Editing

Shortly after beginning to write poetry, I realized that revision would be a key part of the process. The creative burst that fills a blank page feels like a type of divine inspiration, seeming to appear out of nowhere. Just after the moment, it is quite easy to look at a new creation and call it good. But come back to it a day later and the work that arrived in a creative cloud often seems muddled, not really depicting the emotion or statement it was trying to convey. And that’s ok. Afterall, it is a tall task to make the ethereal concrete using twenty-six letters. It becomes clear that the divine asks for some human sweat to move forward.

Holding an original work in a non-precious manner almost always leads to a better outcome. The writing and rewriting, strikethroughs and stanza migration, and hours spent with Merriam-Webster can be painful but often are exhilarating. Editing has solidified my belief that focusing on speed or quantity misses the heart of the artistic beat, and believing I can control the heart from the start is a fool’s errand.

While I have been my own editor for years, From the quiver is the first poem that I have written where the editing process took the next step by accepting feedback from other poets.

Five months ago, I joined Maya Popa’s writing community, Conscious Writers Collective (CWC). This online space offers educational sessions and experiences from poets and writers who have been successful at finding their voice and releasing it into the wild. Powerfully, this collective also offers a place to workshop writing with other poets, working together in a way where we uncover more about our own voice.

Feedback

The first draft of From the quiver was written on a beach in northern Michigan in early June using my Garden Walk methodology, simply walking with notebook in tow, then pausing to write in whatever way inspiration strikes, and repeating until the walk or series of walks ends. Each brief writing session becomes a small poem in a series that comes together to form a larger, completed poem. There is a faith in this process of immediacy that the various sub-poems of the walk will fit together in some way, shape, or form.

This Garden Walk extended over three consecutive days...an extended walk of sorts. The first poem occurred on a beautiful morning nestled in the sand dunes overlooking Lake Michigan, watching birds erratically fly in and out of a bird house to scrounge for bugs. The next was developed the following morning while lounging in the sunroom of the small house we had rented, set further back from the water than where I was the day before, but looking at the same view, except the morning was rainy, grey, and the birds had abandoned the sky. The final emerged the third morning while on a beach walk with my dog around sunrise, enjoying the infinite view of a water horizon, and looking down at the sand and noticing a solitary wing from a bird that had been the victim of some other creature.

I brought this poem to the monthly CWC workshop. The first hour is spent listening to four poets share a poem, then opening it up for Maya and the community to offer their thoughts. The second hour is spent in small breakout groups where each person shares a poem, and the other writers offer critique, questions, and comments. I showed up to this second half with a fair amount of trepidation, rooted in opinions that because a poem is such a personal thing, to accept someone else’s critique of it could cause it to lose something vital that can only come from the author. Essentially, editors be damned.

But the first hour of the workshop taught me that other’s views are a type of personal sixth sense. Poets pay close attention to the world around them through their body and mind, then imprint that on the page. Feedback is simply those original senses filtered through another’s consciousness and returned to the poet through the whole-body experience of experiencing their experience. If a writer is still in tune with oneself, this only moves a work in a more complete direction, improving a poem by making it sharper and more emotional, all while maintaining the author’s voice.

I felt bolstered going into the second hour. When my turn came, I tentatively shared my screen and read From the quiver out loud. The conversation that ensued focused on the sound, wasted words, and eliciting emotion, all with a gentle feeling of nudging, not any demand. I filtered through my notes after the workshop and could clearly see where some of the suggestions resonated with me. The workshop allowed me to add beautiful chords, wield the strikethrough sword, and apply a light sheen of polish.

There was some feedback that did leave me wondering if there was a “right” or “wrong” decision to make. As I consider those notes and feelings, it is helpful to remind myself that this is another sense. Just like a poem with the image of a landscape may describe the sky, the hills, and the flowers, but leave out the details of the crickets or the specific type of cloud, choosing certain views to incorporate and leaving other’s out is the process of writing poetry. There is no wrong outcome. If it tells the story I am telling and elicits an emotion that I am content with, then that is satisfactory!

Graciously, one of the CWC members provided additional feedback on a few more drafts (thank you Richard!) over the coming weeks. After those rounds of editing and after a new title, this poem was finally complete.

Well…complete for now.

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Final thought

This reflection says nothing of my intended meaning in this poem, like my reflections often do. If you would like a prompt for reading this piece, read again while pondering the foundational trait of love and the violence that love requires for survival. But you’ve also heard me say, again and again, there is not a wrong way to read poetry. Read and think, read and feel…if you’ve done that, that is all that’s necessary.

May you be wise in your life’s editing…

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of From the quiver, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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For the month of October, we turn our attention to a poem by the thirteenth century mystic Rumi which explores reason and awe, the climb and the fall, and what treasure really is…

This piece is on the longer side for Memory. If it feels too ambitious, pick a stanza, or a series of stanzas. May I suggest the final three? Enjoy!

I wasn’t always this love drunk… by Rumi, translated by Haleh Liza Gafori

Spoken:

Written:

I wasn't always this Love-drunk,
this crazed, rapt, and enchanted.

Driven by reason, on guard,
I was a hunter-
calculating, charming, strategic.

The heart is a tender thing-
pulsing with blood, pulsing with life.
That wasn't me. 

I wanted answers-
what is this, what is that,
and what will they be tomorrow?

Awe? I knew nothing of awe.
And the awestruck- 
those free from the gnawing need to know the unknowable-
they didn't impress me.

Sit down with me. You're a smart one.
Consider what I was
and what I no longer am.

I wanted to be a kingpin,
top dog, bigger than big.

Like smoke, I climbed greedily,
going nowhere-
a crooked plume, wayward,
drifting over parched land,
thirsty for meaning. 

I didn't know when Love hunts you down,
when you fall prey to Love,
you only rise higher.

Continuing my futile climb, I fell.
I fell,
like a gem, out of a pile of dirt-
not a hoarder of treasure.

Treasure. 

The Poet:

If you are interested in Rumi’s biography, check out this summary on Poetry Foundation.

The Translator:

Haleh Liza Gafori has translated and compiled two book’s of Rumi’s poetry. The latest, titled Water, was released earlier in 2025, and where you can find this poem. Both Water, and its predecessor, Gold, are incredibly vibrant translations of Rumi’s work. Visit her website to learn more, and add these books to your collection!

