Poetry: It's in Our Nature
"There’s a poem hiding under every leaf and behind every snowflake, and we of the Friends of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve are so grateful to have you all here together to share what you’ve found. We hope that in anticipation of this event you have been thinking more about nature, and that you’ll leave today with at least a little nugget of natural beauty that you hadn’t noticed before or even a whole new perception, or angle, from which to view the world around you" ~ Introduction to our 2022 open mic event
Since being dreamed up in 2019 by Friends Board members Olympia Mathiaparanam and Lillian Tong, "It's in Our Nature" has blossomed through the pandemic years into a perennial poetry open mic event and two poetry audio trails. Featuring poets of all experience levels, "It's in Our Nature" bring writers together every year to share their small curiosities, sweeping odes, or any piece of environmental writing in between.
Scroll down, or click the shortcut buttons below, to explore imagery and recordings from our past events.
Scroll down, or click the shortcut buttons below, to explore imagery and recordings from our past events.
2023 "Poetry in the Preserve" Audio Trail
Circle Poems (Gard Storyteller's circle)
STONE CIRCLE
By Catherine Young (Click for Bio)
Catherine Young is the author of the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her writing is published nationally and internationally and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American essays. With a background in geography and environmental science, Catherine deeply believes in the use of story and art as tools for transforming the world. Rooted in farm life, she lives with her family in southwest Wisconsin’s Driftless region.
You thought stones
are inanimate. Like bones, we carry them
from here to there. We set them
in a ring, and they remain.
But no. Take another look
through your lenses fashioned of silica sand. Rocks
dance when you turn your back to them,
refract colors hummingbirds see
and sing to. While your glass spectacles
dissolve into puddles and reef corals fossilize,
boulders dazzle sky and tree.
They beckon. We haul,
cobble cairns, believing
we mark the passages of planets. All the while
mountains sway and hurl
their molten shimmer to the speed of light.
It's all relative – you, me, the stones.
Listen. Did you really believe
these hills are silent? They are
laughing at our mayfly tempo.
Beauty is stone deep. At what point
do we align our sight
for unimagined changes in hue?
Catherine Young, “Stone Circle” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
are inanimate. Like bones, we carry them
from here to there. We set them
in a ring, and they remain.
But no. Take another look
through your lenses fashioned of silica sand. Rocks
dance when you turn your back to them,
refract colors hummingbirds see
and sing to. While your glass spectacles
dissolve into puddles and reef corals fossilize,
boulders dazzle sky and tree.
They beckon. We haul,
cobble cairns, believing
we mark the passages of planets. All the while
mountains sway and hurl
their molten shimmer to the speed of light.
It's all relative – you, me, the stones.
Listen. Did you really believe
these hills are silent? They are
laughing at our mayfly tempo.
Beauty is stone deep. At what point
do we align our sight
for unimagined changes in hue?
Catherine Young, “Stone Circle” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
IN SIGHT
By Paul noeldner (click for bio)
Loves birds, nature and the Friends of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve!
You always see more
Of what you're looking for
If you're looking for a window
You might not see a door
In that flock up on the line
There's one bird another kind
So keep an open mind
You never know what you might find
Of what you're looking for
If you're looking for a window
You might not see a door
In that flock up on the line
There's one bird another kind
So keep an open mind
You never know what you might find
SUPERNOVA REMNANT N132D
BY Katrin TALBOT (CLICK FOR BIO)
Australian-born Katrin Talbot has a full-length poetry collection and two more forthcoming. She has seven chapbooks, two pushcart prize nominations, and quite a few chickens.
Maybe that’s where my
heart is,
on those dark days,
drawn to the expanding
remnant of a
star explosion.
So close to our sorrows,
aren’t they?
A quick dance with
hydrogen and oxygen,
a tango with what remains when
something shatters, a reminder and a
rejuvenation, then back to heart’s
task of pulsing, sustaining,
before the next
unexpected
rive
Performed as a spoken dance by Theatre Lila
Published in my chapbook The Blind Lifeguard (Finishing Line Press)
heart is,
on those dark days,
drawn to the expanding
remnant of a
star explosion.
So close to our sorrows,
aren’t they?
A quick dance with
hydrogen and oxygen,
a tango with what remains when
something shatters, a reminder and a
rejuvenation, then back to heart’s
task of pulsing, sustaining,
before the next
unexpected
rive
Performed as a spoken dance by Theatre Lila
Published in my chapbook The Blind Lifeguard (Finishing Line Press)
PATH POEMS (LAKESHORE PATH BENCH BY TRIPP HALL)
OF LONGINGS AND BELONGINGS
BY DARSHIGAA GURUMOORTHY (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
A romantic who wants to live like in the movies, would rather stay in to read than meet another human, processes the world through words but is perpetually confused about a lot of things. If you ask her what she likes, she'll probably say something extremely weird and niche so proceed at your own risk.
What do you do when your friends become better friends
With each other than they are with you?
What do you do when they no longer need you
As much as you need them?
What do you do when you look at them and crave their attention
Crave the time when they were yours and yours only
What do you do when that word, that sigh, that look
Is no longer what it used to be?
What do you do when you look at them and wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you catch their eye and your heart flutters
A pit falls in your stomach and you cannot look away?
What do you do when you cannot breathe anymore
Without gasping for air, yearning for the air that they breathe to be in you?
What do you do when you look at them and all you can think of is how you would fit
Like the pieces of a puzzle on a bookshelf overturned
What do you do when you wonder when it all began? When you wonder
If it always you to begin with?
When you wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you when you no longer feel the same around them?
The laughs and the love, the conversations and the comfort,
the idiosyncrasies and the intimacy changed?
What do you do when you don't want them around anymore
Yet their thought consumes you like the licking flames of a forest fire
Razed to the ground?
What do you do when their calls feel like a knife pulled out of your heart?
But the alienation, the resulting loneliness pains you more?
What do you when you look at your figure in the mirror
And can't help but wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you see them share the laughs
they had with you with another?
What do you do when the world around you stands still
And in that moment, you realize that they could never be yours
What do you do when you run as far away as your legs will take you
But you end up on the same road that takes you to them?
What do you do when you fall to the ground sobbing, as the tears roll down your cheek
And wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you look at them from across the room
And you are no longer are excited. When all your eyes speak
Of is grief and disappointment?
What do you do when you turn to walk away and somehow feel lighter.
When you know it is the best for you to slowly fade into the background
Where you were to begin with?
Would you take the chance and slowly walk away? Would you take the chance
If you knew you would hurt less? Or would you stay?
And continue to wonder, where it all went wrong in the first place?
With each other than they are with you?
What do you do when they no longer need you
As much as you need them?
What do you do when you look at them and crave their attention
Crave the time when they were yours and yours only
What do you do when that word, that sigh, that look
Is no longer what it used to be?
What do you do when you look at them and wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you catch their eye and your heart flutters
A pit falls in your stomach and you cannot look away?
What do you do when you cannot breathe anymore
Without gasping for air, yearning for the air that they breathe to be in you?
What do you do when you look at them and all you can think of is how you would fit
Like the pieces of a puzzle on a bookshelf overturned
What do you do when you wonder when it all began? When you wonder
If it always you to begin with?
When you wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you when you no longer feel the same around them?
The laughs and the love, the conversations and the comfort,
the idiosyncrasies and the intimacy changed?
What do you do when you don't want them around anymore
Yet their thought consumes you like the licking flames of a forest fire
Razed to the ground?
What do you do when their calls feel like a knife pulled out of your heart?
But the alienation, the resulting loneliness pains you more?
What do you when you look at your figure in the mirror
And can't help but wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you see them share the laughs
they had with you with another?
What do you do when the world around you stands still
And in that moment, you realize that they could never be yours
What do you do when you run as far away as your legs will take you
But you end up on the same road that takes you to them?
