Mother Tongue
In the city I made small eyes at the gods leering
from the corners of buildings. Golden halos
and mosaics — I tried to sing,
write to them. A matter of linking
arm in arm with past mothers,
fathers, kings.
(A poet named Babe Ruth would point his
pen at the muse before writing.)
You sang to me once: a radio song with the melody
of trees. There, near the water, where
the roots expose — we sat among them as
if entangled in a creator’s hand.
My footing less steady near street sounds
where my throat grows rough and ragged.
This poem centers on the quest for creative inspiration. Trying to draw it out of places familiar, and otherwise — personally inspiring, and otherwise.
Lately, I’ve been reading more about the various communities/ecosystems within nature and how different living things support one another. Sometimes these ways are observable and familiar to humans, other times, not so much. It seems like some of that reading is coming through here… trying to take our man-made creations and “rules” and hold them parallel to similar phenomena in nature.
These are some of the books:
Entangled Life
Finding the Mother Tree
Braiding Sweetgrass