Make this experience your own, choosing how you approach the poem’s content, your memorization process, and connect with us in the chat!

I look forward to our conversation!

Brian

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From the quiver

1.
Birds
of arrows
loosed upon
the earth       
before a backdrop
of blood red sunsets,
thieves
who would
take for themselves,
yet they flirt through the air,
float in the lake breeze,
and cover these dunes
with their volley 
of death.

2.
Rain
from the quiver,
wet pillow,
no threat
from the sky.
Rest today.
Rest.

3.
All creatures
eat and eat,
tongues lick
and teeth clack
tearing into life,
love is what they know,
only one feathered wing
remains on the sand,
and the nestlings  
are satiated. 

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while in this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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We memorize to engrain words of meaning into our minds, bodies and beings that offer their companionship. While each life is unique, the situations we encounter and the emotions we face have been felt by many who have walked before us. Poems we know deeply can speak what we need to hear at the most opportune times.

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For the month of September, we turn our attention to a poem that in a few, brief words, slowly and gradually explores the depths of grief…

The Well of Grief by David Whyte

Spoken:

Text:

Those who will not slip beneath
    the still surface on the well of grief,

turning down through its black water
    to the place we cannot breathe,

will never know the source from which we drink,
    the secret water, cold and clear,

nor find in the darkness glimmering,
    the small round coins,
          thrown by those who wished for something else.

Video:

The Poet:

If you are interested in more from David Whyte, he has a thriving poetry community. My favorite ways to engage in his work are foremost through his books and then through his Three Sundays gatherings. You can learn more about David and his work on his website.

Make this experience your own, choosing how you approach the poem’s content, your memorization process, and connect with me in Substack Notes throughout the month!

I look forward to our conversation!

Brian

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On couplets

An honest assessment was written shortly after a relationally difficult experience where fresh wounds quickly became infected with historical complexity. I began writing after a walking conversation with a friend who was involved in this experience, to work towards understanding, healing, and honoring of the complexity. Couplets emerged from this walk that speak to both the complexity of individual experience and how those interwoven experiences cannot be separated. Each couplet speaks to a specific experience and truth that can be found in that experience. They interplay with the prior couplet and transition into the next with more that can be extrapolated with various couplet groupings.

Consider the individual couplets. Each stands alone with two lines that complement each other. Some are simple observations, and some contain internal examinations. Themes of neglect (brown lawn), repair (broken bike), desire (greener grass), self-knowledge (sleep always helps), frustration (replacing a faucet), and fear (financial) are what begin the poem, each an individual thought that carries a relational pattern.

There are weeds in the lawn that need to be pulled
and it’s so August hot this small plot is browning.
That bike has a flat that will ruin the rim
and a two-stroke is easier to fix than a four.
The grass is greener when there is none on this side
and I cannot stomach another day of this job.
Dim evening light changes how I feel about work
and to sleep more would certainly improve my outlook.
To replace this faucet takes three times the time I would think
and your presence with your son is a gift.
I can’t stop wondering how I will fund college for three
and I trust the future is bending toward opportunity. 

The next three couplets are fully internal, doubling down on the world of human relationship, first with someone who is close, second with oneself, and third with humans at large.

To support one barely surviving is exceedingly difficult
and all beings have value simply because they walk the earth.
My tastes seem to change every few years
and I miss how I pictured the world when I was sixteen.
To live with generous motive shows one’s character
and no one will leave the world unscathed.

We then receive two couplets that return to a blend of the outside and inside. This reintroduction of the external on the front end brings an intensity to the back end, the internal dialogue hitting hard due to the short relief of the simple outside observations. But a reread makes it clear that the broken fence picket is the representation of what must be admonished, and the squirrel hiding what they have is the opposite of the desire to be seen.

This broken fence picket must be replaced
and an admonishment is a gift in a friendship.
Squirrels are busy burying walnuts for winter
and I only want to bring who I am to the light.

The second to last couplet is the beginning of the culmination. It speaks to the specific source of hurt that spurred on the poem, acknowledging that relationship is a complex mix. Coming back to this stanza now, I also see the different parts of ourselves that sit around this figurative table, sometimes at peace and sometimes at war.

Twelve surrounding a dining table is beauty and chaos
and intent is not wise when one leaves with cutlery in their heart.

The final couplet takes an interesting slant on honesty. There is a fashion to having no regrets in our society but live for a while and I do not think one can escape life without regret. An honest assessment of our past is always a mixed bag. There are times of wisdom and foolishness, of moving forward and sliding backwards, and of building and burning. Seeing the events of our lives as what made us who we are today is a beautiful way of looking back. But I think this view, when looked at honestly, always contains regret. I can regret a choice I made and acknowledge I would not be who I am today without that choice.

Those without regret must rewrite the past
and walking barefoot outside would solve every ailment we have.

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On the one poem

When this poem is read as one stanza, relationship emerges as the overarching theme.

Our society loves individual success stories…the self-made man, the superstar athlete who outworked everyone else to become the apex, and the Grammy winning artist who rocketed onto the scene. We are taught a rugged type of individualism by those that came before us and are rewarded for traits that make us stand apart from those who stand around us. Merit increases, scholarships, and praise are heaped on those that thrive in setting themselves apart from the everyday other. It’s pounded into us as if this is the primary way of being that should supersede all others.

It is interesting that we also bristle when the one who is held up exudes an air of self-absorption. We want the post-game interview to include a recognition of the team, coaches, and a higher power, or the award acceptance speech to include the humble recognition that success was impossible without a team of musicians, producers and managers. We feel something inherently wrong with one who pats only their own back.

Why this seeming conflict? When we reflect on our path, we often look to ourselves as the sole influencer of our outcome as a way of claiming control. We do want to belong to the societies around us, but we don’t want the uncertainty that comes from belonging to something beyond ourselves. In our minds, maintaining separation equals control over our destiny. Relationship brings uncertainty due to the many factors at play. Yet deep down we know that we are intrinsically connected to everything around us.