What do you do when you fall to the ground sobbing, as the tears roll down your cheek
And wonder where it all went wrong?
What do you do when you look at them from across the room
And you are no longer are excited. When all your eyes speak
Of is grief and disappointment?
What do you do when you turn to walk away and somehow feel lighter.
When you know it is the best for you to slowly fade into the background
Where you were to begin with?
Would you take the chance and slowly walk away? Would you take the chance
If you knew you would hurt less? Or would you stay?
And continue to wonder, where it all went wrong in the first place?
EVER GET THE FEELING ... ?
BY STELLA D'AQUISTO (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Stella is an international studies and legal studies major at UW-Madison who primarily studies human rights. Stella also loves writing fiction and occasionally attempts poetry. This poem explores our urge to be connected to something bigger than ourselves.
Each day the tree outside my window gains a new crow
I hear their wings in my ears at night
Or maybe we're all just deranged, you never know
Maybe animals are all just stupid
And we're all just geniuses
Opposable thumbs, clothes, tools, language, tears, the moon landing
All to make ourselves feel different
Steely smell of guitar strings in the air, smoke on my fingers
Needles in my skin, pins in my hair
All to make myself feel
It's different now. I look down
At the glossy mirrored ice on the ground and feel silence
In the earth as I try not to slip again
She used to call out to me in dreams
Back then; it made me scream with my mouth closed
(So loud in my head I got paranoid my roommate could hear me)
She made me see daggers, a card falling
From my hand onto the pain threshold.
I remember the urge to look over my shoulder
So I hug the feathers to my chest and feel completely useful.
I hear their wings in my ears at night
Or maybe we're all just deranged, you never know
Maybe animals are all just stupid
And we're all just geniuses
Opposable thumbs, clothes, tools, language, tears, the moon landing
All to make ourselves feel different
Steely smell of guitar strings in the air, smoke on my fingers
Needles in my skin, pins in my hair
All to make myself feel
It's different now. I look down
At the glossy mirrored ice on the ground and feel silence
In the earth as I try not to slip again
She used to call out to me in dreams
Back then; it made me scream with my mouth closed
(So loud in my head I got paranoid my roommate could hear me)
She made me see daggers, a card falling
From my hand onto the pain threshold.
I remember the urge to look over my shoulder
So I hug the feathers to my chest and feel completely useful.
BAY POEMS (LOT 60 BOAT LAUNCH, UNIVERSITY BAY)
SWIMMING WITH SWANS
BY KATRIN TALBOT (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Australian-born Katrin Talbot has a full-length poetry collection and two more forthcoming. She has seven chapbooks, two pushcart prize nominations, and quite a few chickens.
Not always a
question of grace,
endurance
More often, a
song of float
and preen
And you, become
a creature of
palmate,
pass by
as a piece of
lake,
shimmering
Published in my book The Waiting Room of the Imperfect Alibis from Kelsay Books
question of grace,
endurance
More often, a
song of float
and preen
And you, become
a creature of
palmate,
pass by
as a piece of
lake,
shimmering
Published in my book The Waiting Room of the Imperfect Alibis from Kelsay Books
UPDRAFT
BY STELLA D'AQUISTO (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Stella is an international studies and legal studies major at UW-Madison who primarily studies human rights. Stella also loves writing fiction and occasionally attempts poetry.
I am anchored here: four walls and a kitchen
From which a holy spring flows, imbued
With chlorine, fluoride, and trihalomethanes,
Words which sound like spells without
The rhythmic bounce found in nature.
That sort is extinct in the wild, overhunted
By the people who brought you industrialization
And other popular products, like AR-15s,
Which have become the new birds, their
Ringing dirge replacing the songs of sparrows.
I want to fly away on the wings of something
Other than a gun: public transportation
Is dead these days, so I have no choice
But to make my own wings, melting wax
Into something resembling feathers, so
I can soar into an updraft, let it take me
To the places I can find only in my mind,
Where the trees look up at me with souled eyes,
Where the sky ripples like a flag as the wind tugs it,
Where I can run my hands through leaves as I
Pass over, feeling their collective individual energy,
Feeling my reality wane as my imagination waxes,
Like the moon, whose pull on the ocean is
As strong as its pull on myself, as strong
As the pull which this earth has on it,
All of us hurtling through space,
Chasing the marathon of light the sun throws at us.
They say three Hail Marys but we’ll never catch it.
It won’t matter; I can feel its warmth from here.
I can feel it in everything, as if all is light
And infinite reflection: a universe of mirrors
From which a holy spring flows, imbued
With chlorine, fluoride, and trihalomethanes,
Words which sound like spells without
The rhythmic bounce found in nature.
That sort is extinct in the wild, overhunted
By the people who brought you industrialization
And other popular products, like AR-15s,
Which have become the new birds, their
Ringing dirge replacing the songs of sparrows.
I want to fly away on the wings of something
Other than a gun: public transportation
Is dead these days, so I have no choice
But to make my own wings, melting wax
Into something resembling feathers, so
I can soar into an updraft, let it take me
To the places I can find only in my mind,
Where the trees look up at me with souled eyes,
Where the sky ripples like a flag as the wind tugs it,
Where I can run my hands through leaves as I
Pass over, feeling their collective individual energy,
Feeling my reality wane as my imagination waxes,
Like the moon, whose pull on the ocean is
As strong as its pull on myself, as strong
As the pull which this earth has on it,
All of us hurtling through space,
Chasing the marathon of light the sun throws at us.
They say three Hail Marys but we’ll never catch it.
It won’t matter; I can feel its warmth from here.
I can feel it in everything, as if all is light
And infinite reflection: a universe of mirrors
THE PHOTOGRAPH
BY ANGIE TRUDELL VASQUEZ (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Angie Trudell Vasquez is the current Madison Poet Laureate and the first Latina in this position. She is a 2nd and 3rd generation Mexican American from Iowa. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her latest and fourth collection, My People Redux, was released in January 2022 from Finishing Line Press. They also published her third collection, In Light, Always Light in 2019. Poet, writer, editor, and publisher she lives in Madison with her husband and two cats near a preserve. Nature is infused in all her work, and she is currently rewilding her lawn.
Pelicans pose
on posts
at the pier,
highlight sun
going down,
point beaks,
preen for tourists
who snap shot
after shot.
Feather beasts
beat wings
against orange orb,
plunge head first,
in glass green waters
to fish, feed
at the cusp,
island coast.
Long beaks,
big downy breasts,
sideways way
of looking,
as if to say,
“I know you -
you want to look
like me,
all long nose
and Spanish
nobility.”
(from In Light, Always Light published by Finishing Line Press 2019)
on posts
at the pier,
highlight sun
going down,
point beaks,
preen for tourists
who snap shot
after shot.
Feather beasts
beat wings
against orange orb,
plunge head first,
in glass green waters
to fish, feed
at the cusp,
island coast.
Long beaks,
big downy breasts,
sideways way
of looking,
as if to say,
“I know you -
you want to look
like me,
all long nose
and Spanish
nobility.”
(from In Light, Always Light published by Finishing Line Press 2019)
PUMP POEMS (HAND PUMP, PICNIC POINT)
SYNONYMOUS
BY ANGIE TRUDELL VASQUEZ (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Angie Trudell Vasquez is the current Madison Poet Laureate and the first Latina in this position. She is a 2nd and 3rd generation Mexican American from Iowa. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her latest and fourth collection, My People Redux, was released in January 2022 from Finishing Line Press. They also published her third collection, In Light, Always Light in 2019. Poet, writer, editor, and publisher she lives in Madison with her husband and two cats near a preserve. Nature is infused in all her work, and she is currently rewilding her lawn.
Woman wakes, wipes her face, stretches
walks two miles to mountain spring.
Gardener unwinds hose soaks palm tree roots
patrons sip coffee tea orange juice pinkies out.
At the top of the Alps
snow skips winter.
