Julie Buffaloe-Yoder.
Erosion
.
I breathe clay, salt laced edges
of a bank, jagged black–
a swamp’s reflected darkness.
Upside down the cypress grow
rooted to water, to sky.
Where is the beginning, the end?
Water has neither.
.
My soul is three fourths salt,
rusty anchors, rough red hands,
clay that smells of clouds
clouds that smell of water
foaming at the mouth of bays.
.
Salt marsh fertile with the rot
of logs, the dark green thick
of twisted trees, where blue
the herons breathe and breed
all fall, all washed clean.
.
Through the sneak of trees,
quiet bayous curve, then turn
to busy boated sounds.
Closer, the earth swallows.
.
I breathe the cypress.
Knotted shapes of faces
I have known
rooted in the mud for life.
If the roots are cut,
will the cypress die?
Or will they grow new knees,
water twisted, wet?
.
The water fills with dirt,
thick black asphalt, rows
of same faced houses.
Blue gilled thunder clouds
are growing; marshland
dying with the birth
of bulldozed earth.
.
We will be eaten, too.
Women who sweat nets,
men with bent backs,
shacks, little lapping boats,
all fall, all cut clean.
.
The bank will feed
the water clay;
drop by drop the clay
will make the circle break.
Quickly the water drinks.
Is that the reason
for the breath,
to die?
.
I sit with clouds;
multiply, divide.
Drop by drop the sky
will feed the water clouds,
broken
on the changing surface.
.
Just when I thought
the puzzle solved,
I taste the clay again,
fall softly in the salt
.
and faces in the clouds
will float downstream.
.
Water, whether still, flowing or raging is the ultimate conduit of memory…
Thanks for your lovely poem…
Poetman
Thank you, Poetman. You’re right about water. There’s just something about it that changes my whole thought process. It’s good to see you around. I hope your days are going well.
very melancholy in mood and beautifully written, a lovely lilt and attention to the sounds of words
Thanks, Crafty Green Poet. I appreciate the kind comments. Have a great day:)
You did a spectacular job portraying the coastal plains and the danger it faces. I’m not sure I could have done a better job with my camera.
But then again, my Nikon doesn’t long for the cypress trees and the heron. Nor does it weep when it sees a bulldozer breaking down the maritime forest on Harkers Island.
This is gold.
Thank you, Kimberli. I was wondering what to put up this week, and your post made me think of it. So I dug through the stack, and you solved my problem for me.
All those beautiful cypress! I wish I could take pictures like you do.
Thanks again. I appreciate your comments. Take care:)
Where this put me was on the coast of Washington. This poem is delicious, and I want to read it over and over to savor each little breath, I’m printing it so I can do that by the fire. Thank you so much. Welcome home, it’s so good to see you back in your lil’ corral.
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Hi, Catherine. Yep, every now and then, they round me up and put me back inside the pen…ha! Thank you. It’s good to see you, too. -Julie
I love the cyclical nature of this poem, and all the references to nature. When I read it, I become it. “Blue gilled thunder clouds
is so inspired. The whole poem is, it’s a chanting creative song. Wonderful, Julie.
Thank you, Christine. Cyclical is a great way to describe it. Unfortunately, bulldozers are breaking the cycle…heavy sigh. I appreciate your kind comments. Thanks for dropping in:)
Dear Julie,
I love the last lines of this poem, because to me, they offer hope (maybe not your intention in the writing, but as a reader, I’d like to think “hope” — that the faces “floating downstream” will, perhaps, find a better home, a good home, a home with a future that respects the past as well as upholds the traditions, but that offers something more … a chance …).
And a chance is sometimes all we need, yes?
To the good words!
Geoff (& Eleanor),
who are still plugging away at “This Side of Paradise”
…
(though now we are locking ourselves in The Little Room for a couple of weeks to work on the words — self-imposed exile of the good sort)
*
… alas, my sentence structure is quite strange here, but, I’ve been writing most of the day, and the words and punctuation and the rest are all crying for attention, as in “place me here,” or, “you should put a period here,” and so forth …. Words (and punctuation) can be so demanding!
Hi, Geoff & Eleanor! It’s so nice to see you. That’s a very keen observation. I didn’t consciously intend for the ending to be optimistic, but it very well could have been subconscious on my part. People are always telling me I’m a strange mix of doom, paranoia, and “innocent, wide eyed optimism.” I just thought the mix was because I’m an American…ha!