If separation brings control, but connection is intrinsic, then the control we feel from being an individual is an illusion. There is nothing in this world that stands alone, but pain shows up in places where we think we are the exception. Consider yourself as self-made, and every failure comes down to your incompetence. Hold your success as only yours, and you burn a bridge with the colleague who polished your pitch just enough to resonate with the broad audience that helped your business to survive. Hold internal characteristics such as discipline or resilience up high, and you claim creative power to what was gifted you…the place you were born into by happenstance, the family that shaped you that you did not choose, and the traits that came from a place you cannot explain. Trace a path far enough back, and you simply appear from events and circumstances that you had nothing to do with, but that you are interrelated with.

Reread this poem with this relational view in mind. Use your logical mind but perhaps read the stanzas with your emotions in the forefront and see what emerges with the couplets intertwined. My hope is you find yourself and your stories somewhere in the relational landscape that emerges in the joining of and between the individual couplets.

Final thought

I did some slight editing on this poem between publishing last month and today. If you’re interested in the altered version, I have included the update below.

May regret and relationship bless you…

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of An honest assessment, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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An honest assessment

There are weeds in the lawn that need to be pulled
and it’s so August hot this small plot is browning.
That bike has a flat that will ruin the rim
and a two-stroke is easier to fix than a four.
The grass is always greener when there is none on this side
and I cannot stomach another day of this job.
Dim evening light changes how I feel about work
and to sleep more would certainly improve my outlook.
To replace this faucet takes three times the time I would think
and your presence with your son is a gift.
I can’t stop wondering how I will fund college for three
and I trust the future is bending toward opportunity. 
To support one barely surviving is exceedingly difficult
and all beings have value simply because they walk the earth.
My tastes seem to change every few years
and I miss how I pictured the world when I was sixteen.
To live with generous motive shows one’s character
and no one will leave the world unscathed.
This broken fence picket must be replaced
and an admonishment is a gift in a friendship.
Squirrels are busy burying walnuts for winter
and I only want to bring who I am to the light.
Twelve surrounding a dining table is beauty and chaos
and intent is not wise when one leaves with cutlery in their heart.
Those without regret must rewrite the past
and walking barefoot outside would solve every ailment we have.

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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Process

This past November, I went away for a few days. I was looking for rest, to be in nature, and spend time in contemplation. After arriving at a Catholic-run retreat center, I was greeted in the parking lot by a smiling Catholic sister, took a short ride to a simple house in a Mule, and did a quick unpacking.

Settling into solitude at this point seemed aspirational. It’s not that I don’t ever get time alone. I travel frequently enough for work, providing a fair number of evenings alone in a hotel. And even with a family of five, with kids all in their teenage years and out doing teenage things, there are many times where I find myself at home alone. However, settling into solitude is not something that comes easily to me. I usually end up fighting a battle between allowing myself rest or acting in some productive way. I find myself alone, but with thoughts bouncing around my mind questioning my worthiness, it rarely feels like solitude.

The good thing is, there is something about being away from your normal environment that makes a posture of solitude easier to find. After an afternoon and evening of hiking, yoga, and reading, my mind began to quiet down. I got a short but good night of sleep, waking refreshed. Prior to arriving, I had decided I wanted to do a half day meditation session, so by mid-morning I was settling in for the first session of what would be five hours of sitting meditation, slow walking, and contemplative listening.

This was by far the longest uninterrupted meditation period I had allowed myself. As expected, it contained a little bit of everything…restlessness, guilt, pain, difficulty, ease, and calm. No huge breakthroughs or deep states of absorption arrived during those hours, but I finished feeling filled, in a way. The critiquing mind became quieter, and the body became more settled and present. This state felt very pleasurable, and it was a beautiful and cool November day, so I grabbed my water bottle, notebook, and pen, and headed out for a Garden Walk, my method of walking (most often in a garden) for a period of time, then sitting and writing based on what is in front of and inside of me. I love this method for its consistently changing inspiration and the natural metaphors for life that seem to be whispered so continually by anything not walled in.

An early rendition of Blasphemy emerged.

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Themes

Verse 1 was written at the kitchen table prior to departing for this walk, reflecting on what I was feeling after this period of contemplation. The words instill a sense of readiness, of being primed for new layers of experience that will inevitably be painted onto anyone who leaves their shelter and heads into the world. But before we depart, we are bolstered when we look within and are reminded of the secret things we know.

These stanzas use a visual of water from an internal spring filling parched bones. This spring is silent yet speaks, and while a flowing liquid it is also the source of strength that feeds the next metaphor of a solid oak, an image that will also wind its way later into the poem in verse 5.

The section closes with an image of opening, pivoting between a door that is a threshold between shelter and the wild, and a chest being opened to free one’s heart.

Verse 1 uses biblical images that form an early theme that is used throughout, and eventually titled, this poem. First, the parched, dry bones from Ezekiel, but these bones are transformed through a practice not taught in my Christian experience, one of a source that permeates everything, not something that descends down to us. Then there is the picture of the breaking of ribs, not one rib that is removed and used as a story of power over another from Genesis, but a trinity that is slowly broken to free one’s spirit to experiences as they are.

1.
Today, this day,
this brilliant, blessed day
I sat silent
on a buckwheat cushion
stock still to listen
to the silent sound
that bubbles up
like a babbling spring,
the spring I lean over
to fill my parched bones,
my hollow bones,
now filled with clear water silence.

Inside has spilled its secrets
and I stand solidified,
rooted and ready
to grow another ring,
stepping toward the oaken door
I reach for the handle
and turn three ribs 
till they crack,
pull gently and open
so my heart may cross
the threshold
to the wild outside.

Verse 2 begins to paint the experience of a melding of the person writing and the world they stepped into. It was written while sitting by a small pond just a brief walk from the cabin I was staying in. After a couple of laps around the pond, I walked to the edge and peered into the mirror-like surface. Blue sky, white clouds, and birds were reflected, and if I leaned over far enough, my face was there staring back at me. It was an experiential joining of things, erasing some of the lines between self and other.

2.
Pond of sky,
sky below and earth above,
all is upside down,
for where is my face
in this pond of sky,
clear, clear as can be,
brown eyes reflecting
all that flies above,
and when I look up,
I am not there.

Verse 3 was penned on the same bench by the same pond. The picture of the sky and the “upside down” continues, turning around the conventional notion of where the sun sets. The separation and uniqueness we commonly experience is not the only way of experiencing the world. There is something meaningful and practical about understanding that all things are interconnected and that boundaries between can actually disappear.

