{"id":4293,"date":"2024-04-05T14:34:41","date_gmt":"2024-04-05T18:34:41","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/?p=4293"},"modified":"2024-04-09T15:07:19","modified_gmt":"2024-04-09T19:07:19","slug":"gardner-2","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/","title":{"rendered":"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves"},"content":{"rendered":"

By Chris Gardner<\/strong><\/p>\n

 <\/h3>\n

Artist Statement <\/span><\/h3>\n

Both of these poems were written in co-respondence with the natural environment of Maine. I attempted through them to capture the ways in which time spent in communion with nature, whether that be walking along the Stillwater River as it touches the UMaine campus, or meandering through the close pines in the Bangor City Forest, or any other of the myriad ways to encounter the rich natural treasures of our state. Doing so has allowed me to center myself in the presence of what is, rather than be lost in mental abstractions. Ironically, the mental abstraction of the poem “Stillwater River” is meant to capture this process, while “CHILD OF THE LEAVES” is an attempt to personify that moment of encounter and the subsequent amelioration through the healing power of communion with nature. None of these encounters are possible without carefully stewarded public lands that are preserved for their own sake as living ecosystems. The dialogue I am attempting to generate here is between the reader and the encounter with natural space, and ideally will engender in them a respect for and understanding of what wild spaces can provide beyond material, economic benefits.<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Stillwater River <\/span><\/h3>\n

I\u2019m looking out now<\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019m trying not to <\/span><\/p>\n

      look in  <\/span><\/p>\n

                  at the Stillwater silhouette <\/span><\/p>\n

                            still water<\/span><\/p>\n

                     just still <\/span><\/p>\n

         listening to Canadian geese too late who<\/span><\/p>\n

have missed their moment and wait for it<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                      to come back <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

but please do any of us know?<\/span><\/p>\n

each snowflake really is<\/span><\/p>\n

                                        almost perfectly unique<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                    that\u2019s real<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                               no sudden phenomenon but <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                              realization I could almost sense it<\/span><\/p>\n

if I had any sense <\/span><\/p>\n

I\u2019d look at all the snowflakes <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                  catching in my knotted hair<\/span><\/p>\n

and go raving naked lunatic at last<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                  if it wasn\u2019t for the W-2\u2019s <\/span><\/p>\n

                                              and in them the second world war<\/span><\/p>\n

but even I<\/span><\/p>\n

              a poor blind sinner mother <\/span><\/p>\n

              am almost perfect<\/span><\/p>\n

        for all is as the waves wills it<\/span><\/p>\n

and will be so again <\/span><\/p>\n

                                  right Pablo?<\/span><\/p>\n

we are winning we\u2019re alive<\/span><\/p>\n

(Neruda<\/span><\/p>\n

            O\u2019 Hara<\/span><\/p>\n

                     Korea<\/span><\/p>\n

                        Bermuda)<\/span><\/p>\n

                                         ooh I wanna take ya<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                           down <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                       to the riverside <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                       to baptize <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                        in the still ice <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                        in full view of the jury <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                            of Canadian geese<\/span><\/p>\n

and hold you under just<\/span><\/p>\n

a second too long so you wonder, is this all there really is?<\/span><\/p>\n

but of course it isn\u2019t because beneath us all beneath the crystalline structures of dirty plow snow and ice that almost killed me so close to home is the first<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                         the very first <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                          THE blade of grass<\/span><\/p>\n

which will arise again in the spring <\/span><\/p>\n

and no one will see <\/span><\/p>\n

                              making it<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                almost perfect<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                           as it nestles into life between the steam factory <\/span><\/p>\n

and the still water river <\/span><\/p>\n

                                     where the fairies manufacture what? Steam?<\/span><\/p>\n

YES it billows up to god like <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                a funeral pyre or unheard whisper and tickles his nose oh no<\/span><\/p>\n

He\u2019s allergic!<\/span><\/p>\n

                       back to the Frankenstein <\/span><\/p>\n

                                        and the myrrh <\/span><\/p>\n

and so the smoke goes blows quietly <\/span><\/p>\n

                                         forgotten save for the moment<\/span><\/p>\n

the light catches it<\/span><\/p>\n

                              just right like the golden hour reflected in the brown of your irises and makes them golden just like it<\/span><\/p>\n

                                              it\u2019s almost perfect<\/span><\/p>\n

                                just like me<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                    or you<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                   or anyone!<\/span><\/p>\n

caught but for the moment in amber superstructures <\/span><\/p>\n

pushed into the snowbank between (can I make a deposit?)<\/span><\/p>\n

                                           me and river <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                        you and the river <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                      we and the river<\/span><\/p>\n

when it melts                                                 we are the river <\/span><\/p>\n

