And now a poem from our judge:
Listening to Trees
I
In April’s final week, a flourish
of green stippling fills spaces
held by sky, thickening leafscape,
deepening hues forming forest
understory. Canopy trees call my
name, beckon me closer as wind-waves
produce sonorous shutter, a secret
language I don’t fully understand,
yet in newness of leaves, delicate tapestry
of lace-filtering sun, casting shadows
like flashing strobes, light spectrums
of graduating greens, I feel an intimacy
with trees, their tranquility transferring
across species a melody and baselines,
a crescendo of adoration, singing
joy, sharing rebirth, rejuvenation
with diverse living creatures
converging in spring forest havens.
II
The forest is not an assemblage
of solitary beings. Trees, like humans,
like animals, are social, not isolated,
not indifferent, not merely competing,
but an intricate society of reciprocity
and symbiosis. I yearn to be a part
of their spiritual communion.
Tree survival, our survival depend
on our connection, our collective courage.
Threadlike fungi fuse with tree roots,
forming mycorrhizae, connecting
flora to one another, complex webs
linking nearly every tree in the forest,
like the masterwork of a spider,
its web shining in sunlight, fine
individual threads visible, vulnerable,
strengthened through interconnection,
familial bonds brought about by
our largest mother trees reaching out
to our youngest, smallest, even trees
of different species, a matrix of
identities, a model of devotion,
of acceptance we can strive for.
Through their mycorrhizal network,
altruistic trees give life to sick neighbors,
sacrifice for others, share life-altering
carbon, no selfish genes, only selflessness.
Isn’t that what’s asked of us?
III
Let us learn the language of trees,
form an alliance, unlocking silence
in the life force underground.
Scientists turn to sonar to magnify
sounds in individual trees
and deep within forest networks.
If trees share water, nutrients,
through labyrinths underground,
why not language? At Kew Gardens,
visitors listen through headphones,
high-tech amplifiers resembling
old fashioned ear trumpets, tuning in
to rumblings of eucalyptus trees, light
roll of thunder like an idling motorbike,
a click clicking of water carried
through xylem tubes, tiny air bubbles
bursting, displaced air releasing
a popping sound. Will trees let their
verse flow if we suspend disbelief?
IV
Imagine the stories buried
like time capsules in trunks
and roots of fruit trees planted
in Eden’s garden of forbidden fruit,
a fall from grace,
or of trees bearing strange fruit,
white terror against black,
a fall into hatred.
Might the murmurs of trees
lay a groundwork for penetrating
today’s stubborn darkness,
lift us from xenophobia, isolation.
What tales will their whispers tell?
Mediterranean olive trees,
thousands of years old still
bear fruit in Crete’s Ano Vouves
Village, the eldest, a protected national
monument, its layered trunk projecting
faces, figures, a puzzle to be solved,
the phoenix of trees--if a trunk
dries out, another will rise from ashes
or root, eternal nourishment
for islanders. What could it tell us
about nearby cemeteries of the
Geometric period, funerary vases
painted in geometric motifs in
the Greek Dark Ages? Still chronicling
experiences in modern times, Cretan
villagers wove branches of this
storied olive into wreaths awarded to
Olympic winners in Athens and Beijing.
And what of fig trees along the Jordan
River, Dead Sea in ancient Holy Lands,
of Mastiha trees on Chios island,
bark releasing resin in the shape
of tear drops, in legend, a lament
of Agios Isidoros, tortured by Romans,
in reality, a discovery of Herodotus,
Father of History. If we decode
the language of trees, what light,
what life might they teach us?
V
Mother trees, goddesses
of the Arbor, I call on you,
free-thinking pillars of power
independent, yet rooted
in networks below ground,
nurture your children,
your neighbors--it will take
a village to heal our forests,
our animals, our people, our world.
Sing out through xylem flow,
tap percussion of need. Sing us
out of darkness. Mystify us
with love, compassion, empathy.
Show us all, Darwin’s theory
of competition, survival
of the fittest, need not rule alone.
Cooperation, collaboration
offer balance for growth.
Invite us to your forest reverie.
Let us summon our collective
courage, lock limbs and hands,
strive for the survival of all.
© Cathy Hailey 2021
Artist’s Statement
“Listening to Trees” was inspired by Ferris Jabr’s article, “The Social Life of Forests,” (with photography by Brendan George Ko) in The New York Times Magazine, 12/2/2020. The article discusses research by Suzanne Simard, now a professor of forest ecology at the University of British Columbia. I also wanted to commemorate Arbor Day, April 30, 2021. I included words taken from my poems, “Aspens Call” and “Earth Day Good Friday.” I wrote “Aspens Call” when working with Rosemarie Forsythe in a visual arts collaboration and gallery show/performance organized by Mike Maggio. I drafted “Earth Day Good Friday” during a trip to Richmond to see the Picasso exhibit at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts when art from the Musée National Picasso in Paris was displayed in honor of its seventy-fifth anniversary.
Bio:
Cathy Hailey teaches as an adjunct in JHU’s MA in Teaching Writing program and previously taught high school in Prince William County, VA. She is Northern Region Vice President of The Poetry Society of Virginia and organizes In the Company of Laureates, a reading of poets laureate held in PWC. Her poems have been published in The New Verse News, Poetry Virginia, Written in Arlington, NOVA Bards, The Prince William Poetry Review, and are forthcoming in Stay Salty: Life in the Garden State, Volume 2
30 for 30 is sponsored by Potomac Review