3. 
The sun is low
in the eastern sky,
night comes,
truly, all
is not as it seems.

Verse 4 was written the night I arrived at the retreat center as a short, stand-alone poem. As I was writing, this verse came to my memory and I decided it belonged in this piece. Aspects of Verses 2 and 3 continue here with odd images of the sky (blue sky / I see stars through). These short stanzas were a simple nod to the contrast of my feelings prior to my arrival at this retreat and what I knew was possible on the other side of burden. Again, different ways of experiencing the same thing.

4.
Yesterday, a gray sky
of two thousand pounds.

Today, a blue sky
I see stars through.

Verse 5 was written in the forest after walking the trails for an hour. The sun continued to set, the air was becoming cold, and in the quiet there were sounds of crunching leaves, skittering animals, and my breath. The whole experience felt as if it was a prayer. This verse attempts to paint prayer as a way of life and the act of holding ones experience lightly, not declarations made from a place of authority and power.

5.
Autumn is not silent
like snow in winter.
The dense oak forest
whispers in its bare top
and squirrels skitter
over an oaken ground,
mystical prayers
permeate my in and out breath   
not the prayers of the pious
standing behind an oaken pulpit,
but the decrepit 
cushioned in their walk
on three inches
of every brown-hued
oak leaf.

Verse 6 came after a quick walk from the forest to a ridge looking west over a farm to watch the sun finish setting. It is a story of the loss of a mystical experience. The slow moves to a hurry. The sun is now setting where it should be, in the west. The sky is in its place. The author’s ego that had been softened is back in full force. The conventional reigns again.

6.
I will hurry
to the ridge,
for the sun
is almost touching
the lips
of the western earth.
And there I am,
west is west
and sky is up,
and my shamed ego is proud.
Always proud,
how quickly I find
who I am, forgetting
who I am.

Verse 7 was written while leaning on the fence that stood on the ridge that divides the retreat center from the neighboring farm as the sun set. It is a moment of remembering, of leaning back into the mystery that was uncovered in the day’s experiences, melding the Christian teachings that I was handed with the Buddhist practices that resonate with me in this stage of my life.

The nod is to the story of Moses and the burning bush from Exodus 3. Moses is being pulled to something bigger than himself, and questions who or what it is that is pulling him in that direction. The chapter is riddled with the phrase “I am”. Moses hears a voice and answers, “Here I am”. When he realizes what he is being called to, he questions it by saying “Who am I” that I should act, that I am one who deserves. And most powerfully, the voice that Moses is interacting with simply answers “I am” when Moses asks what his name is. The picture I was handed about this statement was a reference to God and his vastness, his power, his love, and all traits that one can ascribe to him, but also to something that is outside of, separate from, and above us. For me, it was a picture that created a profound feeling of alienation.

So the melding, the redemption in this verse is the final brilliant ray (burning bush) turning the question around, asking the question “what is your name” to the person standing in front of it, and the person realizing that they too, can answer “I am”. There is no separation from the source and who each of us are. No hierarchy.

Hence, Blasphemy.

7.
The sun sets
and in a final brilliant ray
asks me 
What is your name?
I answer

I am.

Final thought

To be fair, this critique of how I experienced the Christian teachings is simply that…my critique. When I go back and read these stories, there are certainly other ways of interpretation where one sees themself not apart from the source of all things, but in it. There are many who claim the label Christian who practice spiritually in a way that bring the separate together. I’ve found this poem provided a map for me to go back to some of these stories and read with a different lens. I suppose that is the real purpose of quality poetry, folklore, and story…to be a guide along the trail on which one finds themself searching for a way forward, no matter where along the trail they are.

May you touch the guide within you…

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of Blasphemy, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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Its autumn for my friends in the southern hemisphere, so it makes sense to bring this poem forward. Also, poetry transcends seasons…

Blasphemy

Garden walks #6

1.
Today, this day,
this brilliant, blessed day
I sat silent
on a buckwheat cushion
stock still to listen
to the silent sound
that bubbles up
like a babbling spring,
the spring I lean over
to fill my parched bones,
my hollow bones,
now filled with clear water silence.

Inside has spilled its secrets
and I stand solidified,
rooted and ready
to grow another ring,
stepping toward the oaken door
I reach for the handle
and turn three ribs 
till they crack,
pull gently and open
so my heart may cross
the threshold
to the wild outside.

2.
Pond of sky,
sky below and earth above,
all is upside down,
for where is my face
in this pond of sky,
clear, clear as can be,
brown eyes reflecting
all that flies above,
and when I look up,
I am not there.

3. 
The sun is low
in the eastern sky,
night comes,
truly, all
is not as it seems.

4.
Yesterday, a gray sky
of two thousand pounds.

Today, a blue sky
I see stars through.

5.
Autumn is not silent
like snow in winter.
The dense oak forest
whispers in its bare top
and squirrels skitter
over an oaken ground,
mystical prayers
permeate my in and out breath   
not the prayers of the pious
standing behind an oaken pulpit,
but the decrepit 
cushioned in their walk
on three inches
of every brown-hued
oak leaf.

6.
I will hurry
to the ridge,
for the sun
is almost touching
the lips
of the western earth.
And there I am,
west is west
and sky is up,
and my shamed ego is proud.
Always proud,
how quickly I find
who I am, forgetting
who I am.

7.
The sun sets
and in a final brilliant ray
asks me 
What is your name?
I answer

I am.

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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An exchange: Memory

I am excited to publish Part 5 of An exchange, the side of Poetry & Process where artists explore a topic through an exchange of their art.

This month’s exchange is on Memory, a series of six pieces written over the past six months, poems from Brian Funke, author of Poetry & Process, and essays from Ann Collins, author of Microseasons. The six newsletters will be published in pairs over three weeks, each touching the topic of Memory , and each built from an aspect from the prior piece.

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I hope you enjoy this collaborative effort on Memory.

Memory: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

From Fiddlehead: Part 4…

Quiet your mind and open it wider. Roots drilling down, earth-bound, sharing Sky—like gemels, like twins— Trees in our slow-motion dance. Underground, we will meet at a Vanishing place—some night in a dream Where the ghost flowers sleep.

