DEENA METZGER'S BLOG
Tag Archives: Poem
THE ORCHARD IS FERAL
I’ve let the orchard go feral.
We offer it nothing but water
And take nothing,
But leave it to the bees
Who sing among the blossoms,
And to the squirrels who gather
The oranges and grapefruits
That fall and scatter.
The lemons and oranges
Have mated on their own
And maybe they will remain coupled
Or maybe they will sort themselves out
To their own original natures.
This time the old elm is dying.
A very few branches have leaves.
There will be none next year
Except for the sapling that is streaking
Toward the sky. I thought I might die
With the elm, and wonder if its progeny
Means a new birth for me. It is, after all,
From the old root.
Everything must have its way.
The oak that planted itself
Created its own field of being,
So the others accommodate
To its shady dominance.
The creatures eat
But they do not slaughter.
The old, old ways insist
That the animals can teach us.
The difference between their natural order
And our domination.
The plumbago expands between
The eucalyptus that plant themselves,
Increasingly at the border, providing
Shelter for the squirrels and a thrasher,
Occasional quail and a flock of brown birds
Who prefer to remain anonymous.
We are advised not to plant these trees
As they will burn hot and fast
When the great fires comes. But
It is their will to abide here,
And who am I to deny them their home?
They are no more immigrant than I
And also, at this time, they are
Calling the cools winds to them,
The heat of the neighboring meadow
Entirely dispelled by their fluttering arms.
And, you must understand that
We are in a conversation about
What it will take for them
To call down the rain -
But only for the frogs
And the non-human creatures -
From this desert blue sky.
– Deena Metzger April 20, 2013
PLEASE SEE AND USE MY NEW WEBSITE — http://deenametzger.net
Between one world and another,
Lies the rift and the increasing separation,
As the plates of one mind slip away
From the plates of another mind.
I do not question which way I am to go,
But call to my heart to act on the decision made
To follow the soul
Or I will be split apart too,
As so many are,
The violent demands of our everyday life
And the strange beauty of Spirit afar.
I must choose Beauty
No matter the cost in this life.
I must choose and leap
Across the widening valley;
We cannot rest between.
Ah Beauty! Receive me in your open arms.
FIRE OVER WOOD
If I don’t burn, where will the light come from?
for Danelia, for Kjersten, for Cheryl
It takes a long time for the fire to catch.
Then the entire stove is enflamed.
Every piece of wood,
alongside the first log, will burn.
Afterwards, there will be coals
to ignite another tender log, and so it goes.
The steadiness of the eternal flame
to stay alight, if sheltered, also in the rain.
I put the women up on the hill
and then the thunder came,
lightning, wind and, finally, heavy rain.
I kept the fire going, prayer, tobacco,
scrupulous attention. If the flame extinguished,
I couldn’t guarantee their safety, couldn’t swear
their own fires wouldn’t die down to low
in the ordeal of meeting the great Light
for which they prepared for months.
One buried the wounded heart of a warrior.
One, unexpectedly, prepared to don white moccasins
from an ancestor she’d never known.
Another learned the weather, learned wind and water
in the old ways. Blood rises hot in us from the earth.
Years earlier, my companion gathered lightning struck bark
and offered it as a gift that turned out to be a curse.
So we had to make amends. I asked, humbly,
if I could help the herb woman build the fire.
After awhile, she gave the task over to me.
I patiently gathered kindling from the dry earth
and fed the fire, twig by twig
until it caught enough for the branches
and then the logs. She offered tobacco then, and sang.
Afterwards, she agreed I might call rain to the land
as I had been given such instructions in a dream.
The dry thunder and dry lightning were far away.
When I returned to the hogan, my old gray silk blouse
was wet and plastered against me like another skin.
We said nothing. When we were leaving,
she kissed me between the eyebrows,
as the Tibetans, her language cousins, do
as a blessing or a transmission.
That’s what we did together:
we made a fire, and I called rain, and we left.
Plant and nurture more trees than you cut down
so when you leave, there will be forests again.
Burn hot and steady and long
so the other logs will catch in your presence
and hold the fire for the next generations.
I kept the fire down below,
while they each praised the land above
in circles of trees. Eucalyptus bark
fed the flames. The logs were from the pine
that had fallen and the dead branches were
of an old elm that had been pierced in loops and swirls
by a family of woodpeckers who’d come to the land
when I had, tattooing the tree for over thirty years.
Last night, the rain was torrential.
The roof opened, as I knew it would,
around the trunk of the jacaranda as
we had built the house around it.
We would not cut it down,
would not even trim the tender green twig
extending its green leaves over my altar table.
We have to live with whatever we wish to save.
The women on the hill were with the rain
as I was with the fire that stormy night.
Be with what you love.
Be immoderate. Avoid caution. Burn steady
so you pass on the heart’s flame.
Yet be vigilant, do not burn the forest down.
You know it is all going down now, don’t you?
Where shall we begin the rosary of grief?
With the wolves they want to hunt from the sky?
When they disappear, so will the trees.
All beauty will go down in the bloody
grave of the natural world.
The deer, denied her rightful death,
is sighted in the cross hairs of the rifle
and sinks to her knees
before the hunter trained in Vietnam
or Iraq. A drone above his head
seeks out his body heat
and puts an end to it.
He knew, didn’t he,
what was coming?
On the ground, a robot moves,
unafraid, ahead of troops,
shooting straight at any movement.
In the short time before the enemies
have their own iron men,
we assume it will not frag the officers,
or indulge friendly fire,
but you never know.
Every nightmare we have imagined
is being birthed now, all at once.
What had been written as a warning
has become strategies, tactics and plans.
I did not wish to live to see this day.
The earth is burning.
Everything is set on fire
Therefore, beat the man
almost to unconsciousness
then plunge his head in water,
until he prays to drown.
How many forms of torture
can you name
that are occurring now?
Your young child,
the innocent one,
a gun forced into her fists,
will do the same,
even to you.
Here are two Ways:
The Baal Shem Tov,
The Master of the Good Name,
speaks of the King who
refused the portion of grain
different from that
which would drive
all the people mad.
Though declining, he said,
“We will mark our foreheads,
and seeing each other,
we will know we are insane.”
Know you are mad
and live accordingly.
Also seek the hidden
Passageways of beauty
that insist you leave
everything contaminated behind.
Do not accommodate.
Step away and further away
There are the Beauty Ways.
and give them your entire life