Salmon swims upstream hits dam, bleeds
no eggs will blossom this season.
Arroyos crack, dust spirals up and out, travels
bobcats coyotes rabbits hunt water.
Man in a jungle tilts black head drinks dew
from a banana leaf in the rose dappled morning.
Suburban well in Wisconsin leaches lead
seeks twenty-mile pipeline to drain Lake Michigan.
Back in hotel, guests request fresh towels
strawberries in winter, champagne baths.
(from In Light, Always Light published by Finishing Line Press 2019)
walks two miles to mountain spring.
Gardener unwinds hose soaks palm tree roots
patrons sip coffee tea orange juice pinkies out.
At the top of the Alps
snow skips winter.
Salmon swims upstream hits dam, bleeds
no eggs will blossom this season.
Arroyos crack, dust spirals up and out, travels
bobcats coyotes rabbits hunt water.
Man in a jungle tilts black head drinks dew
from a banana leaf in the rose dappled morning.
Suburban well in Wisconsin leaches lead
seeks twenty-mile pipeline to drain Lake Michigan.
Back in hotel, guests request fresh towels
strawberries in winter, champagne baths.
(from In Light, Always Light published by Finishing Line Press 2019)
DREAMING NO. 13
BY LINDA NEWMAN WOITO (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
After practicing law for 25 years, Linda took early retirement in 2000. Because she missed writing every day, Linda began writing poetry and short fiction. You can find Linda’s poetry in The Rockford Review, Poetry NZ, Spin, Main Street Rag, The Pen Woman and James Dickey Review, among others. She also has one published chapbook, entitled Restless Bird (Rockford Writers Guild 2008).
She was in a flummery no a nunnery no
a ramshackle house someone forgot to burn
last century yes that's where she was in each
and every dream she remembered that week
and the farm was there in snow and the prairies
were there and Holstein cows were there needing
milking, and she was there in her high-wader
boots plowing through cow-dung, and isn't that
the way it is, isn't that the way.
************
Poem read for the "It's In Our Nature" poetry open mic - February 2022.
Poem won cash prize in one category of 2012 National League of American Pen Women contests, and was published in the Summer 2012 Edition of the League's publication: The Pen Woman.
a ramshackle house someone forgot to burn
last century yes that's where she was in each
and every dream she remembered that week
and the farm was there in snow and the prairies
were there and Holstein cows were there needing
milking, and she was there in her high-wader
boots plowing through cow-dung, and isn't that
the way it is, isn't that the way.
************
Poem read for the "It's In Our Nature" poetry open mic - February 2022.
Poem won cash prize in one category of 2012 National League of American Pen Women contests, and was published in the Summer 2012 Edition of the League's publication: The Pen Woman.
POINT POEMS (POINT, PICNIC POINT)
LAKE MENDOTA
BY AMANJOT KAUR (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Amanjot Kaur is a freshman at UW-Madison. She is passionate about the environment, her background as a Sikh Indian-American, community, and social change. Her poetry reflects many of these themes.
my first time at the point
my eyes drew not towards the shining
marble man made moon
but the way the water kissed the stones
and whispered stories
told beyond generations and before
words could be heard
and backed into a corner,
I remembered
that this big round green and brown
and blue thing is not just
a beautiful sight for
my perception
but the foundation of my creation
like the stones
and these waves are the space
in which I will eventually
wash away
like these waves
I forever return to the ocean
my eyes drew not towards the shining
marble man made moon
but the way the water kissed the stones
and whispered stories
told beyond generations and before
words could be heard
and backed into a corner,
I remembered
that this big round green and brown
and blue thing is not just
a beautiful sight for
my perception
but the foundation of my creation
like the stones
and these waves are the space
in which I will eventually
wash away
like these waves
I forever return to the ocean
MIDNIGHT SWAN
BY PAUL NOELDNER (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Loves birds, nature and the Friends of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve!
Cygnus from darkling northeast flies
To where fair Alba nestled lies
Feet from moonspun ground fly up
To kick Orion's shining belt
Dreaming falls head first to meet
Sun rising in the east
To where fair Alba nestled lies
Feet from moonspun ground fly up
To kick Orion's shining belt
Dreaming falls head first to meet
Sun rising in the east
AT A LOSS
BY CATHERINE YOUNG (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Catherine Young is the author of the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her writing is published nationally and internationally and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American essays. With a background in geography and environmental science, Catherine deeply believes in the use of story and art as tools for transforming the world. Rooted in farm life, she lives with her family in southwest Wisconsin’s Driftless region.
There is no word
for this waking wonder of day
that never ends, even in dark
where the creek lets out as endless line
its liquid canon
a song that goes on
through the facies
whether rock
or not.
If we take down these hills,
crush and slam frac sand deep against shale
there is no word to tell
how these lands shone with corn,
with bone of mastodon
or crystalline stone,
and once rolled as waves in ocean.
When I wake
I have no word
for the shifting soil
singing beneath
the soles of my feet −
even Thanks seems so fleet.
I have only the words spoken
before sunrise −
before migizi has flown:
Good Morning.
Migizi is the Anishinaabemowin word for bald eagle. Migizi flies at dawn
to see if humans remember to greet the day so that the world may continue.
Catherine Young, “At a Loss” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
for this waking wonder of day
that never ends, even in dark
where the creek lets out as endless line
its liquid canon
a song that goes on
through the facies
whether rock
or not.
If we take down these hills,
crush and slam frac sand deep against shale
there is no word to tell
how these lands shone with corn,
with bone of mastodon
or crystalline stone,
and once rolled as waves in ocean.
When I wake
I have no word
for the shifting soil
singing beneath
the soles of my feet −
even Thanks seems so fleet.
I have only the words spoken
before sunrise −
before migizi has flown:
Good Morning.
Migizi is the Anishinaabemowin word for bald eagle. Migizi flies at dawn
to see if humans remember to greet the day so that the world may continue.
Catherine Young, “At a Loss” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
PRAIRIE POEMS (BIOCORE PRAIRIE)
THE BLUEBIRD'S TALE
BY PAUL NOELDNER (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Loves birds, nature and the Friends of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve!
The bright reflective autumn stream
Torn from a summers journal
Repeats the storied leaf strewn tale
Of Bluebirds Wrens and Swallows
Who danced and sang on budded branch
Wove nests in dark safe hollows
Magic orbs refeathered born
Flew down among us mortals
Birdtracked clues of life and woe
Fluttered mysteries unfold
In fall these leaves anthology
Natures story told
Torn from a summers journal
Repeats the storied leaf strewn tale
Of Bluebirds Wrens and Swallows
Who danced and sang on budded branch
Wove nests in dark safe hollows
Magic orbs refeathered born
Flew down among us mortals
Birdtracked clues of life and woe
Fluttered mysteries unfold
In fall these leaves anthology
Natures story told
BUMBLEBEES
BY ROBIN CHAPMAN (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Robin Chapman raises vegetables with her husband Will Zarwell in Eagle Heights University Gardens--thirteen butternut squash this year! -- and writes poems most days in retirement.
—for Susan Carpenter
Was it two years ago, just after the scheduled return
of red-winged blackbirds, we leaned over bumblebees
in the raingarden bed where beebalm and echinacea
would bloom again in the summer ahead, trying to count
the stripes on their abdomens on a March day of 40 degrees?
Our feet slipped in snow-melt, all of us in the faith that food
and warmth waited in the wings of lengthening days,
and we asked which of 36 possibilities (half male, half
female) this early visitor might be. We learned to stop time,
photograph visits too fast for our inexpert eyes to see,
inspect at leisure whether this one might be a rare
and vanishing species of Rusty Patch or the common one
we conclude--Bombus impatiens, only the first segment
yellow—spot, not stripe, on the thorax—and it makes us
believe simultaneously in our luck and our losses
in the spring that will be arriving soon.
