Many readers here will remember the story of Lily, the hummingbird who built a nest in my backyard this past spring and set me off on a new life journey with my camera. I wrote some poetry about her at the time but then, after the tragedy with her eggs, I found it hard to go back and revisit the story. Now enough time has passed and enough new hummingbirds have crossed my path that I feel I can begin to try and capture more of that wonderful experience in word to accompany the many photographs.
Today’s poem actually had its beginning back in April when I was doing Kick the Poetry Can’ts for National Poetry Month. You can read the first draft which had its beginning in a poetry exercise that eventually led me to this poem, Learning to See.
LEARNING TO SEE
Outside my office door
an aging Japanese maple begins the garden
her dress trimmed in deep green
lady ferns and soft baby tears
edged with purple violets,
yellow-eyed grass
a wetlands wonderland bordered
by bubbling water rocks.
Beyond the maple tree
a toyon waits to grow.
On stormy days its stick-arms
bend, break, then bend again
like a skeleton
shadow dancing against the fence.
Within the bush
(no tree itself, at least not yet)
branches zig zag toward the sun
a modern highway for ants and aphids
a picnic place for spiders
a sunny spot for birds to perch, to preen
after a midday bath.
Along the branch
dark green leaves cluster like a fan
protect the jewel nestled
oh so carefully
in the vee that meets the trunk
hiding a secret I could not find
without the help of a friend.
Behind all the leaves
there sits a tiny nest
woven with bits of spider webs
scraps of dryer lint
white downy feathers
a so-soft bed newly made
waiting to hold the tiny eggs
from the tiny dancer.
Now I understand
all those days
the dog refused to budge
from her post on the path
all those days she watched
the coming and going
of the ambitious architect
all those days she knew
something magical was happening
right before our eyes
when all I saw was her stubbornness
that made her refuse to come
when I called her name.
–Susan Taylor Brown, all rights reserved
Amy Ludwig VanDerwater has the whole great big Poetry Friday roundup today at The Poem Farm.
Also a reminder that over in my Etsy shop, Poppiness, (which has hummingbird calendars, prints, notecards and more) you can get a 10% discount on everything in the entire shop today just because you are a supporter of Poetry Friday. Just be sure to use the coupon code PF2012at checkout.
One thing I love about your work – your writing and your gorgeous photography – is that it calls us to s-l-o-w down and appreciate what we might otherwise rush by.
And aren’t our dogs wonderful to guide us in this department sometimes?
Thanks for sharing!
Oh Robyn, what a lovely, lovely thing to say. Thank you.
So lovely, Susan — such beautiful details and I especially love the last stanza!
Thanks, Jama. Looking at this again this morning I think that last stanza is the heart of the poem to be better built upon. Ooh, what a bad sentence but you get the idea. 🙂
Oh my, tears are prickling my eyes. I can see Cassie lying on the path being “stubborn” knowing something you did not. I can see your garden and the hidden nest finally being revealed to you. An altogether lovely poem. Thank you
Ooh, I love it if I made you go all teary, Carolyn. Thank you.
So many places to pause and just linger in your beautiful poem, Susan.
Thank you, Tara.
Hi, Susan. I love the point in the poem where the dog enters the story — a sentinel and protector. Our Schnauzer made friends with a little robin fledgling one spring. Very sweet. I hope Lily returns to next in your yard again.
Thanks, Laura. That’s about where I think I start hacking away at this in revision. The dog probably needs to be in at the beginning. 🙂
I see that you are considering bringing the dog in earlier in your poem, but I like the turn on events. Like I’m there with you observing and taking it all in, then I see the dog and your awareness of the nature of things. I wouldn’t change it.
Thanks for weighing in, Margaret. I’m confused about how to accomplish what I want to with the piece but that seems to be the story of my life in poetry. 🙂 I’ll keep pondering it all.
Thank you for sharing this! I love reading about your hummingbird!
Animals know.
Your dog knew about Lily.
And Lily knew about you.
I love this poem for the green dress and the dryer lint and the wisdom of all creatures. Beautiful as a Susan-photo! Thank you! a.
Animals know.
Your dog knew about Lily.
And Lily knew about you.
I love this poem for the green dress and the dryer lint and the wisdom of all creatures. It is as beautiful as a Susan – photo! Thank you! a.
I always, always love poems that tell a story, Susan, & this is just wonder-filled, with the parts of green growing things, & that shimmering Lily, & your loyal dog. It could be a beauty of a picture book, you know. Thanks for sharing the other draft too. I like seeing the process!
There is something so magical about this whole piece–the way you’ve set the scene with all the details of color and texture, and then the revelation of the secret that your dog knew all the time and was entering into in her own way.
If you’re not happy with it, Susan, let it sit for a while and come back to it. Sometimes these things sort themselves out in our subconscious. When you come back, you may find it’s perfectly clear what changes you need to make, if any.
I have been enjoying your recent posts and want to congratulate you on the success of your poetry and artwork. Can you imagine illustrating this poem with your exceptional photographs as a picture book (as someone else suggested)? It would be beautiful, and gratifying to see your “guard” dog come in at the end.
ellie
ellie!!!
I am so happy to hear from you and hope you are doing well. Thanks for the kind words and support.
I’m glad you’re able to get back to Lily. SHE left you, but she left you with a new art form and a beautiful story to tell over and over again in different ways.
Thank you, Mary Lee. She really did open the door to a new adventure for me. Thanks for joining me on the journey.
Susan, I’m so glad to see you were able to come back to this lovely story. Beautiful!
Oh Dorraine, thank you for the kind words. You really warmed my heart today.
Susan, the details are just lovely here. My favorite part is
dark green leaves cluster like a fan
protect the jewel nestled
oh so carefully
in the vee that meets the trunk
Jewel, fan, nestled–paints somehow a really exotic mood about something that IS special but is also right there if we look closely.
Thank you, Laura. I keep wanting to tinker with this but am trying to let it rest for at least a month.
LOVE this. Miss you!
Thank you. Miss you too!
What a lovely poem! I loved the way you lingered on the plants, the baby tears, yellow-eyed grass, violets — and then moved slowly toward the interior — those zig-zagging branches, the “highway for ants and aphids/ a picnic place for spiders (my personal fav line!) — and on toward the nest itself so lovingly described.
What a wonderful sense of wonder. Thanks very much for the poem!
Thank you so much for the kind words, Steve. I’m glad you enjoyed the poem.