Synaptic

I was excited to read the different styles of poetry in this final pursuit for LAS 410, including rhyme in “Starfall”– and different tones from “Reverie from the Depths” and “A Requiem for a Growing Tree” to the illuminating joy in “To Touch the Sun.”

-Dr. Mary Stark

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I often hear this idea that poets can see the intricacies of every little thing in life. And although there is definitely some truth in this sentiment—after all, William Wordsworth was able to compose 162 lines about a single place in “Lines Written a Few Miles Above Tintern Abbey”—I would also argue that the word intricacies often gets conflated with beauties. It is true that I can see the intricacies of mundane objects, but it is fallacious to say that these intricacies are always beautiful or pretty. And I often find myself both departing from and envying Wordsworth and the Romantic tradition of exalting nature as sublime because to me, it simply is not. My relationship with nature is one of solitude, sorrow, and anguish without the promise of spiritual renewal.

 

To Touch the Sun

He gives the sky a thumbs up,
Eclipsing the sun.
It’s bright. I smile.
I put my hand to the sky
And open his palm.
He smiles. I laugh.
And together, two boys,
concealed by the shady silhouette
Of their hands, hold
The brightest thing imaginable.

 

A Requiem for a Growing Tree

Once upon a time, there was a growing tree.
Its bark had just begun to develop fortitude,
And its branches effloresced autumnal hair,
While its measly roots found their place in the soil.
But one day, the tree’s roots burrowed so deep
That amongst the nutrients and the worms,
They found something else in the soily synapse.
And so the growing tree began aging
faster and older than all the other trees.
But this growth spurt…
This one was different.
This growth,
Like emerald ash borers,
Creates tiny little holes
That lead to a torrent of decay.
This growth,
Turns the rustling of foliage into
The moaning stridor of weak, creaky oak
Batting at the wind itself.
This growth,
Makes all the other trees
Start producing that sweet,
Sweet nectar of Narcan.
This growth…
This growth made me,
An unarmed fighter,
In your internal crusade.
I’m sorry…
No hand I could’ve laid,
Could’ve stopped you withering away.