Tree of Life by Coyote (as told to Patricia K.)

This segment is from a longer piece, Plato’s Alcove, which won an honorable mention in Torrey House Press’s 2011 Creative Non-Fiction Contest.   You can read the entire entry here. Plato’s Alcove is about my first trip to the desert back in 1982.

In the desert one day I met Coyote, the Trickster-God.   We greeted each other and sat in the shade.   I opened my canteen and drank then offered Coyote a drink.   When he thought I wasn’t looking he wiped the canteen’s mouth.   Then he drank.

€œThank you, € he said, handing it back.

I asked Coyote, €œWhy is this place so beautiful? €

He laughed and said, €œI’ll tell you a story that explains everything. €

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Epithalamion* by Gerard Manley Hopkins (and friend)

HARK, hearer, hear what I do; lend a thought now, make believe

We are leafwhelmed somewhere with the hood

Of some branchy bunchy bushybowered wood,

Southern dene or Lancashire clough or Devon cleave,

That leans along the loins of hills, where a candycoloured, where a gluegold-brown

Marbled river, boisterously beautiful, between

Roots and rocks is danced and dandled, all in froth and waterblowballs,  down.

We are there, when we hear a shout

That the hanging honeysuck, the dogeared hazels in the cover

Makes dither, makes hover

And the riot of a rout

Of, it must be, boys from the town

Bathing: it is summer’s sovereign good.

By there comes a listless stranger: beckoned by the noise

He drops towards the river: unseen

Sees the bevy of them, how the boys

With dare and with downdolphinry and bellbright bodies huddling out,

Are earthworld, airworld, waterworld thorough hurled, all by turn and turn  about.

This garland of their gambols flashes in his breast

Into such a sudden zest

Of summertime joys

That he hies to a pool neighbouring; sees it is the best

There; sweetest, freshest, shadowiest;

Fairyland; silk-beech, scrolled ash, packed sycamore, wild wychelm,

hornbeam fretty overstood

By. Rafts and rafts of flake-leaves light, dealt so, painted on the air,

Hang as still as hawk or hawkmoth, as the stars or as the angels there,

Like the thing that never knew the earth, never off roots

Rose. Here he feasts: lovely all is! No more: off with €”down he dings

His bleachèd both and woolwoven wear:

Careless these in coloured wisp

All lie tumbled-to; then with loop-locks

Forward falling, forehead frowning, lips crisp

Over finger-teasing task, his twiny boots

Fast he opens, last he offwrings

Till walk the world he can with bare his feet

And come where lies a coffer, burly all of blocks

Built of chancequarrièd, selfquainèd rocks

And the water warbles over into, filleted with glassy grassy quicksilver  shivès and shoots

And with heavenfallen freshness down from moorland still brims,

Dark or daylight on and on. Here he will then, here he will the fleet

Flinty kindcold element let break across his limbs

Long. Where we leave him, froliclavish while he looks about him, laughs,  swims.

Enough now; since the sacred matter that I mean

I should be wronging longer leaving it to float

Upon this only gambolling and echoing-of-earth note €”

What is €¦ the delightful dene?

Wedlock. What the water? Spousal love.

And who the gamboled groom? Kingfish Christ-our-Saviour

Or his son. Who the gangway, brindled, bridling bride to shear the very sheep of him?

Church and churchgoing churchcoming churchliving churchloving

Christkeeping. Who, indeed, the latecome, lightshorn, grinning, gaming guests?

We. Us. Poor. Oh!

Father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends

Into fairy trees, wild flowers, wood ferns

Rankèd round the bower leap! assemble! and withdraw the veiling world

And witness there the sunblonde, brightburned waking

And the wedding of the Word: wellspoken, wild, child, grown

Aggrieved, grieved, and greeted

Gastly, good.

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*A fragment posthumously published in Hopkins, Gerard Manley. Poems. Ed. Robert Bridges. London: Humphrey Milford, 1918. The complete text can be found here.

Note: Italicized words are Jonathon Penny’s. The poem ends, originally, thus:

Wedlock. What the water? Spousal love.

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

Father, mother, brothers, sisters, friends

Into fairy trees, wild flowers, wood ferns

Rankèd round the bower

.      .      .      .      .      .      .      .

When I See by Ashley Suzanne Musick

That industrious black-banded yellow worker, the bee, and a dragonfly soar swiftly, silently through the sky

The glowing rosy crescent rising slowly after the iridescent sunset and the stars glinting like jewels amidst a sky as black as tar

The fresh greenery mushroom every spring and the rolling hills with their lush grassy frills

The sun shielded by a cloud as if by a shroud, illuminating its edges with its beams, and the multi-hued glow of a rainbow €”

When I see the magnificence of my environment–

I witness

The talent of the Great Artist.

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Ashley Suzanne Musick was born in 1989 on the twenty-sixth of February in the California city of Fountain Valley and raised and home-schooled in Anaheim.   In 2010 she moved to southwest Kern County, where she currently works on a farm and writes in her spare time.

Seeing is Pleasure by Sonnet Mondal

The 7 o’ clock was hot again, hotter than any 7 o’ clock.
A drop of sweat travelling down my cheek
In search of destination stopped suddenly
And I rubbed it off, removing its existence.
I went up for a glass of glucose to see
Ants caving in there;
The glass had one inch water with dead ants floating €”
Perhaps they have committed suicide.
I went for a bath where water was in drops first,
Then there were none.
From the corridor, I saw people
Working with pumping lines.
They were so happy, the gushing water
That rode on them sometimes seemed
Like the child of a waterfall. Quite refreshing €”
My inner being had its bath from the scene.

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To read Sonnet Mondal’s bio and more poetry, click here.