I was introduced to red Ravine by my friend Laura at Soul Clap Its Hands about a year ago when I was sinking deep in the what-is-it-I-hope-to-do-with-writing, I-can’t-write, I-don’t-have-anything-to-write-about swamp. She thought that the writing practices would be helpful and grounding, and she was right. Ever since, the photos from QuoinMonkey and her partner, Liz, words and thoughts from QuoinMonkey and the guest writers, and the responses from the readers have provided inspiration and insights, calmed me down and often help me to focus some my own writing.
The poem below, Strangely Hot, springs from red Ravine. It’s a mash-up, appropriation, reworking, and reference back to the Spring Walk post and comments. It also references, and was inspired by, a stunning photo of the Minneapolis skyline taken by Liz Schultz. I started by trying to write “about” the photo, an approach that pretty much never works for me. Over a few days, the photo and the thoughts about spring, unseasonable (unreasonable?) warmth and what it all might mean kept knocking up against each other. Finally, the poem below, with thanks to QuoinMonkey and Liz.
Strangely Hot
No thawing time
No scent of northern spring no
first scent of green no chill-tinged wet earth no
fall leaves’ decay
frozen
thawing to sweet mulch
Daffodil leaves, lilac buds, crocuses
overwhelmed in humid air
all windows open
fans blow uncertain winter straight to summer
Spring -
its workings, sap runs in maple trees, drowsy soil warming
river-deep Spring waters, quiet unfolding
of sky to birds, two finches heralding the flocks
- this year an untold tale, south winds muttering summer
Heat demands unsteady vigor from roots
not their usual tentative tendriled forays
through moist awakening soil
Seeds in hand
farmers stand in fields where seasons turned
time again & once & nevermore
Our bodies bask and bloom
our heads unmoored by strange heat
we don’t know enough to understand
our concerns, a vague sense of damage
harvested from unblanketed winter soil
Climate’s playthings
we believe in global warming
what does that mean beyond Alaska
- this year snow never stopped falling -
winter tornadoes contagions of wind and death
drought-dried riverbeds hardened against rain
too little to measure never enough falls
We puzzle ourselves and zoom into the night
return home with photographs
a city washed green in broken light composes
poetry, wonder and delight
Strong March winds and a camera’s brain
assay balance in a world our minds
can’t fully see – summer
blistered, alien and strangely hot
March 22nd, 2012 at 6:34 pm
I love your springy poem. I will have to look at Red Ravine – I checked it out when you had work posted there, but forgot to continue to peruse.
It is spring, but for me it feels like fall, moving into a phase where I need blankets and a space heater. What I need to do is to shift my mindspace into the same one occupied by the water now in the acequia. They just let the water run a few days ago! So fast! So clear.
March 23rd, 2012 at 10:51 am
Yeah, spring doesn’t easily lend itself to the idea of nesting and hunkering down – it almost pulls us out of the house, demands our presence outdoors. That’s another disconcerting thing about this weather. Summer doesn’t have the same energy as spring; we want to be outdoors and doing things, for sure, but there’s more of a sense of necessary down time in summer to recover from the heat.
Water down here is a presence, an entity, a political and economic tool as well as a resource. Just got back from a walk around the neighborhood with Rufus. Many people watering their lawns, water running into the street. I like to wriggle my toes in green grass as much as the next person, but I like having water to drink and bathe in even more.
April 1st, 2012 at 1:15 pm
Beautiful poem. Blistered, alien and strangely hot. Like those last lines. Since the 80 degree temps of March, it’s cooled down a bit the last few weeks. But still the hottest March on record in Minnesota.
Thank you for linking back to red Ravine. It does my heart good to know that others find inspiration there. That is it’s mission and vision and mostly the reason I keep it going. It means a lot that to me to know that others are inspired there. Much gratitude.
April 3rd, 2012 at 7:23 am
Thank you, QuoinMonkey, for stopping by and for your comments. And you’re welcome, definitely.
I’m looking out at a steady snow here in Albuquerque after a night of slow rain. I think the strawberry plants will make it, but I’m not sure about the lettuces. They looked so perky (not a word I usually apply to things, but it was true) and hopeful yesterday.
April 7th, 2012 at 10:26 am
These early warm temps are hard on plants that have started to bloom. I expect at least one more dusting of snow here in Minnesota. And probably a light frost as well before Spring really arrives. It almost looks like May on the ground. But the air temps drop to the thirties at night. Wild weather! Hi to New Mexico.