Ann Collins

3:31 AM

Brian Funke

Lost again,

space below your spine
rises to hold you,
to lift you
as only empty space will,
you are there
and there is nowhere,
it comes to you,
fever and flushed
and flows through
as fire, all
aflame, cool as it burns,
you blow as if ash
must comprehend every
corner of a cloud, every
corner in a gust of wind	
from the soil as it breathes,
you breathe and words
fall, heavy heavy
on the tongue, heavy heavy
on the open plain with
far horizon all around,
around and around,
dizzy you fall
into opening eyes,

you see what you are,
you remember,
you are changed. 

A subtitle for this poem could be A description of the liminal space between reality and dreaming…

What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you after reading this piece? We hope to see you in the chat!

Part 6 will be published tomorrow. May you see what is real…

Brian

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Meaning was the first poem I wrote in a crisp, new poetry notebook, a good omen for what is to come…

Themes

Our existence is mysterious. While various sciences begin to address the How of the question (that is, how we came to be and how this all works), any explanation that we make sense of still boggles the mind. Try understanding just one fact of quantum physics, the science of all things counterintuitive. Or more simply, seriously ponder for a minute the questions ‘when did time begin’ or ‘where does the universe end’. You invariably will find yourself in a mental state of wonder, confusion, or even more likely, both.

While I find the exploration of the How fascinating, the questions of Why and What seem to give humans the most trouble. I consider the Why and the What our questions of meaning. Who has not felt troubled at times wondering why they are here, or what it is they are meant to do?

I used to think there were right answers to questions of meaning. At various times, answers centered around God, love, provision, and generosity. But listen to a hundred people who have thought about these questions, and you hear a hundred different answers. Any ultimate truth seems elusive.

Words disappear into air, thin air,
wind blows and they are gone forever,
speak little or speak much
they are carried away, carried away.

For some reason humans have a type of consciousness that feels for and seeks an answer to questions of meaning. Whether we answer or simply hold these questions informs our beliefs, drives our decisions, and often is directly correlated with the amount of equanimity and contentment we find in our lives. To acknowledge there is no right understanding or concrete answer feels right in a deep sense. Leaving the questions of meaning unanswered means our meaning remains free, open, and expansive.

But what about the part of us that wants to answer this question so it can help inform our life? This is what this poem really gets at. My way of usefully but non-dogmatically answering the question of meaning is to see the meaning of life as simply to create meaning. If there is no intrinsic meaning in our existence, but we seek meaning to help define our existence, then it is up to each of us to create our own meaning.

This acknowledgement provides space for us to create unique types of meaning. It allows our meaning to evolve as we evolve. It gives space to respond to different societal challenges in a way that we are uniquely skilled. If I am a poet, and you are an accountant, and he is a strategist, and she is a leader, and they practice law, this view creates no imperative that we must all accomplish, other than to create meaning rooted in who we are, where we find ourselves, and what we have chosen to do.

Another way of saying this, and another point in this poem, is that meaning is found in the relationship between you and another. It is the third entity that arises between two. It is found in the space between you and your job, you and your partner, you and your child, you and society, you and anything else. It arises, and it passes away. It is mysterious, and it will change. It will create, and it will be destroyed.

Speak you must, sound into meaning
for meaning is not found in stone beneath your feet
or in the upright way you hold your head
but in the breath that spreads between us,
in the way you declare and I hear
and for a simple moment
a word is a brick and then gone
but our necks tilt toward the other
and smiles rise along with the hum,
and wind writes prose with the forest
that settles into silent space.

As long as our eyes can meld with the others
and trees respond to the wind,
whisper we will
and we will be whispered,
a body will be breathed,

In the stanza above we experience the creation of meaning in an open, relational, and mysterious way. But I still come back to the desire for a concrete answer to these questions of Why and What. This is the tension in questions of meaning. They arise and they change, they can’t be pinned down, but in this moment, if you look right now, you can find a concrete meaning. There is something specific and clear in front of you that you are to do, or you are to embrace, or you are to allow. This is how the poem ends, in a strange but specific visual paired with a call to act. Choose that clear, specific action, take that step, and you can trust that in some mysterious way, you have found your meaning.

and a hand can pluck a petal
from a beetle’s back,
now scurry along and leap
with wings spread wide.

The air will catch you.

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Final thought

Just be prepared. Your meaning may change tomorrow. And that’s ok, for the air will catch you.

May you leap with wings spread wide…

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of Meaning, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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An exchange: Memory

I am excited to publish Part 3 of An exchange, the side of Poetry & Process where artists explore a topic through an exchange of their art.

This month’s exchange is on Memory, a series of six pieces written over the past six months, poems from Brian Funke, author of Poetry & Process, and essays from Ann Collins, author of Microseasons. The six newsletters will be published in pairs over three weeks, each touching the topic of Memory , and each built from an aspect from the prior piece.

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I hope you enjoy this collaborative effort on Memory.

Memory: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

From Memory: Part 2…

I like to think that each of us has a Library of the Mind, filled with thought-poems, where the stanzas and verses have no end. These great shelves contain the living, breathing scenes from our human lives, stretching backwards and forwards through time.

But time does not move in a straight line, does it? Time moves in a fluid way—it whirls into landscapes, always dissolving and re-forming. So too, memory is not linear. It spirals and twists and loops back on itself.

The Library of the Mind is written and re-written, over and over again, in the cannon of memory.

Ann Collins

Bookshelf

Brian Funke

It’s sort of like this,

Shakespeare wrote of love and 
Pablo turned love into letters and
you read love on the back
of your eyes,
noon sun on bare shoulders
lead wherever
she goes, still
glistening
in the front of your mind,
two fingers trace
the top of the spine
and a glint in her
grin she throws back to you,
salt on your lips and 
you read the last page
then find chapter one
for you know a prologue
cannot be written before
the finale,
and while you desire
a particular end
chapter two will be
penned tomorrow,
so tonight you shelve
each volume
with hopes of an encounter
in your dreams.

This quick poem explores love through the eyes of one who is falling in love, placing this romantic story with its recent memories alongside books already written (volumes by William Shakespeare and Pablo Neruda) and desire of things to come, memories that are yet to be penned!

