don't see is frequently what I turn away from.

Before I leave, I make a small offering and thank the green world and the water I am so privileged to live in and near.  I ask the water what it needs.

"Just continue to love," it says.