05-15-2016, 02:37 PM
In a modern pedestrian plaza, barely noticed
As people passed, from the corner of my eye
I saw, and then stopped to behold, a great tree,
Not yet in leaf, rising from the paving stones
As if they were its natural element.
This was not some planted sapling left to die,
As they often do, by indifferent bureaucrats;
This was an emperor unfurled, with massive,
Muscular arms outstretched to grab the sky,
Or embrace and comfort a frightened world.
Oh, I was surely surprised to see this giant,
Majestic even among buildings twice its height;
Yet I felt pity, too, to see it imprisoned
By brick and stone; for by whatever method
Trees embrace, this tree would die alone.
No son or sister shared its air; its race,
Conquered by man, turned into little more
Than a source of boards. Sadly I turned away,
When out from the branches came a windy moan,
As if the tree would have the final say:
"Do not pity me; my race is not undone;
If storm, drought and famine could not kill me,
Man will not succeed, though he may try.
The glaciers tried, and so did fire from the sky;
From every patch we rise, and always shall.
"Look not to us, but to your own, for greed
Will end you; man has never learned to share.
And when your poisons finally suffocate you,
We shall still be here, casting up our seeds
To mingle in the wind and land everywhere."
Chastened by this sentinel of hope, I felt
A cautious glow, that things which might seem lost
Or fallen low, might flourish still—but then
A lick of warm wind turned my hope to dread:
I realized that this was May, not March
(Long past leafing), and that the tree was dead.
Alternate closing line:
(Long past leafing); the tree was already dead.
===========
The problem with this poem will be immediately obvious to some of you. The poetic device of having an inanimate object speak is probably a little too old fashioned for current poetic tastes. But since I believe that tastes change, and that what's considered archaic now may come back into style, I'm not too concerned about that. What really concerns me is that the tree's speech may be too grandiloquent, so much so that the poem may degenerate into comedy. The tree is a tree, not a Roman senator. Also, I wonder if I should be calling the tree a "sentinel" since it isn't actually guarding anything.
This poem is based on an actual experience in which I was admiring a magnificent tree in New York City, and then suddenly realized that it was dead. Paving stones had been laid right up to the trunk of the tree, which probably caused the roots to suffocate.
As people passed, from the corner of my eye
I saw, and then stopped to behold, a great tree,
Not yet in leaf, rising from the paving stones
As if they were its natural element.
This was not some planted sapling left to die,
As they often do, by indifferent bureaucrats;
This was an emperor unfurled, with massive,
Muscular arms outstretched to grab the sky,
Or embrace and comfort a frightened world.
Oh, I was surely surprised to see this giant,
Majestic even among buildings twice its height;
Yet I felt pity, too, to see it imprisoned
By brick and stone; for by whatever method
Trees embrace, this tree would die alone.
No son or sister shared its air; its race,
Conquered by man, turned into little more
Than a source of boards. Sadly I turned away,
When out from the branches came a windy moan,
As if the tree would have the final say:
"Do not pity me; my race is not undone;
If storm, drought and famine could not kill me,
Man will not succeed, though he may try.
The glaciers tried, and so did fire from the sky;
From every patch we rise, and always shall.
"Look not to us, but to your own, for greed
Will end you; man has never learned to share.
And when your poisons finally suffocate you,
We shall still be here, casting up our seeds
To mingle in the wind and land everywhere."
Chastened by this sentinel of hope, I felt
A cautious glow, that things which might seem lost
Or fallen low, might flourish still—but then
A lick of warm wind turned my hope to dread:
I realized that this was May, not March
(Long past leafing), and that the tree was dead.
Alternate closing line:
(Long past leafing); the tree was already dead.
===========
The problem with this poem will be immediately obvious to some of you. The poetic device of having an inanimate object speak is probably a little too old fashioned for current poetic tastes. But since I believe that tastes change, and that what's considered archaic now may come back into style, I'm not too concerned about that. What really concerns me is that the tree's speech may be too grandiloquent, so much so that the poem may degenerate into comedy. The tree is a tree, not a Roman senator. Also, I wonder if I should be calling the tree a "sentinel" since it isn't actually guarding anything.
This poem is based on an actual experience in which I was admiring a magnificent tree in New York City, and then suddenly realized that it was dead. Paving stones had been laid right up to the trunk of the tree, which probably caused the roots to suffocate.