—Poetry in Praise of Mycelia by
Stephen Kingsnorth, Coedpoeth, Wrexham, Wales
(Photos Courtesy of Public Domain)
ROSE, RISEN
Crushed velvet, claret, bruised—say scarred—
the black baccara in the bed,
so harshly pruned, sharp secateurs,
then fed, top-dressed with stable dung,
now nurtured, tended, blooming best,
new beauty rising from its thorns.
But why that pain for buttonhole
such treatment for a collar dove?
The mown scent rising, that we love,
is cut lawn crying out its pain;
why is the harvest of the field
constrained for benefit, our own?
Land management thought served us well;
selective, breed-please for the eyes?
The Greenman, sage, cork cambium,
will no one hear, see what’s before?
What riches lie beneath our feet,
not undermined by industry?
These carpet tiles, leaves’ annual lay,
through work of auxin, sacrifice,
a compote turning clay to tilth
is seedbed, mycorrhiza spread.
Subversive fibre networks tread,
our pithy grounding, underworld,
fresh saprophytic fungi flush
that speaks with willing trees above.
If petals rise up to the skies,
forged secret lies, cast underground;
the leading light, drawn leaden dark,
as good known only from the base.
Crushed velvet, claret, bruised—say scarred—
the black baccara in the bed,
so harshly pruned, sharp secateurs,
then fed, top-dressed with stable dung,
now nurtured, tended, blooming best,
new beauty rising from its thorns.
But why that pain for buttonhole
such treatment for a collar dove?
The mown scent rising, that we love,
is cut lawn crying out its pain;
why is the harvest of the field
constrained for benefit, our own?
Land management thought served us well;
selective, breed-please for the eyes?
The Greenman, sage, cork cambium,
will no one hear, see what’s before?
What riches lie beneath our feet,
not undermined by industry?
These carpet tiles, leaves’ annual lay,
through work of auxin, sacrifice,
a compote turning clay to tilth
is seedbed, mycorrhiza spread.
Subversive fibre networks tread,
our pithy grounding, underworld,
fresh saprophytic fungi flush
that speaks with willing trees above.
If petals rise up to the skies,
forged secret lies, cast underground;
the leading light, drawn leaden dark,
as good known only from the base.
Agaricus bisporus (White Mushrooms)
MYCHORRHIZA
We’d thought the leaves
had withered, dropped,
the final curtain,
showdown, gold,
sunset cause,
glow sinking fall.
We thought laid annual carpet tiles
were dust to dust,
skeletal, prone.
We little know recycle clause,
that auxin chose that DNR,
the throes of life in cycle plan,
old winter tweeds for summer garb.
But, quietly,
in kingdom time,
is realised,
planned long ago,
that dried old ware, revivified,
as grubs, earth’s worms can multiply,
from brittle veins turn a new leaf,
with mycorrhiza,
carbon bank.
So with new talk of mould
with net, the saprophytic fungi
met, symbiosis negotiate,
the stump, old timber,
sprouts, alive,
life resurrect despite our death,
of stewardship,
holistic berth.
The Greenman
may know woodland folk,
as tree was central to the plot,
like Eden on through Jesse’s stock,
whatever lore is yours to know.
Trees bear fruit unexpectedly,
and X marks spot
against the green,
the wait of glory in the pain.
Whatever folly we promote,
denuding earth of anchor roots,
and flooding sediments away,
that autumn fall
still brings fresh life.
In fifty, less, it will be known;
can you substantiate the claim?
Add network to salvation plan?
How could we miss this speaking rôle?
Tone deaf,
for we thought summit, me,
tree-hugging from another sphere.
We’d thought the leaves
had withered, dropped,
the final curtain,
showdown, gold,
sunset cause,
glow sinking fall.
We thought laid annual carpet tiles
were dust to dust,
skeletal, prone.
We little know recycle clause,
that auxin chose that DNR,
the throes of life in cycle plan,
old winter tweeds for summer garb.
But, quietly,
in kingdom time,
is realised,
planned long ago,
that dried old ware, revivified,
as grubs, earth’s worms can multiply,
from brittle veins turn a new leaf,
with mycorrhiza,
carbon bank.
So with new talk of mould
with net, the saprophytic fungi
met, symbiosis negotiate,
the stump, old timber,
sprouts, alive,
life resurrect despite our death,
of stewardship,
holistic berth.
The Greenman
may know woodland folk,
as tree was central to the plot,
like Eden on through Jesse’s stock,
whatever lore is yours to know.
Trees bear fruit unexpectedly,
and X marks spot
against the green,
the wait of glory in the pain.
Whatever folly we promote,
denuding earth of anchor roots,
and flooding sediments away,
that autumn fall
still brings fresh life.
In fifty, less, it will be known;
can you substantiate the claim?
Add network to salvation plan?
How could we miss this speaking rôle?
Tone deaf,
for we thought summit, me,
tree-hugging from another sphere.
Conocybe apala (Dunce Caps)
POWER
Both flora, fauna make a pair,
so rarely does funga appear;
yet mycorrhiza, underground—
that is web style that’s underlaid.
root routes to tap, war signals played.
And there’s the gold, through rotting years,
rich tilth that’s borne of age’s filth,
a nursery for fragile growth—
so here to celebrate the berth,
a renaissance from birthing earth.
Mosaic stained glass, buzzing drone,
now bedded in, where manicured,
‘keep off the grass’, communal parks,
trooping the colour, parade ground,
bright summer blaze, laid square or round.
Exotic hothouse, houseplant show,
with sundew claws as flybys caged,
or pitchers drowning, sliding scale,
and orchid slippers, monkey face,
but not the native, floral base.
