“Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.” Mary Oliver 1935-2019, American poet
Webster defines ‘wilderness’ as a tract or region uncultivated or uninhabited by human beings; an empty or pathless area or region; a part of a garden devoted to wild growth. I imagine the prairie, a jungle or rain forest on one end of the spectrum; the desert or the moon at the other. Both extremes are vast landscapes that can make us feel small and insignificant. Maybe that’s the place where poetry begins. In our smallness we’re in awe of a star-filled sky or the grandeur of a forest canopy. In our smallness we recognize ourselves as part of the creation around us, the changing seasons, the ripening and decaying of fruit … and not separate from or above it. In our smallness we’re rooted in the earthiness, the musk of basic organic matter. Perhaps, at times, our hearts may also be a vast wilderness.
Last weekend our small town held its first literary festival, ending the day with an open mic. Twelve poets read their poems about death and the challenge to live life fully daily (this from a 9 years-old poet!), searching for celery in Walmart and combing through the contents of a dying mother’s purse, observations on the weird-ass art of the Museum of Outsider Art and musings while waiting for the poet Mark Doty, and included a spoken word poet who praised the God who made him limitless.
I couldn’t find an answer to what Mary Oliver meant by her quote, but I did find an article by the Cleveland Arts Prize from 1979, when she was the recipient of that prize. The article says this of the poet. “An inveterate walker without destination, Oliver pursues inspiration at a stroller’s pace, stopping frequently in her wanderings to absorb images and impressions.”
I don’t know if this week’s featured poets are walkers or strollers, but I know they draw from the wilderness of the earth and their hearts for the images in their poems.
Denton Loving’s Tamp, “… explores and celebrates the physical and psychological landscapes of his native Appalachia–its mountains and valleys, its flora and fauna …” Tamp is a son’s epistle of love between father and son that even death doesn’t alter. It’s love in learning how to drive in a ’79 Ford Thunderbird that once plowed through four feet of snow, in raising the cattle who may or may not understand the old farmer is gone, in seeing dad in his dreams. Denton even has a poem, On the Other Side of Wilderness, wilderness the sorrow following his dad’s death, and yet there’s another wilderness in the poem; there’s the expanse of time when “…earth’s dirt–though dark and damp–will be more garden than grave.”
In Denton’s other book, Crimes Against Birds, (actually his first one), nature abounds on the pages. Writers are compared to snakes shedding their skins or oaks dropping their acorns–it’s all about leaving pieces of ourselves behind for others to find. In the title poem, a prosecutor finds just punishment for the death of a goldfinch–it’s not what you think. There are bees, cows, and a horse cemetery, and apples and fourteen-day pickles too pretty to eat. Each poem calls the reader to stop, savor the moment, then go about doing whatever it is that they are best at, their very flesh becoming a great poem. Or impels you to go outside and take note of the birds and their songs around you.
Incantations by Darnell Arnoult was just recently released. I’ve read the collection once, too quickly, and now need to sit in the wilderness and read it slowly. Like the title hints, Arnoult’s poems have a mystical quality to them, conjuring haints, and angels hovering and swirling as the poet navigates deep grief and finds the light again. “Saved memory is an entry wound …” yet it’s those memories that also heal, remind this poet that love is always present-maybe in different shapes–but always present, that art and words matter, and hold us until the “Undersides of blessings rattle …”
No new flowers budding this week, but that darn poison ivy is popping up here and there. There’s going to be a poem about those glossy three leaves and delicate red stems one of these days. However, there is the scent of newly-mown grass and while I might prefer a bit more wilderness in my yard, it’s a perfume that makes me smile. I hope your week is filled with the sights and scents of the earth’s wilderness that make you smile. Maybe try your hand at putting it into poetry. See you next week!
Tamp by Denton Loving
Crimes Against Birds by Denton Loving
Incantations by Darnell Arnoult
A Writer's Window 