{"id":3475611,"date":"2019-02-01T12:15:20","date_gmt":"2019-02-01T12:15:20","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/?p=3475611"},"modified":"2019-02-04T11:28:54","modified_gmt":"2019-02-04T11:28:54","slug":"300-million-poets-amateur-poetry-and-our-imminent-reconnection-to-the-land","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/stories\/2019-02-01\/300-million-poets-amateur-poetry-and-our-imminent-reconnection-to-the-land\/","title":{"rendered":"300 Million Poets: Amateur Poetry and Our Imminent Reconnection to the Land"},"content":{"rendered":"
\n

Collapse is a process, not an event.\u00a0 And it’s already underway, all around us. …While the monetary and financial elites strain to crank out one more day\/week\/month\/year of \u201cmarket stability\u201d, the ecosystems we depend on for life are vanishing. It’s as if the Rapture were happening, but it’s the insects, plants and animals ascending to heaven instead of we humans.\u201d — Chris Martenson<\/a><\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n

\u201cAt the ancient pond \/ a frog plunges into \/ the sound of water\u201d — Basho (in The Sound of Water, translated by Sam Hamill)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

\n

\u201cDandelions are yellow \/ and small \/ they make me \/ happy \/ when I see them. \/ I like to make bouquets out of them \/ and blow away their seeds\u201d — Ella (my niece)<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

RELATIONSHIPS & COMMUNICATION<\/p>\n

I am not a real poet.<\/p>\n

I am a husband, a father, an organic farmer, a teacher, and an enthusiastic planter of trees.<\/p>\n

And I also try to be honest with myself about the range of possible futures for our troubled civilization.\u00a0 Short version: It doesn\u2019t look good for us. I won\u2019t summarize here all the climatic, ecological, social, and economic tsunamis bearing down on us at the moment, but Chris Martenson\u2019s peakprosperity.com<\/a> and the Post-Carbon Institute\u2019s resilience.org<\/a> are probably the best places to start.<\/p>\n

That said, the question for each of us becomes this: What do we do about it?\u00a0 I.e., How do we live our lives, enmeshed as we are in this increasingly-toxic soup of early-stage civilization collapse, to make the most of today and perhaps bestow upon our children a livable tomorrow?<\/p>\n

And the answer for me comes down to strengthening relationships.<\/p>\n

Because as the fossil-fueled modern trappings of our lives fall away, we will be increasingly left with only each other and the land.\u00a0 That\u2019s it. Just us and the land. …And it\u2019s a good bet that both will be, at times, in rather foul humor as the strings unravel.<\/p>\n

So we will need to cultivate relationships with the people physically around us and the actual land where we dwell.\u00a0 We will be laughing, crying, loving, fighting, sweating, and relaxing with people and a land that we can physically touch.\u00a0 Real relationships.<\/p>\n

And to cultivate these relationships, we will need to do a better job communicating — both between each other and with the Land.\u00a0 And this communication must be a deep communication, a skilled dialogue borne of intimate knowledge and sensitive feedback loops.<\/p>\n

All forms of virtual reality and quasi-anonymous, shallow communication will become increasingly replaced with direct communication and concrete interactions; e.g., your family walking across the street and shooting the shit with the neighbors before you help them pick the beans; you noticing the quality of the soil, the mood of the birds, and the color of sunlight on the leaves as you carry out your daily work.<\/p>\n

But given the increasingly-anaesthetized state of our current relationships and communication, our communication skills with both the Land and our neighbors will need to be re-learned, nurtured, and cultivated.<\/p>\n

AMATEUR POETRY AS RELATIONSHIP THERAPY<\/p>\n

Enter poetry. \u00a0…Or at least a \u2018poetic\u2019 state of mind.<\/p>\n

I read a lot, but I\u2019m just an occasional reader of poetry.\u00a0 I like Wendell Berry, Mary Oliver, Gary Snyder, and the very old Chinese and Japanese Buddhist poetry (a lot of it published by Shambhala).\u00a0 And of course, having children, I love Shel Silverstein. But I\u2019m only passingly familiar with other great poets and their work; I usually only encounter them when they\u2019re quoted in other books I\u2019m reading.<\/p>\n

