poem: The First of Many Swallowtails

It was just that simple, we all thought one day amidst graffitied f**k-you's and political slurs razor wired compounds, diesel and concrete, blaring and glaring and wearing thinness of it all. But then we followed a sparrow home to its resting place, a wisp of cotton insulated crack in the wall of some guarded installation or other and one of us, I cannot recall whom, decided that day, we would dig a garden bed, right there in the middle of the glorious mess we had made of things. And it required a pick-axe, a jackhammer at first until we got the hang of working this soil and someone thought to use a till to turn the earth gently, letting it breathe, and we tested it, found it lacking in basic nutrients; so we gave it organics- our piss, some horse s**t, leftover scraps we had to spare from talks over dinner tables.

 

Then one showed us how to fertilize it with his own blood, and so we honored him by finally screwing down our courage and putting that first fragile seed in soil, and we utterly rejoiced out loud, in effervescence, when those little leaves bravely pushed forth through the collected junk and brightened the smog-filled corner even a tiny bit.

 

And it was HARD work to keep it going, remembering it when we had our fights with our mates and dinner to put on the table and unreasonably driven deadlines from sameful faces behind lines in cubes inside walls like boxes, homes without trees or sunlight and we needed each other to recall what day, what season for without sun we forget. And when children came, we taught them how to grow tomatoes and beans on barbed wire and at first we only planted useful things, like that but then one girl asked, please, for some flowers- and and first we said there is not enough space, but then someone pointed out herbs produce flowers, and so we branched out into beauty and spiciness- and with it came the first of many swallowtails, little bodies suspended like tiny kites on invisible strings; and now today, we have turned over this patch of dirt, and we have moved on, saying, today is the day of a larger dream, and we will go forward, releasing butterflies on other battlefields.

 

Author's Note

there are many different ways to be a guerilla... I actually found this video after writing the poem, and it worked so well I included it here. I hope you take the 10 minutes to listen to what this guy has to say, because this is what real power is about.

Reviews

[emmajoy]

BRILLAINT .. and BEAUTIFUL .. and please, don't change a word, not a word! Everyone should read this, there's adventure and optimism, work, want, life and lingering beauty in it. At the end, i was near to tears, laughing, near cheering.
BRILLIANT!

(plus the way it's blocked, the phrasing, the lack of excess makes for more than fine writing.

[Marie Anzalone]

thanks, Emma, I think you were one fo the few to pick up that this was not really about "just" planting a garden. It is not the wording I want to change, but the justification. This piece wants to be written as a wall, and I was even trying to get it written on perspective, which I could do in Word (though I could not get justification to work in any format), but could not translate here. Might try later today when I get some down time here in the States.

[cartera]

The writing is excellent. A fine example to all would-be writers of the language.
...............
The whole piece reminded me of the founding of Findhorn in Scotland. Almost exactly the same. Another battlefield.
ATB
Alex.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, cartera. It is ironic to me that people waste so much of their lives looking for meaning. "If only there were something that I could do." Every neighborhood has its battlefields.

[Chris]

I believe every part of the Earth has been a "Gulag" at one point or another ..."blood" indeed, change doesn't come cheap.

[Marie Anzalone]

You are absolutely correct in that, Chris. It never came cheap, and I fear that the price is getting higher all of the time. What scares me most is the large number of young people, our future leaders, who believe that we either cannot afford it all, or who do not understand why evolution is necessary. Information overload leads to moral paralysis?

[Renée]

Beautiful tale you weave of perseverance ..my review is lacking but your poem isn't !

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Renee, for your kind words. Much appreciated.

[bob, small b. aka invs]

i don' t know why, but the last line hit me like a thunderbolt. it actually brought tears to my eyes and a catch in my throat. i can't think of anything more noble than bringing butterflies to battlefields. beauty to rubble. gardens to concrete and parched earth.
hard work to be sure, but so worth while. this is one of those rare stories that is both true and a parable. it works so well on both levels. i agree with emma. this is simply brilliant.

[Marie Anzalone]

Thanks, bob. I actually meant this more as parable, in honor of the amazing people I work with. But literally there is much to take away as well. Here's to hoping one day everyone will hunger for planting gardens. Peace be with you.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This is beautiful work. I loved the intelligent and sentimental semantics projected here...it's damned difficult to write a "feeling" and bring that feeling off the page and back to life in the heart and mind of a reader but I think you do that with easy grace here and eloquence. Bravo and encore!

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Fabian. Nice to see you here again. I am very happy that the enotions in this spoke to you... it was meant to be a larger than life piece.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

It was. It was fabulous...and added to my favorites... ;o)

[gombeggar]

seeing beyond the concrete jungle? impressive

[Marie Anzalone]

seeign beyond? in more ways than one, yes.

[Georgia Gypsy]

This took my breath away in more ways than one....there was so much to see, to feel, the end, oh my I didn't see that coming....once again you amaze me!!!

[Marie Anzalone]

thanks, Georgia. To me, there is always so much more to do.

[Tree]

I don't think you should tinker too much, really. This was just natural, deep and poignant storytelling. It's my favorite type of poetry, a prose style, like when you've had a few glasses of wine or beer and lean over the table and every one gets quiet ... because they know you have something important to share. They don't get more meaningful than this, Raquelita. Excellent piece.

Diego

[Marie Anzalone]

Thank you, Diego. Although I do not drink [a disappointment to many I am sure], I have seen this same effect around the glowing embers of a campfire late into the night, under the Milky Way, when the quietest member of the group finally starts speaking about all he has heard through the night. It is not the wording I want to work with, but the formatting. This piece wants to be justified on the page, I think. Wall-like, maybe even with perspective.

[Tree]

Yes, the campfire. It is where the best stories can be heard. As for your piece above, I gave it another read. And the poem for me still hit all the right notes. Emotive... There is something about this form of prose poetry that for me is the most natural, way to convey a sentiment. The poets James Wright and Robert Bly, come to mind. There was also another piece you wrote, one of the first I read of yours. The homage to your old friend; the big gentle bear of a man. Forgive me but I forget the title. That piece is another great example of the prose poem. I shall have to revisit it...

[Marie Anzalone]

We should make it a point to have a campfire some day, my dear friend.

[Mike Emil]

i like this
if there was just more mention of gin then i'd like it better!

[Mike Emil]

the 1st of many sammiches! yeah! yeah!