What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you after reading this piece? We hope to see you in the chat!

Part 4 will be published tomorrow. May you remember the things to come…

Brian

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An exchange: Memory

I am excited to publish Part 1 of An exchange, a side of the Poetry & Process newsletter where artists explore a topic through an exchange of their art. This is the fourth exchange, the first exploring the topic of Community with poet and artist Jason McBride, the second with author, artist, and environmental champion Katharine Beckett Winship on the topic of Kinship, and the most recent with writer Reena Kapoor mining the topic of Grief.

This month’s exchange is on Memory, a series of six pieces written over the past six months, poems from Brian Funke, author of Poetry & Process, and essays from Ann Collins, author of Microseasons. The six newsletters will be published in pairs over the next three weeks, each touching the topic of Memory , and each building from an aspect from the prior piece.

Subscribe to Poetry & Process

Subscribe to Microseasons

I hope you enjoy this collaborative effort on Memory.

Memory: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6

Bear Lake

Brian Funke

Child’s [size eleven] feet
and six years of experience
knew [without a doubt]
the adventure was all there was 
and to explore that which was wild 
was the meaning of this day
[and that life is made
only of days].

Little shoulders shouldered
a[n orange] backpack
holding [three] heavy water bottles
with [green and blue] screw tops
and trail mix made at home
with the funny name GORP,
and [size eleven] boots
entered the trail at Bear Lake,
[ready to march towards the beast
that owned the lake].

Eyes [roamed for the namesake
and] spotted a branch 
for all [who travel by foot]
need a walking staff,
so he sat [along the trail]
with his blue pocketknife
to trim away twigs
and transform the branch
into a staff [that he would always lean on
and to keep the Bear at bay].

Trees [of pine] seemed neutral in the matter,
for they whispered the secrets
of these mountains into 
his nonsense filled ears and
[he learned the way 
would not always be this trail
but they also hid the Bear
from his view until]
even the trees began to shrink back
into the earth [in fear]
and eventually disappeared.

[With trees the coward
it became clear the bear could only stalk
from behind house sized boulders
but peering wide-eyed and wild-eyed around each
only chipmunks growled their threats
to drop the GORP filled pack and run
or face what they would become 
for they were the morphling bear
of the Bear Lake kingdom].

He did not grasp the gravity
of the matter and continued the ascent
[past the bite sized bears]
with every thought now only of gravity,
for it was a long way to fall
and in this place of directionless grandeur
he was the center it all orbited around.

Settling at the summit
of the highest peak [on earth]
he sat for a while to speak to Hallett,
[size eleven] feet pointed to the sky and
reclined into the [orange] pack still on his back,
his six years aged into sixty million,
lungs vanished in the thin air with the trees,
body bled from where twigs
had been indiscriminately trimmed,
and saw through the eyes of
every bear that had ruled this realm
for a time,
no longer a boy.

The story in this poem is how I remember this experience in Rocky Mountain National Park when I was six years old. Specific pieces have been embellished as they seemed to tell a more exciting story. Embellishments have been bracketed. Various realizations that no six year old could realize have also been added, and bracketed…except the last eight lines, realizations which I left unbracketed. Perhaps I did not have words for this experience at the time, but my body remembers that moment…

Thank you for reading Part 1 of Memory! Please leave a comment about what strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read. Perhaps share a memory from your early years that still impacts you today.

Part 2 will be published tomorrow! Until then…

May you sit for a minute today with your feet pointed to the sky…

Brian

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Meaning

Words disappear into air, thin air,
wind blows and they are gone forever,
speak little or speak much
they are carried away, carried away.

Speak you must, sound into meaning
for meaning is not found in stone beneath your feet
or in the upright way you hold your head
but in the breath that spreads between us,
in the way you declare and I hear
and for a simple moment
a word is a brick and then gone
but our necks tilt toward the other
and smiles rise along with the hum,
and wind writes prose with the forest
that settles into silent space.

As long as our eyes can meld with the others
and trees respond to the wind,
whisper we will
and we will be whispered,
a body will be breathed,
and a hand can pluck a petal
from a beetle’s back,
now scurry along and leap
with wings spread wide.

The air will catch you.

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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This poem was written as part of the Garden Walks project. It was the second poem I wrote in this manner and the second that I have published on Poetry & Process.

Clear eyes and hope is a poem that walks through the muck of melancholy and the early denial of grief through an exploration of hope. While the poem wanders, I wrote the first draft while sitting still on a bench facing a chestnut tree at the Missouri Botanical Gardens. It was mid-October, which in Missouri is typically approaching peak autumn color. Some leaves had begun to fall but most still clung to the trees with stunning color.

A chestnut caught my eye as I approached and brought me to a pause. The tree appeared rough in a way that raised an alarm. I recalled noticing earlier in the year, while on a walk in late summer that this tree’s leaves were beginning to dry, and while I’m not a chestnut expert it seemed odd. Then on this October day, while there were a handful of branches that still had green leaves that looked bright and healthy, they were contained to one quarter of the tree, while the rest was already bare and seemed to be oozing decay from the tips of its branches.

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Theme

Every emotion can arise when approaching loss. When I recognize something is about to go awry, I’m met with a meld of denial for what may come, grief for the situation at hand, guilt for my role, and hope that what I want will come to pass.

This complexity, all under the lens of hope, is called to the stand in Clear eyes and hope.

Our culture typically looks at hope as a positive emotion. It represents a willingness to believe that things can change for the better, which is often seen as the first step in participating in a change. This is certainly a valid point of view, as we clearly see when we look at changes that have occurred over time. Hope for equality led to the end of slavery and to the accomplishment of women’s suffrage. Hope for a just society led to the formation of America, an experiment of democracy, and a legal system with checks and balances. Hope for a better life for their children leads parents to put aside their personal needs to set their children on stronger footing than they had when they set out into the world as young adults. Hope is a trait that in its ideal state leads to progress, change, and betterment of the external.