And most people in this country are, I think at most, only passingly familiar with poetry.<\/p>\n

But it\u2019s not poetry as \u2018studied literature\u2019 that I\u2019m advocating for here, but rather the \u201cpoetry of everyday life\u201d — amateur poetry written every day by common people; personal reflections written and shared with family and neighbors, borne from interacting directly (communicating!) with each other and the actual land where we live.<\/p>\n

I recall a brief article<\/a> in the NY Times a few years ago\u00a0about the writing of poetry by a wide demographic of \u2018common people\u2019 in Iceland.\u00a0 And although I don\u2019t know much more about Icelandic poetry than this article, this seems like the sort of thing I\u2019m getting at here.<\/p>\n

It is this kind of amateur poetry, I feel, that can help nurture the kind of communication we\u2019ll need — between our neighbors and with the land — to get through the trying times ahead, and start to refashion a resilient way of living at the appropriate scale.<\/p>\n

And I believe in the transformative power of poetry because I can feel the change that comes over me when I regularly write little poems during my day.\u00a0 It slows down my whirring mind, lets me focus on the place where I am, forces me to acknowledge the beings I am with, and brings me home to the shining present moment, before it inevitably slips away to become the past.<\/p>\n

Of course, there are other ways to practice this sort of \u2018being present\u2019 mindfulness and communion with the land, but I think there are none that can \u2018infect\u2019 and inspire others with this spirit quite like a bunch of little poems offered up as a humble gift to friends and neighbors.<\/p>\n

WE\u2019LL ALL NEED TO BE POETS<\/p>\n

So, without further adieu, here are some little haiku poems I wrote recently — just to give an example of what I\u2019m talking about.<\/p>\n

The haiku below were written over January 2019 at my farm in central New Jersey, and mostly have to do with farm and nature-related goings-on.\u00a0 In the early morning or after I get home from school in Winter, I like to go out to the pond, walk around the pasture, and\/or wander through the little patches of woods around my house.\u00a0 I scribble the poems on little scraps of paper and then transcribe them into a journal every week or so. In other seasons the focus of the poems changes, as I spend more time in the vegetable garden or planting trees, etc.<\/p>\n

The industrial workday, despite its pleasures, has an unfortunate quality of \u2018everywhere and nowhere\u2019 fantasy to it; an air of unreality that creeps in and isolates us from the land and our neighbors unless we consciously work to overcome it.\u00a0 And the only way to overcome the industrial disconnect is by way of mindful, sustained attention to the places where we live and the beings with which we interact. And I believe writing, sharing, and reading poems are one way to do that.<\/p>\n

Lastly, I make no claim to be writing \u2018good\u2019 poems here.\u00a0 In poetry, as with any endeavor, there are those at the far-right end of the bell curve who have the spark of genius.\u00a0 I am not one of those. …But nor are most of the would-be-poets we\u2019ll need to reconnect our wayward nation with the land and each other.\u00a0 We don\u2019t require genius poems; we require real poems by real people that, by simply seeing and celebrating where we are and who we are with, illuminate the magic in our everyday lives.<\/p>\n

…Because our lives are magic.\u00a0 They absolutely are.\u00a0 We just don\u2019t acknowledge it nearly enough.<\/p>\n

And nurturing this magic through everyday poetry has the very real ability to heal what we desperately must heal — our relationships with each other and with the land.<\/p>\n

