Reflections on Nature and Time: A Collection of Poems by Peter Newton Walsh
Delve into the profound musings on nature, time, and human existence through the selected poems presented in "EVOLUTION: Dreams of Time Passing," "Miraculous," "September Song," "Requiem for a Redwood," and "Take this Moment." These poems beautifully encapsulate the marvels of life, the fleeting essence of time, and the interconnectedness of living beings with the natural world. Each verse weaves a tapestry of emotions and contemplation, inviting readers to reflect on the wonders that surround us and the intricate dynamics of existence.
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EVOLUTION: Dreams of Time Passing MIRACULOUS Selected Poems Peter Newton Walsh
Miraculous How magnolias and daffodils know to blossom in springtime like the germination of a poem. That Beethoven s Ninth was spawned in deafness as if in the waters under the sea. That one hundred billion neurons dwell in the human brain as do two hundred billion stars like our sun dwell in our galaxy the Milky Way and two hundred billion galaxies occupy our universe. How the dawn brings surcease to nightmares day after day after day and the healing waters of time wash away the agony of loss.
September Song Two V s of geese make an arrowhead every morning at dawn and every evening at dusk and lately every hour flying from the pond to the harbor always south in what seems to be a rehearsal for migration getting their bearings for the long haul south gossiping among themselves in a call and response stentorian and increasingly frantic keeping them in formation as the blind find their way miraculously through all the light we cannot see.
Requiem for a Redwood* A gathering and waiting You cometh up like a flower. You giant redwood fleeth as it were a shadow with whom I have a common ancestor 1.5 billion years ago when we stood on equal footing then drifted apart so that you could no longer grasp our language and we could hear only the basso profundo humming of your tree voice in the wind. of old men standing for a short time to live. and are cut down
Then we found among the roots and send your secret messages sapwise and skyward to be transpired by your leaves into the vapor that bathes your kin and your kith with the code that would save their lives were it not for the chainsaws of man. the fungi that live of your tree of life *from The Overstory By Richard Powers
Take this Moment When is it if ever that desire diminishes? Take this moment when the sunlight inflames the beach grass that fringes Farm Pond and the crows are caucusing in the scrub oaks. The crows flap and beat a hasty retreat to reconvene elsewhere in the neighborhood. They ll be back for more crow talk when the shadows of the oaks are stretched out for an afternoon nap. But it won t be the same crows or the same language or the same sunlight. It won t be the same moment or the same absence of desire. This moment will never be again. So cherish it!
Or before you know it the wind will shift over a sea change with a slight ratcheting down of temperature and pressure. A slight disturbance at the horizon that nibbles at the edge of your mood. Cherish this very moment as a shield from the dreams of failure from the terror of being wrong from the grief of loss and from the insatiable desire to occupy moments other than this moment of time and space. Take this very moment when all the boundaries around you dissolve into this ocean of atmosphere that is now.
Paean to a Tree* When I woke up had formed a council self-selected autonomous with Crataegus the gentle hawthorn bejeweled with her red berries as convener and chair mother and Sequoia sempervirens the wise old man redwood as chair father. The plenary session was a symposium a drinking party giving all trees a chance to speak. Heard earthwise from dreaming the trees
as a subsonic vibration deep in their subterranean roots and from ocean to ocean like a whale song. There were testimonials and evidence presented from Ancient Ginko and Flagrant Maple impeaching humankind for their careless release of carbon their tenfold decimation of the forests their poisoning of the oceans and other high crimes and misdemeanors causing the slow relentless arboreal march of the deciduous ones who are fleeing from the heat to the boreal forests of the Spruce Pine and Fir creating civil war amongst us. Let this be a paean to a tree.
Bushwhacking I took my bow saw my weed whacker and my brush loppers down to the marsh to clear the reeds and brambles and russian olives that obstruct our view of the pond from the back of the house where we sit and watch the sun go down. As I was sweating the good sweat my six-year-old grandson Nicholas came down to watch me toiling in the sun. Grandpa he said some people get Alzheimer s when they get old you know when they get to be ninety but I don t think you will and then they can t work like that but I don t think you ll get old like that. I hope not I said because I would hate not to know you. Me too he said.
