Greening in the Hollows
—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
SILENCE OF THE WEED-EATERS
Halloween’s over. I’ve hung up
my weed-eater till spring—no more whacking
annual grasses, thistle, and stick-tights.
Green fields beautiful under honking
spring migrations of geese over canyon
and ridge; still beautiful in May,
with a mechanized hum on the air, a buzz
like insects in trance-rites of spring.
Weed-eaters trying
to drown out music of the great god Pan—
the spirit of green gone crazy in our foothills,
piping through wild oat, foxtail and brome.
Green about to transform to brown,
brittle and flammable.
Mowing is self-protection.
But at last, I’ve hung up my weed-eater—
silenced my mechanical scythe.
It’s the rainy season
we prayed for all summer. Soft new grass
is greening the hollows.
I know what’s coming.
Halloween’s over. I’ve hung up
my weed-eater till spring—no more whacking
annual grasses, thistle, and stick-tights.
Green fields beautiful under honking
spring migrations of geese over canyon
and ridge; still beautiful in May,
with a mechanized hum on the air, a buzz
like insects in trance-rites of spring.
Weed-eaters trying
to drown out music of the great god Pan—
the spirit of green gone crazy in our foothills,
piping through wild oat, foxtail and brome.
Green about to transform to brown,
brittle and flammable.
Mowing is self-protection.
But at last, I’ve hung up my weed-eater—
silenced my mechanical scythe.
It’s the rainy season
we prayed for all summer. Soft new grass
is greening the hollows.
I know what’s coming.
Upper Pond
THE STRIPPED POND
Cool and shady in summer, floating Monet’s
lily-pads. But it’s not summer. We’re
bundled against chilly wind. Unlucky weather
for a festival. The meadow’s soggy—
how can a natural spring be unlucky? But
pines shady the pond so many summers
are gone, tree stumps in their place. How
could pines, rooted beside living water, die?
But so it is. We humans call it bad luck.
Still, graced as figures in a Botticelli rising,
willows guard the creek. Do they
keep the crowds away who should have
come for poetry? Where are the drums?
There are migrations in the arts
as well as nature. Old friends come softly,
as if afraid to break a spell. In an arc, sitting
closer. From the meadow, a soundless
pulse as if from deer-hide drum. Words come.
We’ll fit them to a place unlike what we
remembered. This place will write new words—
lucky words in their right place.
Mudflats
POND UNDYING
From autumn’s mudflats—
once summer’s rippling blue pond—
the egret has flown.
Look, folded in wander-wings
wild geese browse the rich brown mud.
Keyaki
OUTSIDE THE FARMHOUSE
old Keyaki tree
rooted far from its homeland
canopies this place
the garden’s last rose
in blossom-meditation
on the coming chill
three birds on the line—
notes of electric music,
a praise song sky-blue
low sun touches down
aslant, morning more brilliant
as the old year dims
sign hand-painted on the barn—
eggs fresh as the good earth gives
Egg Sign
SOUNDS OF AUTUMN
Early morning. Quiet but for the erratic
cheep—cheep—cheep of an unseen bird I hear
in any season; less persistent, uncertain
now with the shortening of days.
Black Phoebe’s catching first sun on her breast—
sleek bird perched among disheveled rusty
fronds of the almost leafless pepper tree.
She keeps her matins to herself.
Cloud Castles
THE CASTLE
from D.R. Wagner’s poems on Medusa, 11/4/17
It must be true. We use it in our lives
to find distances that are real. Start the car.
Feeling the rhythm, we will know
who we are in a place full of mysteries
and shadows. It has no need
to make sense. We begin to believe,
hoping there is somewhere in the endless
plains, the alley—trying to memorize
patterns of the streets, curves and
intersections. We can’t see great holes
impossible to walk across.
Footsteps echo for a long time, speak
to loneliness. A landscape seen in a fever
like a world walking in deep snow.
All shadows, all mystery.
Everything becomes a murmur
to emptiness. A great silence.
A candle flickers.
The sky overflows with stars as if
one were praying. This is the true hour,
the opening of the hand.
Persimmon Among Tomatoes
Today’s LittleNip:
NOVEMBER LISTENING
—Taylor Graham
Persimmon ripening on the sill,
a spider making silk across a window,
its echo no more than the glass gives back
in shimmer, reflection of autumns past.
___________________
Many thanks to Taylor Graham for her fine sights and sounds of November!
Poetry readings in our area today and tonight include Poetry at the Central Library in Sacramento at noon; bring your favorite poems (by other poets) that express, explore or celebrate gratitude, thanksgiving, appreciation. Then tonight at 8pm, hear Izzy Lala plus open mic at Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe in Sacramento, or Lynn Freed at John Natsoulas Gallery in Davis, also 8pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
New Green
—Photo by Taylor Graham
Celebrate the poetry of the new green—
when/whereever it appears!
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