Because one day soon, that\u2019s all we\u2019ll have.<\/p>\n

…And then we\u2019ll all need to be poets.<\/p>\n

1\/1\/19<\/p>\n

first day of the year,<\/p>\n

standing in the rain,<\/p>\n

thinking about ice<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

shrieks of death next door;<\/p>\n

for chicken, farmer, and fox:<\/p>\n

bad news, good news<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/2\/19<\/p>\n

forty six geese, now<\/p>\n

flying north on the second<\/p>\n

day of the new year<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

bare branches of the<\/p>\n

black willow nod in the breeze,<\/p>\n

and from sparrow hops<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/3\/19<\/p>\n

usual path blocked<\/p>\n

for weeks now by puddles, so<\/p>\n

I just hop the fence<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/4\/19<\/p>\n

glowing horizon,<\/p>\n

the city one hour away,<\/p>\n

like a dumpster fire<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

standing by the pond<\/p>\n

in the cold dark, i disturbed<\/p>\n

a small sleeping bird<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/5\/19<\/p>\n

walking on the soaked<\/p>\n

January pasture, like<\/p>\n

walking on jello<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

not cold enough to<\/p>\n

build a fire; but come on now,<\/p>\n

wouldn\u2019t it feel nice?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pasture like a bog;<\/p>\n

feeling as the whole wet world<\/p>\n

is full to the top<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/6\/19<\/p>\n

pigeons make their weird<\/p>\n

guttural sounds under the eaves,<\/p>\n

gossiping about sheep<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

now, just two of the<\/p>\n

starlings remain, chattering<\/p>\n

in the bare walnut<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/7\/19<\/p>\n

unlike summer rain<\/p>\n

for thirsty crops, this winter<\/p>\n

rain can be just rain<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/8\/19<\/p>\n

these old sheep bones here,<\/p>\n

half buried in the pasture,<\/p>\n

swallowed by the grass<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/9\/19<\/p>\n

dusk at the pond, I\u2019m<\/p>\n

thinking about tomorrow, when<\/p>\n

four ducks alight, now<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/10\/19<\/p>\n

rush-hour grinds away<\/p>\n

over on the highway, like<\/p>\n

a great broken wheel<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/11\/19<\/p>\n

carried the yearling<\/p>\n

into the barn; a blanket<\/p>\n

of straw and a sigh<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

\n

1\/12\/19<\/p>\n

ground turned to rock,<\/p>\n

I carry the frozen lamb<\/p>\n

out to the pasture<\/p>\n<\/blockquote>\n

1\/13\/19<\/p>\n

the old fence now<\/p>\n

holding up a wall of vines;<\/p>\n

or being held up<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

always meaning to check<\/p>\n

if these winter leaves persist,<\/p>\n

always forgetting<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

pile of cold, brown feathers;<\/p>\n

a magic trick where a duck<\/p>\n

turned into a fox<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/14\/19<\/p>\n

half moon, half light, half<\/p>\n

happy, half sad, half hopeful,<\/p>\n

half scared, full alive<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/15\/19<\/p>\n

dead lamb laid open<\/p>\n

and picked half clean, in snowy<\/p>\n

grass among fox tracks<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/16\/19<\/p>\n

woodpile grows just a<\/p>\n

bit smaller as the days grow<\/p>\n

just a bit longer<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/17\/19<\/p>\n

a dusting of snow<\/p>\n

last night, more due tomorrow;<\/p>\n

the air like wet slush<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/18\/19<\/p>\n

dusk; great blue heron<\/p>\n

flying over the frozen<\/p>\n

pond before the snow<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/19\/19<\/p>\n

the juncos, starlings,<\/p>\n

mockingbirds, and jays all think<\/p>\n

it\u2019s a fine morning<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/20\/19<\/p>\n

clearing grass around<\/p>\n

the base of last year\u2019s seedling<\/p>\n

pawpaws; there you are!<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

black vultures lined up<\/p>\n

like happy mourners to feast<\/p>\n

on the newly dead<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

full dark, full moon, and<\/p>\n

a ten-degree howling wind<\/p>\n

that reminds who\u2019s boss<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

what i want people<\/p>\n

to say when I\u2019m long dead is:<\/p>\n

\u201che planted these trees\u201d<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/21\/19<\/p>\n