From Panic Season, Robin Chapman (Tebot Bach, 2022). Originally appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review.
Was it two years ago, just after the scheduled return
of red-winged blackbirds, we leaned over bumblebees
in the raingarden bed where beebalm and echinacea
would bloom again in the summer ahead, trying to count
the stripes on their abdomens on a March day of 40 degrees?
Our feet slipped in snow-melt, all of us in the faith that food
and warmth waited in the wings of lengthening days,
and we asked which of 36 possibilities (half male, half
female) this early visitor might be. We learned to stop time,
photograph visits too fast for our inexpert eyes to see,
inspect at leisure whether this one might be a rare
and vanishing species of Rusty Patch or the common one
we conclude--Bombus impatiens, only the first segment
yellow—spot, not stripe, on the thorax—and it makes us
believe simultaneously in our luck and our losses
in the spring that will be arriving soon.
From Panic Season, Robin Chapman (Tebot Bach, 2022). Originally appeared in Valparaiso Poetry Review.
HIVED
BY KATRIN TALBOT (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Australian-born Katrin Talbot has a full-length poetry collection and two more forthcoming. She has seven chapbooks, two pushcart prize nominations, and quite a few chickens.
Hived
her brain full of bees
--Dorianna Laux
Their buzzing
keeps me alive,
their honey sweetens
my dreams
But it is in their stings
that I live,
their signals to defend
an urging of sorts,
to interface with
the hive of my thoughts,
Queen as I must be,
every single droning day
her brain full of bees
--Dorianna Laux
Their buzzing
keeps me alive,
their honey sweetens
my dreams
But it is in their stings
that I live,
their signals to defend
an urging of sorts,
to interface with
the hive of my thoughts,
Queen as I must be,
every single droning day
GARDEN POEMS (EAGLE HEIGHTS COMMUNITY GARDENS)
MAIZE MAIDEN
BY ANGIE TRUDELL VASQUEZ (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Angie Trudell Vasquez is the current Madison Poet Laureate and the first Latina in this position. She is a 2nd and 3rd generation Mexican American from Iowa. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her latest and fourth collection, My People Redux, was released in January 2022 from Finishing Line Press. They also published her third collection, In Light, Always Light in 2019. Poet, writer, editor, and publisher she lives in Madison with her husband and two cats near a preserve. Nature is infused in all her work, and she is currently rewilding her lawn.
(After Rex Lee Jim)
Wait chica listen
press knees
lips ears to earth floor
corn
in the beginning
corn in the end
green arms
dance in rows
ancestor whispers
shed pollen in wind
years of plenty
stories fill bowls
children grow long
tomorrow’s seeds rest indoors.
(from My People Redux published by Finishing Line Press 2022)
Wait chica listen
press knees
lips ears to earth floor
corn
in the beginning
corn in the end
green arms
dance in rows
ancestor whispers
shed pollen in wind
years of plenty
stories fill bowls
children grow long
tomorrow’s seeds rest indoors.
(from My People Redux published by Finishing Line Press 2022)
DEAR ONES
BY ROBIN CHAPMAN (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Robin Chapman raises vegetables with her husband Will Zarwell in Eagle Heights University Gardens--thirteen butternut squash this year! -- and writes poems most days in retirement.
Seven a.m., and Will
has gone to water the garden
before the temperature climbs
to near triple digits and the heat
index seals us all indoors. He stands
among blue-green leaves where the broccoli
fattens, the beets breathe deep
in their vole-proof cage, cabbages
splay their gorged red heads, the last
of the summer raspberries swell
among the buds of fall. We’ve harvested
four kinds of hard-necked garlic, enough
for a head of garlic cloves a week,
if friends will still speak to us,
and half the leeks; onions, both
white and red, spread on the deck
to dry; a bucket of green beans,
while chard and kale leaf and leaf
and the lettuce climbs waist-high
and the grapevines twist and strive
to climb the hollyhocks and the sun-
flowers nod while from the sky fall
the piteous cries of fledgling hawks,
still learning to hunt for themselves.
-from World-Garden (Manuscript in progress), Robin Chapman
has gone to water the garden
before the temperature climbs
to near triple digits and the heat
index seals us all indoors. He stands
among blue-green leaves where the broccoli
fattens, the beets breathe deep
in their vole-proof cage, cabbages
splay their gorged red heads, the last
of the summer raspberries swell
among the buds of fall. We’ve harvested
four kinds of hard-necked garlic, enough
for a head of garlic cloves a week,
if friends will still speak to us,
and half the leeks; onions, both
white and red, spread on the deck
to dry; a bucket of green beans,
while chard and kale leaf and leaf
and the lettuce climbs waist-high
and the grapevines twist and strive
to climb the hollyhocks and the sun-
flowers nod while from the sky fall
the piteous cries of fledgling hawks,
still learning to hunt for themselves.
-from World-Garden (Manuscript in progress), Robin Chapman
SEX IN THE GARDEN
BY ROBIN CHAPMAN (CLICK HERE FOR BIO)
Robin Chapman raises vegetables with her husband Will Zarwell in Eagle Heights University Gardens--thirteen butternut squash this year! -- and writes poems most days in retirement.
You'd watch it happening all the time
if you only had eyes to see the ultraviolet calls
of flower petals, the landing guides extra bright,
the gold glow of pollen, the way the bees
carry it away on their feet, locate the ready
flower’s nectar and brush its stigma lightly
with pollen grains as they feed—here
in the sweet marjoram and rosemary and thyme
is a hotbed of sex and seed in the making,
the swarm of pollinators, the shivering stems,
the proffered blossoms, pollen tubes already
guiding fertilization toward the ovum,
bargaining; and then the swelling seeds--
if they made a noise, it would be a symphony.
if you only had eyes to see the ultraviolet calls
of flower petals, the landing guides extra bright,
the gold glow of pollen, the way the bees
carry it away on their feet, locate the ready
flower’s nectar and brush its stigma lightly
with pollen grains as they feed—here
in the sweet marjoram and rosemary and thyme
is a hotbed of sex and seed in the making,
the swarm of pollinators, the shivering stems,
the proffered blossoms, pollen tubes already
guiding fertilization toward the ovum,
bargaining; and then the swelling seeds--
if they made a noise, it would be a symphony.
OAK POEMS (BIG OAK, FRAUTSCHI POINT)
TREE FRIENDS
By Angie Trudell Vasquez (click here for bio)
Angie Trudell Vasquez is the current Madison Poet Laureate and the first Latina in this position. She is a 2nd and 3rd generation Mexican American from Iowa. She holds an MFA in poetry from the Institute of American Indian Arts. Her latest and fourth collection, My People Redux, was released in January 2022 from Finishing Line Press. They also published her third collection, In Light, Always Light in 2019. Poet, writer, editor, and publisher she lives in Madison with her husband and two cats near a preserve. Nature is infused in all her work, and she is currently rewilding her lawn.
Talk grows deep in bereft woods
no human hands to mold or trim limbs.
Tree friends decide “The People” are worth saving.
They call to the gusts their desires
and off go tiny helicopters.
Off go robins carrying seed.
Forests take over farm fields.
Thirsty limbs stretch to creeks.
Gossip in the wood root web say
hill cousins spring where land was stripped.
Children run under boughs.
Leaves wind in wind currents.
Folks do not mind scat squirrels, birds leave.
Trunks bend sway, leaf whispers meander:
maybe the Earth will not fade
if we keep weaving shade, and people can nap
under our branches on clear sky fair days.
no human hands to mold or trim limbs.
Tree friends decide “The People” are worth saving.
They call to the gusts their desires
and off go tiny helicopters.
Off go robins carrying seed.
Forests take over farm fields.
Thirsty limbs stretch to creeks.
Gossip in the wood root web say
hill cousins spring where land was stripped.
Children run under boughs.
Leaves wind in wind currents.
Folks do not mind scat squirrels, birds leave.