The question arises, what does hope do for our internal world? Over the past few years, I have heard it said that hope leads to suffering, especially from western teachers who have a leaning toward eastern practices and spirituality. Eastern wisdom traditions teach that we already have a deep source of peace and wisdom inside of us that can be touched at any time, therefore hope can cloud what is already clear and fuel the cycle of samsara. This view is very logical, to the point where I agreed for a period of time. The logic is that if you carry hope, you are reaching for something out of your control that will often not come to pass, and therefore leave you discontent. If you hope, you will be restless, therefore losing your equanimity. If you hope, you may desire a certain outcome and even if you arrive, you will become just as dissatisfied as you were as desire raises its head again.

Logically, it thinks right, but this idea has not felt right to me. The idea of hope seems foundationally human, and if it can change the external world, it feels right that it can also positively impact our internal. Perhaps the question to consider is if these conclusions are not attributable to hope, but to other emotions or beliefs that are mislabeled as hope in our inability to honestly assess circumstances. It is the encroaching traits that emerge throughout this poem, all under the guise of hope. Let’s explore a few… denial, desire, and delusion.

Don’t get me wrong, it can’t be good news
but time’s passage has me questioning my memory,
was it July, death when every other tree
was at the height of life,
or was it September and simply began to dry
a touch early?

In this stanza, one’s memory is questioned to try to ease the potential pain of the situation. The author knows it was the height of summer when this tree began to wilt yet tries to convince himself otherwise. This is not hope. It is denial.

I don’t want you to die, dear tree.
Your majesty is magnificent and I wish you
back to life, or just back to autumn when
small death and small decay are felt by all,
or even just back to later years, wearing white hair
like most who stare this Monday afternoon. 

This stanza pleads for the situation to be different than it is, the tree to be restored to the height of its glory, or almost as if in a negotiation just back to a time prior to its imminent demise. This is not hope. It is desire.

I do hope but I’m told hope is for fools,
so I’ll look with clear eyes and hope
that when your neighboring sweet gum sheds its green,
I can visit you again and know you simply sleep
for the long winter ahead.

Next, an honest assessment of the situation, coming back to the facts at hand, followed by a disparaging statement towards oneself to shake himself into what he knows to be true. But even in one simple line of a stanza, pure hope is lost, and a new trait enters, using the passage of time and neighboring circumstances to see things differently. This is not hope. It is delusion.

The poem ends in tension. Clear eyes, I cannot find them through this hope. // I’ll visit you next spring. This stanza does not declare honesty and hope cannot exist simultaneously. In fact, hope is at its best when it is side by side with an honest assessment of a situation. Seeing the current state clearly with a layer of hope can be the driver to the work of change that I referenced at the beginning of this essay, a place that carries actual possibility. This stanza is a declaration that one is simply not ready for this place. They currently wrestle with the underlying traits we discussed, and perhaps the passage of time will bring them to a place where clear eyes and hope can live simultaneously.

Final thought

To claim there is no hope is cynical. To think everything is possible is naive. The difficult practice is to hold hope and honesty together. There is an open space here where beauty and equanimity can emerge.

May you have clear eyes and may you also have hope.

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of Clear eyes and hope, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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Clear eyes and hope

Garden walks #2

The line between ruin and repose
was left behind in September,
once October cut through it
with a sharp edge of the air.

Example. This chestnut that has twisted
to the sky for one hundred and fifty years,
now I’m guessing the years
but it looks like death,
dropped shriveled leaves in July and I was certain
it must have been given two months to live,
but now October and some leaves still
feed from somewhere.

Don’t get me wrong, it can’t be good news
but time’s passage has me questioning my memory,
was it July, death when every other tree
was at the height of life,
or was it September and simply began to dry
a touch early?

I don’t want you to die, dear tree.
Your majesty is magnificent and I wish you
back to life, or just back to autumn when
small death and small decay are felt by all,
or even just back to later years, wearing white hair
like most who stare this Monday afternoon. 

Only twenty-nine branches 
wave your green fans 
and you used to wave them from every branch,
your prospects look grim,
the blight that ruined your cousins
must have found you.

I do hope but I’m told hope is for fools,
so I’ll look with clear eyes and hope
that when your neighboring sweet gum sheds it’s green,
I can visit you again and know you simply sleep
for the long winter ahead.

Clear eyes, I cannot find them through this hope.

I’ll visit you next spring. 

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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Process

It is easy to bemoan the constraints of time on an artistic life. A career must be built, a job needs to be done, and various duties call, when all one may want to do is sit at their desk and create. Many wish to pull income from their art so they can leave the burden of work behind, a brave few even take the step to do this, and even fewer do this for years on end. I do love the call to consciously choose what we want in life and to deeply pursue it in a “full-time” way. On the surface that is an ideal state, but what if “full-time” was not about the hours spent? Perhaps, and perhaps more deeply, “full-time” is a practical way to frame how one walks through their everyday existence.

Many of you have heard me say I strive to write thirty minutes of poetry per day. That may mean only one line comes or it may mean an entire poem flows, but no matter. If thirty minutes is spent with pen hovering above paper, I have done what I’ve set out to do. While that is a practical point of view, what if I choose the impractical identity of being a poet all day, even while earning my income from a different source of work? What if that identity is carried even as I manage people, filter spreadsheets, or lead a meeting in a boardroom? Perhaps then I have become a full-time poet without upending my life.

Carrying a full-time artistic identity leads to a readiness to create in small moments, such as on a fifty-five minute flight between work meetings and home. If there are fifty hours a week where I am wearing only a corporate identity it is easy to sift through email in these moments, providing a feeling of production while in reality only producing the need to respond to more email. But this past December, carrying the “full-time poet identity” had me in a place of attention where I was poised to write when spare minutes appeared. Slow horizon was drafted during one of these moments on this short midwestern flight. I didn’t have my writing notebook along, but I did have a work notebook, so I just wrote of the beauty I saw and the questions I had in the blank pages between the history of corporate conversations.

Of course, writing is the easiest art form to take on the go. But the meaningful question is, what does claiming a full-time creative identity as part of your everyday life mean for your artistic life? Does this make you more ready and more committed to your craft? Does this lead you to a place where the frustrations around time constraints dissipate?

I’ve found it certainly holds these possibilities.