                                        it will be <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                       almost perfect<\/span><\/p>\n

and in that way the most poetic <\/span><\/p>\n

                                        in the Japanese sense. <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

\n

Child of the Leaves<\/span><\/h3>\n

Standing in the kitchen <\/span><\/p>\n

                  sucking in my gut<\/span><\/p>\n

                       feeling overwhelmed and underripe<\/span><\/p>\n

slipping in slick sounds<\/span><\/p>\n

    falling <\/span><\/p>\n

              in puddles of undone dishes<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                            and conversation\u2014rent is due<\/span><\/p>\n

When a cold creeping word slips<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                       soft through the window pain<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                  whispers of the cold fire<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                   and the great dying done <\/span><\/p>\n

right outside the window, Look<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                      to trees of crimson and gold<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                        and awareness awakened <\/span><\/p>\n

                                         <\/span><\/p>\n

                                          LOOK at them<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                           just once<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

the bombardier trees loosing a fiery load <\/span><\/p>\n

each bomb precious<\/span><\/p>\n

crashing quiet against the exploding voices <\/span><\/p>\n

in the kitchen<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                         an electric cobweb of words cut clean through <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                   by words beyond words<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                                    nature beyond nature <\/span><\/p>\n

by the old voice of one beyond time and kitchens<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

calling me, calling ME <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                          to slide out of the kitchen skin and into something<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                                         else, <\/span><\/p>\n

And I do\u2013\u2013  I leave. <\/span><\/p>\n

                              That\u2019s all I do.<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                             That\u2019s not true (I grab the gun) because it\u2019s dangerous to go                                                                                                                                                                 alone<\/span><\/p>\n

                   and I am no noble <\/span><\/p>\n

                                  nor knight nor seer of high visions<\/span><\/p>\n

                   but I      know there\u2019s more to life<\/span><\/p>\n

 than meets the I<\/span><\/p>\n

                                 and the eye knows this. <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                      Sometimes shadows slink and slither <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                        in ways wavering and unmoored<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                     from the cold drab concrete slab <\/span><\/p>\n

sometimes a creature black and grim <\/span><\/p>\n

too tall too wild              too like me<\/span><\/p>\n

                                         can be seen in the mind\u2019s eye<\/span><\/p>\n

                                         and increasingly I think<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                               I see his visage in my mind  <\/span><\/p>\n

                                          <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Now, I break<\/span><\/p>\n

                     branches that block and point <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                        the way<\/span><\/p>\n

Living shaking trees <\/span><\/p>\n

                                     with breaks too high for the hand of man<\/span><\/p>\n

 Yes!<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                                    a very god<\/span><\/p>\n

 a Forest God!<\/span><\/p>\n

          with the answer to it all: <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                      the forest groves, the pressure machine,<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                  the pressure behind my eyes<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                                          and what it all means<\/span><\/p>\n

about me. <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Snapping twigs <\/span><\/p>\n

                          and cracking bones<\/span><\/p>\n

                                 carving through leaves long burnt<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                  <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                        I fall<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                                                  rise bloodied and bruised<\/span><\/p>\n

                      a pilgrim<\/span><\/p>\n

   and I must speak my peace to the deep <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                to the dark heart of the north woods<\/span><\/p>\n

where silence is full<\/span><\/p>\n

and sounds long and cold<\/span><\/p>\n

                         bone cold<\/span><\/p>\n

                                             that never quite goes away<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

There the trees sing<\/span><\/p>\n

                         short sharp barks <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                          of ash on elm<\/span><\/p>\n

          the wind applauds <\/span><\/p>\n

                                         through needled pines<\/span><\/p>\n

                           <\/span><\/p>\n

                                                  There I saw shapes shift<\/span><\/p>\n

                                               and turn<\/span><\/p>\n

                                  too human\u2013no, more<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                              and a not-wind whispered a not-language<\/span><\/p>\n

and I thought, are they?<\/span><\/p>\n

                        are they looking for me<\/span> my family?<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                 Them?<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                      Am I?<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                am I<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                                                                am i<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                      at last<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                        I am <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                             face to awful face<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                         with the great creature at the heart<\/span><\/p>\n

                   too tall                too wild             too human <\/span><\/p>\n

                             hair all over, crimson and gold<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                      it spoke to me <\/span><\/p>\n

                                          in a voice of thunder<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                             running rivers<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                              and growing moss<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                the voice heard at the back of dreams <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