Trunks bend sway, leaf whispers meander:
maybe the Earth will not fade
if we keep weaving shade, and people can nap
under our branches on clear sky fair days.
AFTER THE THUNDER
By Katrin Talbot (click here for bio)
Australian-born Katrin Talbot has a full-length poetry collection and two more forthcoming. She has seven chapbooks, two pushcart prize nominations, and quite a few chickens.
Now, the hanging mists
have come to
carry out duties of
delineation, holding state over
prairie beneath hill,
pointing out topography
previously vague
Be my mist
Tell me how to
seek the unnoticed,
past the primary to
hear the whispers beneath
the planet’s humming
have come to
carry out duties of
delineation, holding state over
prairie beneath hill,
pointing out topography
previously vague
Be my mist
Tell me how to
seek the unnoticed,
past the primary to
hear the whispers beneath
the planet’s humming
COVE POEMS (RAYMER'S COVE)
WATERS, SILVERED
By Catherine Young (click here for bio)
Catherine Young is the author of the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her writing is published nationally and internationally and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American essays. With a background in geography and environmental science, Catherine deeply believes in the use of story and art as tools for transforming the world. Rooted in farm life, she lives with her family in southwest Wisconsin’s Driftless region.
Waters, silvered by cirrus sky and summer's high sun
drive rollers shoreward to us on rust-colored sand. Our hands
plow cold waters, our feet sweep the line between sky
and land. For a while we imagine that summer
goes on forever, that unyielding water, firn beaches
in frozen season, are mirage. Instead, water
envelops us always, and always a breeze arrives
at midday, when rising waves rock and lap
our deepest core and gulls suspend, wings spread
timeless, as if painted there, above ocean shore.
Catherine Young, “Waters Silvered” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
drive rollers shoreward to us on rust-colored sand. Our hands
plow cold waters, our feet sweep the line between sky
and land. For a while we imagine that summer
goes on forever, that unyielding water, firn beaches
in frozen season, are mirage. Instead, water
envelops us always, and always a breeze arrives
at midday, when rising waves rock and lap
our deepest core and gulls suspend, wings spread
timeless, as if painted there, above ocean shore.
Catherine Young, “Waters Silvered” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022 Water’s Edge’s Press. For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
VOLUTE
by catherine young (click here for bio)
Catherine Young is the author of the ecopoetry collection Geosmin. Her writing is published nationally and internationally and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best American essays. With a background in geography and environmental science, Catherine deeply believes in the use of story and art as tools for transforming the world. Rooted in farm life, she lives with her family in southwest Wisconsin’s Driftless region.
When they walk ancient beaches, cliffs
of layered sandstone, they never seem to understand
that we are the shapes of waves,
that the rhythms of the tides mold all that matters.
They call us fossils without seeing the curl
of the fiddlehead fern, the folds
within each seed and vessel. All of it spirals −
yet not fast enough for them.
They forget the Moon, that conjurer of light, ovum of stone
that draws up the oceans, pulls helix through bone.
They overlook snails as pictographs of waves while shells
coil around the energy of the world. Oceans swell
in all that swirls this volatile möbius path.
All is volute.
Let us watch the Moon rise,
raise tides, turn them over.
Let us witness
the whirling embrace between
orb and ocean, the kiss
as bubbles race upward to hatch.
Catherine Young, “Volute” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022. Water’s Edge’s Press For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
of layered sandstone, they never seem to understand
that we are the shapes of waves,
that the rhythms of the tides mold all that matters.
They call us fossils without seeing the curl
of the fiddlehead fern, the folds
within each seed and vessel. All of it spirals −
yet not fast enough for them.
They forget the Moon, that conjurer of light, ovum of stone
that draws up the oceans, pulls helix through bone.
They overlook snails as pictographs of waves while shells
coil around the energy of the world. Oceans swell
in all that swirls this volatile möbius path.
All is volute.
Let us watch the Moon rise,
raise tides, turn them over.
Let us witness
the whirling embrace between
orb and ocean, the kiss
as bubbles race upward to hatch.
Catherine Young, “Volute” from the eco-poetry collection
Geosmin. © 2022. Water’s Edge’s Press For more information contact: http://www.catherineyoungwriter.com/
HEIGHTS POEMS (EAGLE HEIGHTS WOODS)
IN WHICH I CARRY LIGHTNING ON MY BACK
By Katrin Talbot (click here for bio)
Australian-born Katrin Talbot has a full-length poetry collection and two more forthcoming. She has seven chapbooks, two pushcart prize nominations, and quite a few chickens.
Up the mountain,
where the rock
bares its secrets
and I breathe in the earth
without a filter,
where stoic is the only name
for the trees who take
what is given to them
every season,
I find the black,
the white,
I carry them
down the mountain,
the story of lightning
in the charred wood,
the wisdom of the
bleached bone
and, after the descent,
I take the wood,
whose centuries-old essence
changed in a flash,
and write on the bone
STRUCK
Published by Ravensperch
where the rock
bares its secrets
and I breathe in the earth
without a filter,
where stoic is the only name
for the trees who take
what is given to them
every season,
I find the black,
the white,
I carry them
down the mountain,
the story of lightning
in the charred wood,
the wisdom of the
bleached bone
and, after the descent,
I take the wood,
whose centuries-old essence
changed in a flash,
and write on the bone
STRUCK
Published by Ravensperch
REACH
by Paul Noeldner (click here for bio)
Loves birds, nature and the Friends of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve!
We dream of depths unfathomed
We search for heights unclimbed
We long for places far afield
That we shall never find
The depth of one man's soul
The height, one woman's mind
The place touched by extended hands
Our universe defined
We search for heights unclimbed
We long for places far afield
That we shall never find
The depth of one man's soul
The height, one woman's mind
The place touched by extended hands
Our universe defined
It's in Our Nature 2023: Insight
Hybrid Poetry Open Mic Event
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"Insight"
Sole sublimity
Outside insights from within As a poem, shared This theme inspired by all the magic that we attribute to the outside world that exists only in our own heads.
Every day our minds sift through a sea of thoughts and sensory impressions, casting the world around us in vivid shades of beauty, emotion and what we think to be true. Poetry is a way to unlock our mind’s eye and share our singular awe at the world around us. This magic is one we can only tap by looking within. So it is that spending time outside can draw us closer to ourselves on the inside - for what is "inside" and "outside" is always in flux, and less distinct than we may think. We await your own “insights” eagerly. In room 126 in Memorial Library and through the magic of Zoom, nearly 40 people gathered to share in poetry at the 4th Annual "It's in Our Nature" Poetry open mic event on February 25th. Our 12 presenters this year included students (some first-time poetry presenters!), Puschart Prize nominated poets, UW Madison faculty, and writers from around the Madison community.
This was the first time we had hosted this event in person since the original "It's in Our Nature" event started by Lillian Tong and Olympia Mathiaparanam in 2020 in the Steenbock Biocommons. Despite a few expected technical hitches, the event's hybrid format worked well and allowed folks from all over Wisconsin and beyond to participate while still fostering the feeling only an in person open mic can create. The Madison Journal of Literary Criticism joined us this year to co-host the event, and will be publishing a two page spread on the Friends, the Preserve, and featuring poems from the event. We look forward to working with them further as we continue to expand the "It's in Our Nature" poetry audio trail initiative. Theme, artwork, and report by Will Vuyk. Photos provided by Paul Noeldner.
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Poets (in order of presentation): Catherine Young, Stella D'Aquisto, Darshigaa Gurumoorthy, Madeline Blum, Lori DiPrete Brown, Clara Landucci, Will Vuyk, Paul Noeldner, Amanjot Kaur, Katrin Talbot, Matti Powers, and Doris Dubielzig.
