poem: In the Halls of Nienna

This is for all of us who understand

      the magic of birch and oak, those great Eastern

           denizens of stately convocation;

that salvation of sanity is right in our hills, valleys,

   plains and hollows;

 

we, the crazy ones, the lucky ones, the lovers

    of all things flitting and flying and creeping;

monarch's wings and luna moths, soliloquies

     of loons at high summer, coyotes at high winter-

 

the formal dress of moss and lichens, dew on granite,

    the majesty of dappled hemlock and clear rills-

       sunlight in small spaces, God in the groundwater

Shakti in the wingspan of mayflies and the orgy

      of spring rushes.

 

and we walk out to take in our delight, and know-

    every day becomes a eulogy for all of our loved ones;

       we, with our finger on the pulse of the sap

running in red spruce and white birch and black oak-

 

we see the signs in the borers and the adelgid;

    we feel the unnatural stillness of too hot, too quiet;

    our hands touch rotting wood and our feet crunch  

the holey limbs, the opposite of communion in

   the absolute decay of connection.

 

Each year, invasives have their fun, while we feel

  in our own bodies, our own sanctity- the losses of loves-

brown bats, dogwood, ash, elm;

      smooth beech ripped with lines of impending death

 

no box turtle young for 50 years; Kirtland's warblers

   starving in ill-timed nests; even the birds cannot

understand what is going on.

 

The canary in these mines has died; and we realize that

    most now do not even know what questions

they should be asking; we revere "Nature" so we

   never have to try to understand it; love a poison

 

of indifference, ignorance, and apathy. For those of us

    who do see, it is terrifying- each walk in emerald

walls and peridot floors a gem-studded shadow

    of potential; the casting out of Eden a second time,

 

except this time, surrendering her to onslaught

      insatience and her seven deadly sisters;

and we can only seek solace in Nienna, and her stately

   Halls, as we bear witness to the not-so-slow

demise of all we hold dear. And beautiful and good

    are paying the price of our continued indifference.  

 

Only we can command the skylark not to sing.

 

 

  

Author's Note

starting to tackle the ravages of climate change in my work; the subtle losses that are racking up even while the debate lingers... for those of us who have spent a lifetime in the woods and fields, the changes could not be more blaringly obvious- stressed treees fall by the millions to insects and disease, late snows and frosts kill blossoms, fires become more intense as more dead limbs pile up, birds starve when they can no longer time their nests with optimal food cycles, and some psecies just quietly disappear as microbial changes beneath the forest floor change soil pH and nutrient levels. This is but a shadow of what is to come.

In Tolkien's Silmarillion, Nienna was one of the major Gods; she was the goddess who wept for the loss of beauty in the world, and taught compassion and temperance. We need her.

Then final line is a refernce to Khalil Gibran's line from The Prophet, "but who can command the skylark not to sing?"

Reviews

[Seashell]

This is both moving and scarey at the same time on the realisation of the damage done by our own fellow humans. I for one adore trees and have some very old ones in my garden. I cannot help but smile each morning as I gaze up into their branches wondering what activity has taken place during the night. Sometimes I feel an urge, just like Nienna, to weep, as I watch the leaves in Autumn tumble to the ground. I cannot comprehend why we as humans don't realise the damage being done.

Thank you for sharing your thoughts in poetry. I agree entirely.
:-)

[p.kuhl]

Thank you for sharing this. I love the silmarils and their tale.

[Marie Anzalone]

as do I, and you are welcome.

[Emily B]

oh, wow . . . so much more important than my petty complaints this morning, thank you for reminding me what matters

[Marie Anzalone]

All of it matters... I recently thought that perhaps a lot of what is wrong, especially with those of us sensitive types, is a culturally induced dopamine addiction. The best cure I know is a walk outdoors.

[Emily B]

i say it often

[Ken Simm.]

A synchronicity of nature and trees. Wishing for the change not to. Beautifully written and full of plural energies.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, Ken... the natural world is so close to me, I can feel it breathe when I am there. It is always difficult to write about, because it is my first and truest love... closer than any lover ever can or will be, I think. I intend to continue delving into this issue as much as I can.

[Georgia Gypsy]

Beautiful, sad, a wonderful observation...took me to the forest---i could smell the green damp mossy path, the earthy tree bark, hear the birds.....but it also hurt in the sadness and realization of what we are losing to these unseen silent predators.
Thank you for such an amazing write!
GG

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, Kelli... not an easy topic to take on, and certainly one not many want to think about. I have spent thousands of hours in the woods- and the changes in the past 15 years are strartling and very ominous. We truly are losing so much.. and most people do not even know what trees live in their own backyards.

[Through the Gateway]

Very sad and powerful, Marie. Your words are eloquent and speak of the longing and loss of that which you, and the rest of us, hold most dear. We strive to understand, like the warblers, just what is going on. There is no linear progression. It is the entropy of mankind's touch upon the world.

Brilliant and heartfelt as always.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, Lonestar. I read a blog a while back, written about North Country bogs, where the narrator said that anyone who is an ecologist today needs a resolution of steel, because we are going to be writing a lifelong eulogy for everythig gwe love. It really struck a chord in me, and I have been wanting to write about it since I read it. Every word is truth multiplied by 1000.