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Open Mic - It's in our Nature

3/17/2021

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The 2021 Open Mic It's in our Nature was held on February 27, virtually. Over thirty enthusiasts attended this event, and many of them elected to present their poems and writings. Below are a selection of the writings we have organized into an audio trail map throughout the Preserve (map at bottom of page). Though not all writers who attended the event are represented in the audio trail, we thank everyone who presented for their contributions. 

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 Matharapanam, with technical support from Tom Bryan.


Full audio playlist of the poems, read aloud by the poets:

The Poems and Poets

Will vuyk
Picture
Will Vuyk
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

​
Robin chapman
Picture
Robin Chapman
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. 
​
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
Sandy stark
Picture
Sandy Stark
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
doris dubielzig
Picture
Doris Dubielzig
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.
​
hannah pinkerton
Picture
Hannah Pinkerton
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.
nancy austin
Picture
Nancy Austin
​Originally appeared in Remnants of Warmth (Kelsay Books, 2019) and to be reprinted in Something Novel Came in Spring (Water’s Edge Press, 2021).
leta landucci
Picture
Leta Landucci
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 ​
Clara landucci
Picture
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
 
 
​​
marjorie rhine
Picture
Marjorie Rhine
​“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.   
​
paul noeldner
Picture
Paul Noeldner
By Paul Noeldner
​
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
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  • Home
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