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It's in Our Nature 2022: Making Waves
Virtual Poetry Open Mic Event
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The theme of our event this year is making waves, because it seems like the waves just keep on coming these days. And when I say that, I don’t mean the peaceful lapping waves along the edges of a brook, nor those awesome sheets of rolling blue ocean glass. These waves, like the waves of lake Mendota, will continue to etch the passage of time into our shores like they always have and always will.
The waves I’m talking about lay us low, suck us in, and batter us against the sharp reef of hardship. Waves of loss. Waves of anxiety. Waves of violence. Waves of a pandemic that fills our mouths with water the moment we take off our masks to smile. All the ups and downs, the surges and the ebbs, they keep us off balance, denying us the peace of mind and freedoms of solid ground. Yet here we are, all of us already making our own waves. When you speak, the sound of your voice makes waves through the air, that when picked up by your computer, are converted into the waves of light that are connecting us all together today via Zoom. But all that, all this science and technology, just ruffles the surface, for it is the meaning of your words, the depth of your authenticity, that will make waves surge within our hearts and minds today. For in life, as in physics, waves can build and counteract. Let us meet the roiling waves around us with our own, sharing an outpouring of beauty, curiosity, and understanding with each other and letting it ripple out into the community. Theme and artwork by Will Vuyk.
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Poets (in order of presentation): Robin Chapman, Cara Evanson, Catherine Young, Alison Schaper, Will Vuyk, Sandy Stark, Paul Noeldner, Patricia Carney, Clara Landucci, Linda Newman Woito, Angie Trudell Vasquez, and Doris Dubielzig.
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It's in Our Nature 2021
Virtual Poetry Open Mic Event
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The 2021 Open Mic It's in Our Nature was held on February 27, virtually. Over forty enthusiasts attended this event, and many of them elected to present their poems and writings.
Robin Chapman, nature poet and member of the Friends, hosted this virtual meeting The event was organized by Friends board members Will Vuyk and Olympia Mathiaparanam, with technical support from Tom Bryan. A playlist of recorded poems can be found here. These poems were used to create the 2021 "It's in Our Nature" Audio Trail on Google My Maps to ground the virtual event in the land that inspired it. |
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2021 Audio Trail
The Poets and Their Poems
Will Vuyk
Will Vuyk
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Spirit Seeking
By Will Vuyk
In this haunting time of winter, the wind howls for all to hear it
but where are the spirits?
of summer and fall, when from leaves and vivid water all manner of souls did crawl and call, and buzz on
small
beating wings
The wind has left with those leaves, left with the heat that stirred the water, left with the wings of our fleeting spirits
yet here it still breathes
through the trees bare and barely moved, between rustling stalks
past the web of a lone dream catcher, a thin line it has to walk.
Winter-hardened, this spider is one of few
for neither midges nor mayflies dance under the midwinter moon
Even the mammals are elusive, as they tip-toe stories through the snow
While flocking birds, in tune with time, fly far off upon its flow
Under ice the frogs lay frozen, their friends the toads lie deep in silt,
Chasing across this absence, wind tears down all we’ve built
Yet on spins the spider,
desperate,
hopeful,
dreaming,
Memories of summer spirits flashing snowflakes lashing
the wind unrelenting in its dashing
of seven straining legs, stuck year-round in season’s fate
despite it all, holding a cup-half full makes eight.
The spirit-hunting spider weaves its web ever wider
knowing that time too is turning
birds will be returning
mammals out from sleeping, frogs a leaping, crickets cheeping, mosquitos sneaking
small, itchy stings
There is serenity in the snow, and beauty in the bleak Between the bare trees and rustling stalks, the windswept earth reveals all that we seek
Haunted by absence, it is presence that we hold oh so dear, making the spirits of summer all the more special when they reappear
By Will Vuyk
In this haunting time of winter, the wind howls for all to hear it
but where are the spirits?
of summer and fall, when from leaves and vivid water all manner of souls did crawl and call, and buzz on
small
beating wings
The wind has left with those leaves, left with the heat that stirred the water, left with the wings of our fleeting spirits
yet here it still breathes
through the trees bare and barely moved, between rustling stalks
past the web of a lone dream catcher, a thin line it has to walk.
Winter-hardened, this spider is one of few
for neither midges nor mayflies dance under the midwinter moon
Even the mammals are elusive, as they tip-toe stories through the snow
While flocking birds, in tune with time, fly far off upon its flow
Under ice the frogs lay frozen, their friends the toads lie deep in silt,
Chasing across this absence, wind tears down all we’ve built
Yet on spins the spider,
desperate,
hopeful,
dreaming,
Memories of summer spirits flashing snowflakes lashing
the wind unrelenting in its dashing
of seven straining legs, stuck year-round in season’s fate
despite it all, holding a cup-half full makes eight.
The spirit-hunting spider weaves its web ever wider
knowing that time too is turning
birds will be returning
mammals out from sleeping, frogs a leaping, crickets cheeping, mosquitos sneaking
small, itchy stings
There is serenity in the snow, and beauty in the bleak Between the bare trees and rustling stalks, the windswept earth reveals all that we seek
Haunted by absence, it is presence that we hold oh so dear, making the spirits of summer all the more special when they reappear
Robin Chapman
Robin Chapman
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Rhubarb
by Robin Chapman
Red fists punch through a crust of snow,
red knuckles veined with green, raised
against a sky threatening more cold and hail--
leaf after leaf will unfurl its rugged shoulders,
shrug off its crystals of ice, climb
into gray light on those fat red stems
we learned to chop and boil
in sweet syrup when nothing else
was green but its toxic leaves—those
crisp astringent pieces of rhubarb stalk
that bring us the first sharp taste of spring.
by Robin Chapman
Red fists punch through a crust of snow,
red knuckles veined with green, raised
against a sky threatening more cold and hail--
leaf after leaf will unfurl its rugged shoulders,
shrug off its crystals of ice, climb
into gray light on those fat red stems
we learned to chop and boil
in sweet syrup when nothing else
was green but its toxic leaves—those
crisp astringent pieces of rhubarb stalk
that bring us the first sharp taste of spring.
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The Chimney Swifts of Madison
by Robin Chapman August and September evenings they gather, after fledglings have grown and gone, after eating their daily weight in insects, before they fly to South America for winter months— begin to circle the old school's chimney stack. High up, twittering, they call in each other from across our city, last mosquitoes and early moths snatched up as they turn and turn over the stack, the parking lot, our small selves perched on rocks or standing there, tripods set up to catch the sunset, the circle of smoke that they become as light departs and they spiral down, the stragglers joining in to drop, one by one by many one, out of sight, into the dark lined with bodies clinging to rough cement and we find our hearts, caught in pandemic fear, lifted, enfolded, brought home to rest in the kindred dark. Originally appeared on James Crews’ Facebook Page and reprinted in Quill and Parchment, March 2021, Vol. 237 |
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Hannah Pinkerton
Hannah Pinkerton
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ARCTIC AIR
by Hannah Pinkerton
Pushing north Sun gets up earlier
throwing shadows across bluish snow
running up red pine to cobalt sky
Cardinal shines Vatican red
against purity of snow
Woodpecker all fluffed out
bereft of trim dandy look
Chickadees on a zip line
tree, feeder back to tree
Sheltered in place behind bay window
I taste cold color, drink clean clear sky
take in my daily minimum requirement
of gratitude.
by Hannah Pinkerton
Pushing north Sun gets up earlier
throwing shadows across bluish snow
running up red pine to cobalt sky
Cardinal shines Vatican red
against purity of snow
Woodpecker all fluffed out
bereft of trim dandy look
Chickadees on a zip line
tree, feeder back to tree
Sheltered in place behind bay window
I taste cold color, drink clean clear sky
take in my daily minimum requirement
of gratitude.
Doris Dubielzig
Doris Dubielzig
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Apologies
by Doris Dubielzig, February 2021
Pardon me. I’ve been
Preoccupied lately with demands both external and internal;
Indifferent and inattentive to seasonal progress;
Disinterested in reality and distracted by technology;
Deaf and blind to the biota
That flies above, crawls around and burrows beneath me.