But your observation is very interesting, and I think it rings true on that other level. I’m enjoying the realization very much.
I also love what you say about writing. So true! No need to worry about sentence structure or commas around here. I understand that all night long rush of words:)
I will be back to visit you, too! Thanks much for dropping in and giving me a lot to think about. Your kind comments are greatly appreciated.
love the end and the images created throughout–hope yr trip was good, now you’ve got some writing to do
Hi, Scot! Oh yeah…it was a great trip! I wish I had more weeks like last week. You’re right about writing. Time to get it organized. As if I’ll ever be organized…ha! Thanks for the kind comments. It’s great to see you. I’ll be back at your house tonight:)
The second stanza has reeled me in; how it speaks of everything being connected somehow. Hack a young tree down, one after another on a patch of land, and somewhere, sometime later, landslides bury part of or even whole villages or subdivisions (this has, so sadly, happened several times in different parts of my country).
So many beautiful scenes here, Julie, like the one in the fourth stanza. The last line thereof is a clincher. 🙂
Hi, S.L. You are so right about the landslides or flooding. I know an area where, of course, building on wetlands wasn’t allowed by environmental law. So the developer filled in the wetlands with huge amounts of dirt. Voila…their problem was solved. There were no more wetlands, so they could build subdivisions to their heart’s content. A year later, all of the houses in the subdivisions flooded after a couple of heavy rains.
Man’s indifference to nature. Nature’s indifference to man. Hmmm…
Thanks much for your comments and for dropping in:)
This is so heavy with nature, like a full belly, and so sad we can’t keep things that way. Water has always been a healing element for me. I’m not sure how I feel about it here. It’s like there is someone at the end of this poem with their mouth open, swallowing all the images-water, clay, cypress knees in the poem…I mean that in a good way. hm….
Also, the upside down-rightside up of the cypress is very interesting. It does seem the the whole tree is a root!
ps…I have no idea if that made any sense…this poem gave me feelings that are hard to express…
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Hi, Holly. No problem. I understood what you meant and appreciate it much:) Thanks for stopping in. I can’t wait to see if you have up another response poem to Christine’s response poem. -Julie
Julie,
Yes, the second stanza just grips you with the “My soul is three-fourths salt” really brings together the earths intricate part in life, in body and in soul. You really make me feel the earth its life giving essence — the marsh the swamp not unlike our own existence, our thoughts, our twisted bones.
Never underestimate yourself you have a great talent.
barbara
Thank you, Barbara. That is a very nice compliment, and I will try not to underestimate myself anymore:) I like how you describe the marsh and swamp “not unlike our own existence, our thoughts, our twisted bones.” Even your comments are poetic! Thanks again for stopping by. It’s much appreciated.
The images here simply breathe and walk. Your depictions of nature, devastated, are beautifully described, yet, disturbing in reality.
If we could only take our cues from the Once-lor, who speaks for the trees & nature – we would be so much better off environmentally. 😉
The last stanza – with last two lines – are sublime!
As always, your amazing work stirs me!
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Hi, K! You’re the poet with the coolest blog name I think I’ve ever seen. And, of course, the work matches the name. I can’t remember if I found you or you found me, but now I’m so glad to know you. Thanks much for the kind comments. -Julie
For me, water always holds within it the promise of birth, or rebirth as the case may be. The loss of the water is primary and takes with it – so much that you have set out for us here. But it never really goes away does it? It’s always there, if not flowing on the earth, then as that promise, in the air, in the thunder clouds. What flows away also, somehow, must flow back. I have to reach for the hopefulness, but it is there. I’m not sure you’re truly capable of being without it, Julie, no matter what people say.
I love the “blue gilled thunder clouds” – that’s just gorgeous – it startled me with its beauty and “rightness”. I know you wrote this “before”, but I couldn’t help but think of you now uprooting yourself when I read about the “cypress” – “will they grow new knees?” I love how you left that as a question. There’s anxiety in it, but also the possibility of something else, something new.
LOVE Sistah!