My only regret as the sun set and the water of the pond was to think of the bird s nest I cleared of brambles and the sound of small animals scurrying in the thicket. When I went out this morning for more bushwhacking the goldfinch held sway at the top of a ten-foot reed warbling his mute alarm to defend his secret garden from the scyther s approach the sky afire an iridescent blue in the scrub oak
Mankind he seemed to say with his brave three-inch yellow body that was a barricade between me and his nest no matter how close I came seems to be intent on the quashing of my habitat to preserve the long view of sunsets. I hope not I said because I would hate not to know you. Me too he said. And then I put away my bow saw my weed whacker and my brush loppers.
Lux Aeterna* Out of the silence a glimmering is born like the dawn of light out of the darkness a gathering of voices creating creation what is not visible is palpable and it hangs like an attar on the fragrant air born light of light o nata lux de lumine our songs fly in space the opposite of gravity and density lightness of being
breathing in the light that shines in the flesh of song shimmering in time the sanctuary swimming in the light of sound and the sound of light colors and textures hovering on the canvass shimmering in space this manic power of music and of poems to make believers out of doubters if only for a little while like the incandescence of snow falling on snow *To Mark Daugherty and Morten Lauridsen
This Fugitive Moment Shine dawn light. Split the ribcage of the marsh and let the tongues of wind and tide lick its heart in a bright rage. High so bright and dry the day like being born in a new age. Here why here where the sleek black cormorants dive and fish are the pungent ashes of my mother near that only a fortnight back I buried deep in loam near her Minnesota home where the prairie trains once wailed at night?
Blue so blue the water and the sky and green -- the essence of it -- the scrub oaks that lean into wind and beach grass that leans awry in its travail and ecstasy of being. We live. We die. Here. Stay here now and then the vast horizon of other time is euchred by the siren song of this fugitive moment in which we long to stay forever and forever long.
Numbers Whenever I walk in the woods I see the numbers everywhere in the shapes and colors of the trees and the leaves and the flowers. And I hear the numbers in the chorus of birdsongs. And when I go out on a cloudless moonless night I see the numbers in the planets and the stars and the galaxies how far how many light-years away and how fast they are rushing away as the universe expands. And I listen listen to hear Kepler s music of the spheres. Whenever I hear the equations and numbers fly from the mouths of the singers and the body of the orchestra I am blessed with the gift of beauty.
Everywhere I look or listen the numbers and the equations and the geometry tell it all to the mathematicians who understand not alas including me. Tell the stories of where we come from of where we are going and of the beauty of the journey. Now I remember Pythagoras who said All Things Are Number. But I wonder how all the equations came to be and how all the constants were set at the beginning to allow us the privilege of searching to discover but not invent the numbers and equations underlying all this beauty.
Coffee Shop Do you remember that symposium (AKA drinking party) when you sat around the table down at Luigi s coffee shop sipping espresso and smoking latakia in your pipe with Sir Isaac Newton and Stephen Hawking swapping equations and sharing titillating theories? You didn t notice me sitting at an adjacent table eavesdropping but understanding virtually nothing. The three of you played your discoveries like poker chips in a game of chance. Sir Isaac bet first with the calculus until it was pointed out that he got a lot of help from Gottfried Leibniz who independently discovered calculus at the same time. In any case his bet was raised by Hawking
who discovered that black holes emit radiation all of which is pretty interesting but has little effect on what I eat for breakfast. Then you raised the final bet with your theory of general relativity which won the pot by curving space-time but in the end may be trumped by string theory which nobody understands anyway. Strange. No Nobels here anywhere. So please all three come back from the dead continue your drinking party argue some more and help us discover the theory of everything.
Limerence The way the jetties silt over in wintertime. The cold snap that bites on the way to the lighthouse. The scrub oaks silhouetted against the lead sky. The last remaining leaf shivering in the chill. The coming on of an unexpected snowstorm. The darkness of houses after the early dusk. The paucity of traffic along the beach road. The trembling palpitations of desire. The pure elegance of the singularity. There is so much to this world than we will ever know and you my love are so beautiful.