you\u2019d think that full moon<\/p>\n

would warm it up just a bit,<\/p>\n

but it\u2019s a cold, cold light<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the sheep water, freezing<\/p>\n

almost immediately<\/p>\n

at the bucket rim<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/22\/19<\/p>\n

ice six-inches thick,<\/p>\n

I visit forbidden spots<\/p>\n

on the wild pond bank<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

someday a squirrel might<\/p>\n

run across this farm in the<\/p>\n

leaves of these food trees<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

after the bitter cold,<\/p>\n

still one small rivulet of<\/p>\n

water trickling in<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/23\/19<\/p>\n

chip chip chip chip chip<\/p>\n

say the white-throated sparrows<\/p>\n

as ice melts at dusk<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

day by day the white<\/p>\n

bones of the dead yearling lamb<\/p>\n

shed their soft vestments<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

this old red maple<\/p>\n

in the fence line I always<\/p>\n

shiver when I touch<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/24\/19<\/p>\n

the soil, from jelly<\/p>\n

to rock, and now back to mush<\/p>\n

…and then back to rock<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the pasture grasses,<\/p>\n

the sheep, the sides of the barn;<\/p>\n

how wet we all are!<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/25\/19<\/p>\n

chickens, still not thrilled<\/p>\n

about the cold, soldier on,<\/p>\n

dreaming of crickets<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the yearling carcass,<\/p>\n

now mostly just bones, was pulled<\/p>\n

halfway to the woods<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the crack that shoots through<\/p>\n

the ice frightens me like a<\/p>\n

primordial howl<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

what are the sparrows<\/p>\n

saying here at dusk with their<\/p>\n

chip chip chip chipping?<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/26\/19<\/p>\n

soft hissing leaves of<\/p>\n

the young oak tree in the breeze;<\/p>\n

suddenly quiet<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

water pipes to the<\/p>\n

barn broke twenty years ago;<\/p>\n

so I haul buckets<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

no one\u2019s happier<\/p>\n

for the pasture snow to melt<\/p>\n

than these restless hens<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/27\/19<\/p>\n

a shadow disturbs<\/p>\n

my sunbath, this cold morning;<\/p>\n

a crow rowing past<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the hen, perfectly<\/p>\n

still in this morning winter<\/p>\n

sun; and so am I<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

a barrage of shots<\/p>\n

ring out in the tense war-zone;<\/p>\n

the morning pond ice<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/28\/19<\/p>\n

the dogs, so attuned<\/p>\n

to the creak of my daughter\u2019s bed<\/p>\n

and her small footsteps<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the stock market swoons;<\/p>\n

an unseen bird in the brush<\/p>\n

offers a soft \u201cseeet\u201d at dusk<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/29\/19<\/p>\n

on my pre-dawn run,<\/p>\n

the air electric with cold;<\/p>\n

magic on the land<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

patience, patience, sir;<\/p>\n

the little oak doesn\u2019t care<\/p>\n

about your timelines<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/30\/19<\/p>\n

crescent moon almost<\/p>\n

outshined by venus in the<\/p>\n

crystalline dawn cold<\/p><\/blockquote>\n

1\/31\/19<\/p>\n

each squeak of my boot<\/p>\n

on this coldest snowy dawn<\/p>\n

promises the spring<\/p>\n

\"\"<\/p><\/blockquote>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

How do we live our lives, enmeshed as we are in this increasingly-toxic soup of early-stage civilization collapse, to make the most of today and perhaps bestow upon our children a livable tomorrow? And the answer for me comes down to strengthening relationships.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":128238,"featured_media":3475612,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[213522,213526,213524,79720],"tags":[116235,146546,107680,95871],"class_list":["post-3475611","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-inspiration","category-act-inspiration-featured","category-editors-picks","category-society","tag-buildingresilientcommunities","tag-connectionwithnature","tag-humanrelationships","tag-poweringdown"],"acf":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3475611","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/128238"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=3475611"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/3475611\/revisions"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3475612"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=3475611"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=3475611"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.resilience.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=3475611"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}