That is to say,
“I’ve been busy.”
Forgive me. I have neglected to
Appreciate the sunrise and the rise of spring sporangia;
To catch the Northern lights and the lightning bugs;
To distinguish the warbler’s song from the wren’s.
I have skimmed without learning,
Skipped without thinking,
Squinted while blinking
Away tears of indulgence.
Excuse me. I’m ignorant of
The history of the bitter, broken promises,
The mystery of these mounds,
The legacy of the ancient travelers
Who set up camp 12,000 years
Before the present, who
Captured prey in the woods and in the bay,
Lit fire to the prairie and the marsh.
Permit me. I will commit to
Respect pioneers both plant and animal,
Study the clouds and the thrushes
Encourage the reeds and the rushes,
Recall the roles of water and wind,
Return to this central point, and
Here I’ll help to repair, restore and
Attend to this special, precious Preserve.
by Doris Dubielzig, February 2021
Pardon me. I’ve been
Preoccupied lately with demands both external and internal;
Indifferent and inattentive to seasonal progress;
Disinterested in reality and distracted by technology;
Deaf and blind to the biota
That flies above, crawls around and burrows beneath me.
That is to say,
“I’ve been busy.”
Forgive me. I have neglected to
Appreciate the sunrise and the rise of spring sporangia;
To catch the Northern lights and the lightning bugs;
To distinguish the warbler’s song from the wren’s.
I have skimmed without learning,
Skipped without thinking,
Squinted while blinking
Away tears of indulgence.
Excuse me. I’m ignorant of
The history of the bitter, broken promises,
The mystery of these mounds,
The legacy of the ancient travelers
Who set up camp 12,000 years
Before the present, who
Captured prey in the woods and in the bay,
Lit fire to the prairie and the marsh.
Permit me. I will commit to
Respect pioneers both plant and animal,
Study the clouds and the thrushes
Encourage the reeds and the rushes,
Recall the roles of water and wind,
Return to this central point, and
Here I’ll help to repair, restore and
Attend to this special, precious Preserve.
Nancy Austin
Nancy Austin
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Originally appeared in Remnants of Warmth (Kelsay Books, 2019) and to be reprinted in Something Novel Came in Spring (Water’s Edge Press, 2021).
Sandy Stark
Sandy Stark
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DAY
by Sandy Stark
Birds counted in marsh,
fields, trees and we left to seed
burnt prairie in snow.
Birds counted in marsh,
fields, trees and we left to seed
burnt prairie in snow.
To be published in Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem, coming in Nov. (XXX1, 2) issue
by Sandy Stark
Birds counted in marsh,
fields, trees and we left to seed
burnt prairie in snow.
Birds counted in marsh,
fields, trees and we left to seed
burnt prairie in snow.
To be published in Hummingbird: Magazine of the Short Poem, coming in Nov. (XXX1, 2) issue
Paul Noeldner
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Paul Noeldner
AUDIO COMING SOON
Nature Magnets
I paint you a picture of poplar poles
Milky tan trunks, dark green between
Fluttering tops and bark spotted eyes
Lining the woodland along the roadsides
Meadow patched quilt
Rough fencepost hem
Home for the wild critter and child
Beyond, hidden crows call
Bright streambed rocks
Berry sweet thickets
Natures magnets
This poem is inspired by the magic of survival of life frozen over winter...
Fireflies in Winter
Fireflies in winter n the seasons twinkling lights
Glow sparkling embers of life's summer blaze
Nestled hearts beat through long icebound nights
Again in spring from bent brown grass and budding birch arise
This poem is in honor of the humble milkweed and all the living things that our native plants support...
A Milkweeds Tale
Springs Soft Milk Sucking Stem
Feeds Summers Monarch of the Glen
Falls Wrapped in Grizzled Cloak
Winters Wind Blows Snow White Smoke
Weaving Fresh New Babys Bowers
This poem is in honor of the hundreds of Tundra Swans that visit our beautiful bays each Spring and Fall...
Can Your Hear Tundras Honking
Can you hear the Tundras honking
As they end their wild ride
Call out to their wing mates
And touch down soft to glide
On mirrors of quiet waters
To weave a graceful dance
Until with full moon rising
Burst skyward from their trance
AUDIO COMING SOON
Nature Magnets
I paint you a picture of poplar poles
Milky tan trunks, dark green between
Fluttering tops and bark spotted eyes
Lining the woodland along the roadsides
Meadow patched quilt
Rough fencepost hem
Home for the wild critter and child
Beyond, hidden crows call
Bright streambed rocks
Berry sweet thickets
Natures magnets
This poem is inspired by the magic of survival of life frozen over winter...
Fireflies in Winter
Fireflies in winter n the seasons twinkling lights
Glow sparkling embers of life's summer blaze
Nestled hearts beat through long icebound nights
Again in spring from bent brown grass and budding birch arise
This poem is in honor of the humble milkweed and all the living things that our native plants support...
A Milkweeds Tale
Springs Soft Milk Sucking Stem
Feeds Summers Monarch of the Glen
Falls Wrapped in Grizzled Cloak
Winters Wind Blows Snow White Smoke
Weaving Fresh New Babys Bowers
This poem is in honor of the hundreds of Tundra Swans that visit our beautiful bays each Spring and Fall...
Can Your Hear Tundras Honking
Can you hear the Tundras honking
As they end their wild ride
Call out to their wing mates
And touch down soft to glide
On mirrors of quiet waters
To weave a graceful dance
Until with full moon rising
Burst skyward from their trance
Clara Landucci
Clara Landucci
Listen
By Clara Landucci Kneel Place your ear upon the earth listen- do you hear it? A thousand clamoring whispers sound Listen closer The trees speak It is a tongue we have not yet earned the right to know But it is music all the same Beneath the shell of the earth there lies A spider’s web of fungi A gossamer map of connections Criss crossing swirling diving- swooping in around over and through the rich soil from tree- to tree to tree A web of fine spun song A silently clamoring chorus of voices The trees- speak They say- See us. Listen to us. Do you hear us? We are not yet lost |
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Leta Landucci
Leta Landucci
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The Lake Reaches
by Leta Landucci
The lake reaches
Upward it stretches
Molecules of water slowing their euphoric jittering
Linking hands
to share electrons
to assemble -
architectural marvels of crystalline palisades
Helical staircases unspooling, rungs sending refracted light,
skittering
ever climbing, unfolding
Upward
The trees bend their stiffened backs
Stooping toward the lake, as if to catch the whispers of a tale
Of all the swatches of color and pinpricks of starlight and contemplative faces to which the lake has served as looking glass
The tree’s frozen fibers pluck water from the air
Limbs encased in bubble-embedded chrysalides of ice
Branches, elongating
Molecule followed by molecule
Downwards
Reaching upward
the lake shutters
filamentous threads, growing pains
Fractals etched across its skin, its frozen membrane
Reaching
Keep reaching
Ever grasping
For purchase
An anchor
It’s body a bridge
A speleothem dripstone
A confluence of stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous maw of an ice creature petrified mid howl
punctuated by canine daggers
Hourglass pillars to buttress a frozen fortress
Icicle fingers
Seeking out
Reaching out
Ever grasping
For purchase
An anchor
Its body a bridge
For connection
by Leta Landucci
The lake reaches
Upward it stretches
Molecules of water slowing their euphoric jittering
Linking hands
to share electrons
to assemble -
architectural marvels of crystalline palisades
Helical staircases unspooling, rungs sending refracted light,
skittering
ever climbing, unfolding
Upward
The trees bend their stiffened backs
Stooping toward the lake, as if to catch the whispers of a tale
Of all the swatches of color and pinpricks of starlight and contemplative faces to which the lake has served as looking glass
The tree’s frozen fibers pluck water from the air
Limbs encased in bubble-embedded chrysalides of ice
Branches, elongating
Molecule followed by molecule
Downwards
Reaching upward
the lake shutters
filamentous threads, growing pains
Fractals etched across its skin, its frozen membrane
Reaching
Keep reaching
Ever grasping
For purchase
An anchor
It’s body a bridge
A speleothem dripstone
A confluence of stalactites and stalagmites
The cavernous maw of an ice creature petrified mid howl
punctuated by canine daggers
Hourglass pillars to buttress a frozen fortress
Icicle fingers
Seeking out
Reaching out
Ever grasping
For purchase
An anchor
Its body a bridge
For connection
Marjorie Rhine
Marjorie Rhine
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“Finding My Path”
—Marjorie E. Rhine
My daughter Mathilda strides ahead of me, her dark-brown hair falling in messy waves over the back of her owl-adorned t-shirt, an appealing rock already snuggling in a pocket of her boy’s khaki shorts. This beautiful June day is her eleventh birthday, and as part of our celebration we are walking together out onto Picnic Point, a peninsula about a mile long that curls out from the south shore of Lake Mendota like a little elephant’s trunk reaching toward the northeast. Tiny toads leap about our feet at the edge of the path, and Mathilda bends low, cupping her hands to catch one. We crouch together, cooing over this miniature marvel.