Hey, Sistah hysperia! You know I love you, too! As usual, you get straight to my soul. I don’t think I’m capable of being without hopefulness, either. Or water! I think it’s so cool that you can see something in this poem that I didn’t realize was in the poem before. Hope. That’s awesome:) Before Geoff & Eleanor brought it up, I thought it was a very dark piece. It is, but as you so beautifully put it, there’s the possibility of something new. Yes, it really fits what I’m going through now, though I wrote it a long time ago. Thanks so much for your kind comments and for your visits. Somebody asked me this week (in reference to you) why my sister moved so far away. I got the biggest kick out of that. Love, Sis
The poem has a liquid “feel” to it. Marvelous the way you keep coming back to some of the same words and images. It contributes to that relentless sense of erosion.
Thank you, Scott! You’re an excellent reader. I’m really happy you saw that. I worked at trying to bring the images back in somewhat different ways, the way a wave comes to shore and is a wave, but it’s always at least slightly different. It makes me happy when someone notices the mechanics of the poem:) Thanks so much for your visit.
Yeah, I was going to mention the return of “fall” in the poem. You could teach a class on poetic rhythm with this poem. Fantastic.
Hi, Nathan! Yes, that’s another one I did intentionally, and I’m really glad you noticed. I appreciate your kind comments and visit. Take care:)
Spectacular. Every line. You always leave me reeling. Those blue-gilled clouds are just perfect.
Thank you so much, Jo. You’re another sweet sister:) I was reeling after your last poem and can’t wait to go back and see what’s new.
There is a secret life in many places, things. If you choose to accept this assignment you will be required to delve so deeply into yourself that you can become other than yourself, and then write from these alien places and things. Truly mission impossible, and rarely any pay too. Julie, you do it very well. It is a better hobby than some, I think. I very much like how you have become the wet salt smell of the cypress swamp. I didn’t much care for the moment of filling the place in with dirt but then I am sure I wasn’t supposed to be positive about that.
Lack Of Salt Is My Dilemma
Muddy cold bog life
Streams through my sour damp sore heart
And its hidden things.
I would reveal them
But I’m afraid of your dark
And acid reply.
I’m afraid you’ld say
Something true and deep, something
I don’t want to hear,
Something that would tear
Me limb from soft soggy limb,
Leave me stripped, alone.
This is what I do to me
In my salt diminished dreams.
Thank you for the poem and thoughtful comments, Christopher. The poem is beautiful. I love the idea of “salt diminished dreams.” I also love “Something that would tear/ me limb from soft soggy limb…” Those lines rock, my friend.
You’re right about how there is rarely any pay. But I guess the payoff is emotional. Thank you again for your kind words and for your visit:) And for making me think!
“the sneak of trees,”
just won’t leave me alone. I love the way it sounds…
Good to see you back!
Thank you, Nan! It’s good to see you, too. I hope you had a beautiful Thanksgiving.
I had been captured by this one …so I returned, but I would not know where to start.
The second stanza maybe – it combines the effect of words, images and concepts in a splendid manner –I almost touched my lips and felt a tang of salt and clay…
And the recurring theme carried by the clouds –the light clouds, beautiful above us caring the ‘curse’ of heavy rain that contributes to erosion. As do the neat, ‘beautiful’ human-built places with ‘a gorgeous view of the water’…
Thank you, Annamari. I really appreciate your careful reading and thoughtful observations. I love your last sentence. It rings so true. Thanks again for dropping in. I’ll go check out your house now:)
I read your poem again, and had a different experience, this time it was more about the opposing forces, between earth and ether. I could feel, taste and smell the clay. A powerful poem, Julie. The voice is of an earth goddess.
You’re so right, Christine. Definitely opposing forces are at work. An earth goddess is an awesome phrase. Thank you!
Even though, I’ve never been to your part of the country I can smell, feel and sense the images that you’ve written.
Erosion in the natural world of the water reclaiming what belongs to nature. Man maid no matter if needed sometimes seems sacrilegious.
With the living things in the salty bogs, my hands too belong to the earthen clay; it’s where I’m comfortable pottery and gardening and such.
I enjoyed your poem, a long with so many of your other writings.
Hi, George! I was just looking at your site. I love the nature theme and pictures!! I will go back and visit you tomorrow when I’m not on the run. This week is a killer. Of course, I’m just feeling sorry for myself…ha!
Thank you so much for your good words, George. I appreciate your visit, and it’s great to meet another fellow nature lover.