On a recent trip to New Jersey I had to smile when we passed the Joyce Kilmer rest stop. While Trees is much maligned, I've always liked it. In fact, the women in my high school choir sang this poem put to music.
TreesAs spring is busting out all over here, it's the trees that have captured my attention. They are, quite simply, breathtaking. So, let's write about trees. Leave me a note about your poem and I'll post the results here later this week.
by Joyce Kilmer
I think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day,
And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain;
Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.
I'm hoping to write something new. But in the meantime, here's an old personal favorite about our Benign Neglect Forest.
ReplyDeleteFAMILY TREE
ReplyDeleteThe apple tree and the rose belong to the same family.
This fact left me perplexed at first, and yet, it is fully
understandable. What family doesn't have its thorny
members as well as those who are polished until they
shine? Those who produce and those who live only
to be admired? Those who bend and those who snap
in the gentlest breeze? In a forest of family trees none
are perfectly aligned, but all send their roots down deep.
© Diane Mayr, all rights reserved
Rescuing a Sugar Maple
ReplyDeleteBy Steven Withrow
“You’ve got creeping rot and wood blight
choking off the lower leaders,”
he offers, chipping green fungus
from dried bark with a golf pencil,
“but good news is, the trunk’s still whole.”
I’d read about dieback, sunscald,
and other scourges of young trees,
of parasites that shred the leaves
or cleave the roots, but the problem,
he assures me, is with the soil.
“Your lawn’s a touch too alkaline
for healthy growth. These maples here
like a better acid balance.”
All right, I think, it’s chemical,
and something can be done at least.
He bends and spears a mushroom cap
with a graphite point, and he frowns
at me as though I’d drowned a prize
orchid: “When’s the last time you limed,
or tilled and reseeded all this?”
I confess to him we’ve been lax
in our stewardship of our lot,
preferring the milder science
(admittedly more of an art)
of let-nature-follow-its-course.
He shrugs and starts to mark his pad—
a figure with a dollar sign.
“Art,” he says, and waits a moment
before handing over the bill,
“is crabgrass, weeds, and dead shade trees.”
©2011 Steven Withrow, all rights reserved
Hi. I'm back with something new that's tree related: Limerick Ode To Print Newspapers.
ReplyDeleteI think that I shall never read,
ReplyDeleteAnd maybe I will never need
A poem as vital as a seed.
A seed needs sun and time and rain.
Those elements can all explain,
And make the metaphor so plain.
Thus tree or poem, they are the same
and bring their planter each some fame,
Though given each a different name.
For trees are made by seeds, you see.
And poems can grow quite naturally
When planted in a fool like me.
©2011 Jane Yolen All rights reserved
Tree Speech
ReplyDeleteI have friends that don't talk much.
Each word matters and I listen
hard for those words.
Trees are like that. Quiet companions,
tall and green, with their heads
in the clouds. But once in a while,
when a wind walks by, trees
speak. And their words shiver
through me like leaves.
--Kate Coombs, 2011, all rights reserved
Tree and Me
ReplyDeleteat first the dirt
all black and soft
is all that I can see
but momma says
that dirt's the bed
that blankets trees-to-be
even one with
branches that have
clouds for company
begins a tiny
yellow seed
before it's called a tree
I listen to
what momma says
and check it patiently
'cause springtime means
a flash of green
will show eventually
a curled and furled
new sapling's meant
to grow up just like me
copyright (c) 2011 Carolyn Arcabascio, all rights reserved.
'TREES' was the first poem I memorized, the only one I remember from grade school. It was also my mom's favorite poem, which I read for her at her funeral. Thanks, Tricia!
ReplyDeleteNAKED LIMBS
Watching
flakes of
snow flutter
through
naked limbs
of impatient trees
seeming
to hold out
their branches
imploring
sun rays to
clothe them in
spring's
tender rouge
chartreuse fashions.
© 2011 Carol Weis, all rights reserved
Here's mine:
ReplyDeletehttp://deowriter.wordpress.com/2011/03/26/poetry-stretch-trees/
Was a great prompt.