These chocolate-dappled American toads are only as big as my thumbnail now, newly metamorphosed from their tadpole selves. In late Spring, I watched two toad parents hug half-submerged as if wrestling, a coupling called amplexus, from the Latin word that means to embrace. The smaller male clasps tightly to the female’s back, ready to fertilize her two long strands of eggs as they spill out into the water in wispy, translucent strings dotted with dark-brown beads, drifting down to curl around some reedy plants in the water.
Standing to stretch, I focus for a moment on the high-pitched trills of red-bellied woodpeckers as they poke around for insects in the bark of the trees above us, lifting my face and closing my eyes in pleasure as the June sun warms my skin. When I look again at Mathilda, the light plays over her long hair, making the coppery highlights glow, and I think of her as a beneficent goddess bent low over the toads, blessing their pilgrimage. I feel a warmth expand across my chest that is both an opening and an ache. Having lived in Madison since she was two, she is a child of oaks and acorns, prairies and frozen lakes, someone who ice skates and heads to a nearby snowy playground in the winter to hit a tether ball or shoot baskets, her face bright from the cold when she returns.
But even after going to graduate school in Madison and moving back here years ago when Mathilda was a toddler, I am still a child of fir trees and rhododendrons, sea shores and mountains, imprinted with the landscape of my childhood in Tacoma, Washington. I long to feel more grounded in Madison. And Lake Mendota seduces and soothes me, offering me a way to find my path along its shores. The lake winks through the trees to reveal vistas of wooded bluffs full of woodpeckers, warblers. Bright sprays of water splash up behind a group of black, chubby American coots that scurry across the surface of the lake before they can take flight. The trails that linger along the lip of the lake invite me on a pilgrimage of walking, reading, writing. Can I immerse myself in all of these lovely layers of landscape, meandering along these sun-sparkled waterways to find a home here, too?
Mathilda looks up: “Mama, let’s go find some sea-glass!”
I’ve got the best guide in the world.
—Marjorie E. Rhine
My daughter Mathilda strides ahead of me, her dark-brown hair falling in messy waves over the back of her owl-adorned t-shirt, an appealing rock already snuggling in a pocket of her boy’s khaki shorts. This beautiful June day is her eleventh birthday, and as part of our celebration we are walking together out onto Picnic Point, a peninsula about a mile long that curls out from the south shore of Lake Mendota like a little elephant’s trunk reaching toward the northeast. Tiny toads leap about our feet at the edge of the path, and Mathilda bends low, cupping her hands to catch one. We crouch together, cooing over this miniature marvel.
These chocolate-dappled American toads are only as big as my thumbnail now, newly metamorphosed from their tadpole selves. In late Spring, I watched two toad parents hug half-submerged as if wrestling, a coupling called amplexus, from the Latin word that means to embrace. The smaller male clasps tightly to the female’s back, ready to fertilize her two long strands of eggs as they spill out into the water in wispy, translucent strings dotted with dark-brown beads, drifting down to curl around some reedy plants in the water.
Standing to stretch, I focus for a moment on the high-pitched trills of red-bellied woodpeckers as they poke around for insects in the bark of the trees above us, lifting my face and closing my eyes in pleasure as the June sun warms my skin. When I look again at Mathilda, the light plays over her long hair, making the coppery highlights glow, and I think of her as a beneficent goddess bent low over the toads, blessing their pilgrimage. I feel a warmth expand across my chest that is both an opening and an ache. Having lived in Madison since she was two, she is a child of oaks and acorns, prairies and frozen lakes, someone who ice skates and heads to a nearby snowy playground in the winter to hit a tether ball or shoot baskets, her face bright from the cold when she returns.
But even after going to graduate school in Madison and moving back here years ago when Mathilda was a toddler, I am still a child of fir trees and rhododendrons, sea shores and mountains, imprinted with the landscape of my childhood in Tacoma, Washington. I long to feel more grounded in Madison. And Lake Mendota seduces and soothes me, offering me a way to find my path along its shores. The lake winks through the trees to reveal vistas of wooded bluffs full of woodpeckers, warblers. Bright sprays of water splash up behind a group of black, chubby American coots that scurry across the surface of the lake before they can take flight. The trails that linger along the lip of the lake invite me on a pilgrimage of walking, reading, writing. Can I immerse myself in all of these lovely layers of landscape, meandering along these sun-sparkled waterways to find a home here, too?
Mathilda looks up: “Mama, let’s go find some sea-glass!”
I’ve got the best guide in the world.
It's in Our Nature 2020
Poetry Open Mic Event
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In early 2019, Olympia Mathiaparanam, Board Member, had the idea that we could harness the power of the humanities in inspiring connection to nature. The “It’s in Our Nature” open mic event held in the BioCommons in the Steenbock Library on Thursday, February 25 was the result of that idea. We asked Robin Chapman, poet, Emeritus faculty of the UW-Madison, and Friends member, to be the Master of Ceremony and featured poet. Robin has written ten books of nature-inspired poetry and has received recognition and honors for her work including the 2010 Appalachia Poetry Prize, and a Wisconsin Arts Board Literary Arts Fellowship. Robin, Olympia, and Lillian Tong, also a Board Member, met together to plan the details around this experimental initiative months in advance. Because of the need to reach a broader audience than our usual field trips, the team created and distributed posters around campus and in local coffee shops and establishments.
The event opened with a slideshow of 105 images of the Lakeshore Nature Preserve, selected by Lillian Tong and put into a PowerPoint presentation with the help of Linda Deith, Tom Yin, and Sarah Congdon. These images were among those taken by numerous photographers and pulled together by Gisela Kutzbach. The slideshow played for the 15 minutes prior to the Open Mic while performers were signing up for slots and choosing images that would be projected while they read their creative expression. Olympia welcomed the attendees and introduced Robin, who opened and closed the event with her excellent poetry. The poetry and prose of our 6 performers, together with the visual images, brought the beauty and power of nature into the space! In all, 23 people enjoyed the work of the performers, several of whom were new to the Lakeshore Preserve. After the presentations, attendees had an opportunity to visit and view the display table with materials about the Lakeshore Nature Preserve.
The BioCommons director and staff were very welcoming and helpful, and provided a perfect place for the event, for which we are so grateful. Refreshments were donated by Lillian Tong and the BioCommons offered coffee. The organizers, who had worried about results of this experiment, were happy with the response and hope to repeat the event, perhaps with ideas for improvements. Report by Lillian Tong and Olympia Mathiaparanam. Photos by Tom Yin and Olympia. |
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