Assortment of Nature Poems

Thanks for the reminder. Happy National Poetry Month.

The Moment
Margaret Atwood

The moment when, after many years
of hard work and a long voyage
you stand in the centre of your room,
house, half-acre, square mile, island, country,
knowing at last how you got there,
and say, I own this,

is the same moment when the trees unloose
their soft arms from around you,
the birds take back their language,
the cliffs fissure and collapse,
the air moves back from you like a wave
and you can’t breathe.

No, they whisper. You own nothing.
You were a visitor, time after time
climbing the hill, planting the flag, proclaiming.
We never belonged to you.
You never found us.
It was always the other way round.

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The Lost Words and The Lost Spells contain some gorgeous poems from Robert Macfarlane, all prompted by a single word from British wildlife, which then is the title of these poems. The artwork is beautiful too, made by Jackie Morris, and reading the poems accompanied by the watercolours feels like walking through nature. I keep coming back to it when I’m bored at home.

The books themselves have a very nice meaning behind them aswell, where it aims to inspire children to go back and discover nature again, instead of forgetting it, losing themselves to the growing urban landscape.

The poems themselves are very bouncy, almost song-like, (which was the intention, seen as they title themselves as spellbooks). They are all also acrostic, where each stanza starts with the letters that spell out the word in the title.

I particularly love Starling as, to me, it sounds almost like the call of the bird itself when you say it out loud. The constant, back and forth, repetition, and then a sudden cutoff, and going on to the next stanza:

Starling
by Robert Macfarlane

Should green-as-moss be mixed with
blue-of-steel be mixed with gleam-of-gold
you’d still fall short by far of the-

Tar-bright oil-slick sheen and
gloss of starling wing.

And if you sampled sneaker-squeaks
and car alarms and phone ringtones
you’d still come nowhere near the-

Rooftop riprap street-smart
hip-hop of starling song

Let shade clasp coal clasp pitch
clasp storm clasp witch,
they’d still be pale beside the-

In-the-dead-of-night-black, cave-black,
head-cocked, fight-back gleam of starling eye.

Northern lights teaching shoaling fish teaching
swarming flies teaching clouding ink
would never learn the-

Ghostly swirling surging whirling melting
murmuration of starling flock.


Of course, reading the poem in this format comes nowhere near reading it from the big A3 book itself, aswell as the artwork…

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The poem Elk is from Alphabeasts by Dick King-Smith

https://www.dickkingsmith.com/amusinganimalpoems/elk/

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Thank you. That ends a search lasting years (though admittedly not a very intensive search).

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Oh, those books are wonderful! The Lost Spells are delightful to read out loud.

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A favorite of mine: Vulture, by Robinson Jeffers

I had walked since dawn and lay down to rest on a bare hillside
Above the ocean. I saw through half-shut eyelids a vulture wheeling high up in heaven,
And presently it passed again, but lower and nearer, its orbit narrowing, I understood then
That I was under inspection. I lay death-still and heard the flight-feathers
Whistle above me and make their circle and come nearer.
I could see the naked red head between the great wings
Bear downward staring. I said, “My dear bird, we are wasting time here.
These old bones will still work; they are not for you.”
But how beautiful he looked, gliding down
On those great sails; how beautiful he looked, veering
away in the sea-light over the precipice. I tell you solemnly
That I was sorry to have disappointed him. To be eaten
by that beak and become part of him, to share those wings and those eyes–
What a sublime end of one’s body, what an enskyment;
What a life after death.

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Don’t want the topic to close

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Uh oh, dangerous topic for me. Here’s one about “Nature, red in tooth and claw”:

Richard Wilbur, “A Barred Owl”

The warping night air having brought the boom
Of an owl’s voice into her darkened room,
We tell the wakened child that all she heard
Was an odd question from a forest bird,
Asking of us, if rightly listened to,
“Who cooks for you?” and then “Who cooks for you?”

Words, which can make our terrors bravely clear,
Can also thus domesticate a fear,
And send a small child back to sleep at night
Not listening for the sound of stealthy flight
Or dreaming of some small thing in a claw
Borne up to some dark branch and eaten raw.

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Love it! That’s my 2nd favorite Ogden Nash poem about ducks…

Ogden Nash, “The Hunter”

The hunter crouches in his blind
'Neath camouflage of every kind
And conjures up a quacking noise
To lend allure to his decoys
This grown-up man, with pluck and luck
is hoping to outwit a duck

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Not truly a poem, just something that came to mind while watching juncos: It’d be funny if there was a melanistic hawk, though it would have quite the ego… Being a blackhawk, and all.

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Wendell Berry’s “The Peace of Wild Things”:

When despair for the world grows in me
and I wake in the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting with their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

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Wilbur is a favorite poet of mine. Great poem–haven’t read this one before.

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Thank you for that one.

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Just found this poem I wrote years ago in one of my old field journals:

November by G. M. Connor

I find November
All windy and grey
Frost in the morning
Leaves blown away

I find that Autumn’s
A season of bliss
When the day’s full of sunlight
And the morning of mist.

Now there’s no green
But evergreen trees
The bushes with berries
And grass between leaves

The oak trees are red,
Orange, yellow or rust
And the sky is white cotton,
Blue water or dust.

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It’s been ages since I wrote any poetry so this is from 2006.

Two Lovebirds

Two lovebirds sing away,
Branch to Branch,
from a tree on a steep.

Each heart is array,
waiting
for their love to meet.

One tweet tweets
the winter day away.
The other, to impress,
his wings it flaps.

One is bright,
and
with a colorful display.

The other,
large in size,
and dimmer colors it has.

The one offers a straw
for a nest to bear,
The other,
the warmth of her bosom
for little ones to hatch.

When spring arrives
and flowers bloom
the tweeting
carries off into the wind,
A song to join two lovebirds
on a branch.

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One of my favorites:

Dandelion
by Nellie M. Garabrant

There’s a dandy little fellow,
Who dresses all in yellow,
In yellow with an overcoat of green;
With his hair all crisp and curly,
In the springtime bright and early
A-tripping o’er the meadow he is seen.
Through all the bright June weather,
Like a jolly little tramp,
He wanders o’er the hillside, down the road;
Around his yellow feather,
Thy gypsy fireflies camp;
His companions are the wood lark and the toad.

But at last this little fellow
Doffs his dainty coat of yellow,
And very feebly totters o’er the green;
For he very old is growing
And with hair all white and flowing,
A-nodding in the sunlight he is seen.
Oh, poor dandy, once so spandy,
Golden dancer on the lea!
Older growing, white hair flowing,
Poor little baldhead dandy now is he!

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Seo e, seo mise.
From the east the breath Shares the winter tide,
To lead Beasts of all size and manner down
And into the hollows

With it the breath Shares the flocks of the cold,
Flitting from one bough to the next with curiosity great,
Yet so small, seemingly a great hunger it holds
Followed heavily by the sound of footfall on frozen ground.
As the colour of the trees and air dull
With a shine it brings the crisp nightfall.

Seo e, seo mise

-C. Graham, 15 December 2024

Someone very close to me got me out of my writing slump, and this was the result.

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Robert Frost, “Reluctance”

Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.

The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.

And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’

Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?

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