FWAAHRUUWAARAASHEEEEE<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                                                CREEEWHOOOWEEEDOSHOOOOO<\/span><\/p>\n

and my frozen gun hand raises<\/span><\/p>\n

slowly as the sun and points<\/span><\/p>\n

amidst the always dying,<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                 the drifting leaves<\/span><\/p>\n

and the slow burn<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                      and the quiet moment lasting eons of ageless time<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                    <\/span><\/p>\n

                  at last it raises a clay-thick hand<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                     and takes the cold metal from my cracked skin<\/span><\/p>\n

          <\/span><\/p>\n

                offering the gun to the whispering pinewoods<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                            as does a cat with a bird in its teeth\u2014<\/span><\/p>\n

         the trees, gracious parents, take<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                             their spindly needle fingers unspin screws <\/span><\/p>\n

and the metal stands transformed,<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                        and drops to the ground a perfect-shaped pinecone.<\/span><\/p>\n

                            <\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

all questions gone from me, I stagger punch-drunk as a stupid boxer into the too-long arms<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

      it smells like mold and soil, rot, and manure,<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                   everything that dies to grow<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                                      and grows to die<\/span><\/p>\n

           <\/span><\/p>\n

 my tears trickle into its mossy hair, and tiny leaves sprout up where they meet <\/span><\/p>\n

                                   sprout and grow, spread and leave<\/span> <\/b><\/p>\n

                                                                                           and crimson and auburn weaves a way through me<\/span><\/p>\n

                                      i can hear in his voice of thunder<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                               running rivers<\/span><\/p>\n

                                                                                and growing moss<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

                                     \u201cBE AT PEACE CHILD OF THE LEAVES\u201d<\/span><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

By Chris Gardner   Artist Statement Both of these poems were written in co-respondence with the natural environment of Maine. I attempted through them to capture the ways in which time spent in communion with nature, whether that be walking along the Stillwater River as it touches the UMaine campus, or meandering through the close […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2245,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_kad_blocks_custom_css":"","_kad_blocks_head_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_body_custom_js":"","_kad_blocks_footer_custom_js":"","_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"footnotes":""},"categories":[47],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4293","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-spire-2024-issue"],"yoast_head":"\nPoetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"By Chris Gardner   Artist Statement Both of these poems were written in co-respondence with the natural environment of Maine. I attempted through them to capture the ways in which time spent in communion with nature, whether that be walking along the Stillwater River as it touches the UMaine campus, or meandering through the close […]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:site_name\" content=\"The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:published_time\" content=\"2024-04-05T18:34:41+00:00\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2024-04-09T19:07:19+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"author\" content=\"csaddler\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:card\" content=\"summary_large_image\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Written by\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"csaddler\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:label2\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data2\" content=\"6 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\/\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"Article\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/#article\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\"},\"author\":{\"name\":\"csaddler\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#\/schema\/person\/1d30098a1809b78198e1d4fa49100f8b\"},\"headline\":\"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves\",\"datePublished\":\"2024-04-05T18:34:41+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-04-09T19:07:19+00:00\",\"mainEntityOfPage\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\"},\"wordCount\":8531,\"commentCount\":0,\"articleSection\":[\"Spire 2024 Issue\"],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"CommentAction\",\"name\":\"Comment\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/#respond\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\",\"name\":\"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2024-04-05T18:34:41+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2024-04-09T19:07:19+00:00\",\"author\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#\/schema\/person\/1d30098a1809b78198e1d4fa49100f8b\"},\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/\",\"name\":\"The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability\",\"description\":\"University of Maine\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Person\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#\/schema\/person\/1d30098a1809b78198e1d4fa49100f8b\",\"name\":\"csaddler\",\"image\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/#\/schema\/person\/image\/\",\"url\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/af6f84bc666b51677f75acb78251f80b947c7fc746ddbd7c5316ea4b76efc98c?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\/\/secure.gravatar.com\/avatar\/af6f84bc666b51677f75acb78251f80b947c7fc746ddbd7c5316ea4b76efc98c?s=96&d=mm&r=g\",\"caption\":\"csaddler\"},\"url\":\"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/author\/csaddler\/\"}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/umaine.edu\/spire\/2024\/04\/05\/gardner-2\/","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"Poetry Series: Stillwater River; Child of the Leaves - The Maine Journal of Conservation and Sustainability - University of Maine","og_description":"By Chris Gardner   Artist Statement Both of these poems were written in co-respondence with the natural environment of Maine. 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