Yet in the meadow, sweet made known,
‘round ancient wood, anemones,
in crevice rocks, thrive thrifty pinks,
from scrub of mud, trench poppy blooms,
gossamer, blood red, hope from tombs.
Pleurotos ostreatus (Oyster Mushrooms)
JUST CUSTOMERS?
The fir cone sentries ice-pick frieze,
nestled needles, arms of hoar;
a winter hanging, waited snow,
all spruced up around the show.
Black-capped jackdaw, life-thieving judge,
called-out cause announced from seat,
this counsel, parliament of foul,
had the nowse, achieve the end.
There are no twists in conifers,
neither gnarls or knots on smooth,
marking of time each solstice passed,
running rings around inside.
Joint hibernation under crust,
monkshood seeds, deadnettle taps,
slave xylem, Sycorax embarked,
standing stones by shrivelled nodes.
Fan larching over vaults, bats fly,
moonshine beams enlighten scents,
this periodic table time,
lunar months and moths flit by.
Upbraid her, pigtail, neck bare nape,
rigid, rigor mortis set,
no shiver, as might aspen leaf,
off shrive sack, let bark bite back.
Sounds mobster or Bond’s enemy,
process, joint and scapulae,
connections in the underworld—
where the mycorrhiza fold.
What conversation do they hold,
message sent along the lines?
Know letting blood soaks through the earth,
as thaw drains, lore, lair unrestrained.
Cracked prison cage was first reveal,
under ribs, shrunk shrivelled pouch;
why no heart in mammal attack—
witch seductive pheromones?
That girdle gave away her name,
on the game played home, away;
while all those men, judged, customers,
buried her, a gain, again.
SYMPATHETIC RESONANCE
It’s dappled light, both black and white,
shades intermingled with the bright,
both dead and living claiming tight,
though most assume a clear divide.
But so much says the veil permits
a view, if masqued, the other side,
for that is how both weft and weave
afford damask its denier breath.
So thin that sacred earthy place—
a carpenter spokeshaves the tree
and sawdust falls, both wood and space
as mycorrhiza of the air.
Where incommunicado taught
beech roots pass notes for onward tour,
as flatfoot man tramps unaware
of signals, scent of hope, despair.
So, underground and undermined,
our plans to dominate the globe,
the busy transport of the word,
from root to fibre, tally calls.
So hold your silence, whispers spread,
as ley lines mark magnetic threads
and hints are broadcast, autumn trails,
that plans are springing from the earth.
From toil and trouble, seek a rest;
find xylem, phloem continue flow,
and echo what sounds underneath.
It is the saving, humankind
that we should hear what plants dictate.
The hope, both dead and buried folk
may be surrounded by that speech—
some coffin in a woodland glade.
That Greenman, patient, aeon’s age
speaks from the bark, cambium cork,
releasing heavens from their trap,
for those who listen, evergreen,
to hidden sight of mystery.
The flow and follow, metric feet,
of pulsing heart, its rhythmic beat—
we live by wisdom; accents seize.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
But out in the wild, mycelium is more than just the sign of an out-of-date sandwich: it’s a whole network of thin fungal strands called hyphae.
—from “Mycelium: Exploring the hidden dimension of fungi” by Eddie Johnston and Grace Brewer (https://www.kew.org/read-and-watch/fungi-hidden-dimension/)
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine, seasonal poetry today, all about the riches beneath our feet~
It’s dappled light, both black and white,
shades intermingled with the bright,
both dead and living claiming tight,
though most assume a clear divide.
But so much says the veil permits
a view, if masqued, the other side,
for that is how both weft and weave
afford damask its denier breath.
So thin that sacred earthy place—
a carpenter spokeshaves the tree
and sawdust falls, both wood and space
as mycorrhiza of the air.
Where incommunicado taught
beech roots pass notes for onward tour,
as flatfoot man tramps unaware
of signals, scent of hope, despair.
So, underground and undermined,
our plans to dominate the globe,
the busy transport of the word,
from root to fibre, tally calls.
So hold your silence, whispers spread,
as ley lines mark magnetic threads
and hints are broadcast, autumn trails,
that plans are springing from the earth.
From toil and trouble, seek a rest;
find xylem, phloem continue flow,
and echo what sounds underneath.
It is the saving, humankind
that we should hear what plants dictate.
The hope, both dead and buried folk
may be surrounded by that speech—
some coffin in a woodland glade.
That Greenman, patient, aeon’s age
speaks from the bark, cambium cork,
releasing heavens from their trap,
for those who listen, evergreen,
to hidden sight of mystery.
The flow and follow, metric feet,
of pulsing heart, its rhythmic beat—
we live by wisdom; accents seize.
___________________
Today’s LittleNip:
But out in the wild, mycelium is more than just the sign of an out-of-date sandwich: it’s a whole network of thin fungal strands called hyphae.
—from “Mycelium: Exploring the hidden dimension of fungi” by Eddie Johnston and Grace Brewer (https://www.kew.org/read-and-watch/fungi-hidden-dimension/)
___________________
—Medusa, with thanks to Stephen Kingsnorth for his fine, seasonal poetry today, all about the riches beneath our feet~
The sudden appearance of mushrooms
after a summer rain is one of the more
impressive spectacles of the plant world.
—John Tyler Bonner
—John Tyler Bonner
(Public Domain Art Courtey of Medusa)
A reminder that
Julia B. Levine and Murray Silverstein
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Julia B. Levine and Murray Silverstein
will be reading in Davis tonight, 7pm.
For info about this and other
future poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
send poetry and/or photos and artwork
to kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