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Themes

Slow horizon speaks to questions of direction and prompts us to recognize that though our logical mind wants it, there is no clarity in destination until we have arrived. What is clear is that any path is directed by many small choices. Life offers multiple paths with obscured destinations. Few paths appear continual, all are sure to be winding, and while at times they are made of glowing steps of brilliance, they always contain strides of dark quietude. How we arrive at where we are going is by taking a next step, then the next, and then the next. If we accept the uncertain outcomes of our choices as a type of play, life holds the possibility of releasing the anxiety that an expected outcome typically delivers.

Some choices, even when taken with clear intent, lead to regret. Regret can be a powerful driver to alter course by choosing a path that seemingly takes us in a direction away from frustrations we currently hold. When those are decisions to move in a more loving, relational way of being, I’d say regret holds a great power to improve our life. However, if we wield regret to write a story of how our current life is subpar, we fool ourselves, as if through different choices we would have been assured a better current environment. The fact is that where we stand today is the obscured horizon we tried to see in a prior moment. To have made different choices would have led to a different place, but a better place? One will never know.

Finally, wherever you arrive, you being there is the only constant. How we relate to ourself and to our circumstances informs how we feel more then the circumstances around us.

Final thought

There are certainly terrible circumstances that people are handed, circumstances that traumatize, and circumstances that no one would ever choose. My observations do not deny that and are not meant to minimize that fact. Certainly, when in these situations, the next step is to take a step of care, compassion, and sometimes leaving circumstance behind. But simply put, even in this setting, wherever you are, this is where you are. This moment is it, and the only choice you get to make is the one immediately in front of you.

So choose, and take the step. Choose, and step. Repeat.

May you find peace in your step today.

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of Slow horizon, you can find it here. Enjoy!

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Ghosts is the final part, Part 5, of An exchange on grief. This is the side of the Poetry & Process newsletter where artists explore a topic through an exchange of their art.

This month’s exchange is on the topic of Grief, a series of five pieces written over the past six months, poems from Brian Funke, author of Poetry & Process, and micro essays from Reena Kapoor, author of Arrivals and Departures . If you wish to revisit any of the prior parts, just follow the links below.

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I hope you enjoy this collaborative effort on Grief.

Grief: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Ghosts

Brian Funke

Haunting in this steel trunk,
ghosts governed
by airtight lips
and a padlock large
enough to withstand
any bolt cutter 
though you swear to nobody
that you will yield 
the key someday,
someday when a solo line
from a vibrant violin
makes music around
your cloudy eyes.

With a great heave,
you place the trunk
in a new corner
for another day.

And as you stand
the ghosts
from years of dark
rise to surround
you in their billow of dust,
a cloud that climbs
through the air
that could never be contained
under lock and key.

With grief locked lips
and a struggle
you try key after key
and free 
a melody’s rise as you lift
the lid in chorus.

Ghosts cover you
and songs surround you. 

Thank you for reading this exchange. I would love to hear from you in the comments about what this short series has stirred in you! I’ll see you there.

May you find joy among your grief…

Brian

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I am excited to publish Part 1 of An exchange, a side of the Poetry & Process newsletter where artists explore a topic through an exchange of their art. The first exchange occurred in June of 2024, exploring the topic of Community with poet Jason McBride, with the second published just this past November with author, artist, and environmental champion Katharine Beckett Winship on the topic of Kinship.

This month’s exchange is on the topic of Grief, a series of five pieces written over the past six months, poems from Brian Funke, author of Poetry & Process, and micro essays from Reena Kapoor, author of Arrivals and Departures . A newsletter will be published daily for five days, exploring different aspects of Grief, each publication built on the prior piece.

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Subscribe to Arrivals and Departures

Enjoy this collaborative effort on Grief.

Grief: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5

Questions of grief

Brian Funke

Smoke dancing among distant hills,
for years I have thrown my glance that way
and stepped towards, yes, one step
but never two.

A step towards, step, and a step back
through the threshold of the story I have built,
four steadied walls and a shingled roof
and glass to glimpse the hills through,
though I dare not look, dare not look too often
for the view compels me
and I imagine what it means
to leave this all behind,
and the only way, the way of weeping
which I know not appears fraught
with everything one would certainly
be shaken by.

I could wander but the distance is unknown
and who would tend, who, tend the lilies and the lilacs,
tend the lettuce and the lavender
and who would save my home from blight.

If I survive the terrible forest
and the hills do not break my body
and I arrive at the fire that fuels
the dance through these hills,
I fear what one becomes
for in fire the physical is consumed,
trunk charred then limbs blackened
and all brought low to earth and ash.

And the release that fades into wind,
who can speak of this with certainty,
touch fire, touch and become fire
then disappear as pungent smoke
spiraling upwards in a soft, whirling dance
to join the place among the gods,

no,
seated among the gods.

Thank you for reading Part 1! Please leave a comment about what strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read. Perhaps consider what the path of grief means for you.

Part 2, authored by Reena, will be published tomorrow! Until then…

May you trust the earth to tend the lilies…

Brian

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Slow horizon

A winter haze holding a slow horizon,
me through the air at speeds unfathomable
just a century ago yet speed does not bring clarity,

a low winter sun piercing the haze in a rainbow of whites,
eyes thrown down to steppingstones, emblazoned 
coins of water and a snaking river of fire,

a smoldering path the mind detests in its desire for clear, straight lines,
but the soul celebrates around every bright bend 
and in each dark chasm

and toward any 
obscured 
horizon.

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Thank you for reading! What strikes you, speaks to you, or stirs in you while you read this piece? I look forward to whatever dialogue happens here, and as always, I will be following up with a Reflection essay on how this poem emerged into being.

Brian

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Process – Garden walks

I wrote my very first poem shortly after the turn of the new year in 2021. In the four years since, the majority of my poetry has been written at my dining room table in the brightening hour before sun rise. There are times a recent experience or clear memory is ready to morph into the poetic spectrum and line after line just writes itself onto the page with an ease I want my whole life to exude. More often than not, a poem emerges slowly and uncertainly. It takes a vague thought, journaling about that particular idea, then scratching a line just two or three words at a time. Morning after morning I return to, and hope the next line will emerge. Once some rickety scaffolding is built, I think for a while about burning it and starting over, but after the words on the page plead for their life, I set my ego aside and remember I’ve been through this before and that beauty can emerge from effort. The design process begins. Stanzas are moved, lines are cut, new phrases are written, and in moments of Aha! the poem slowly takes its final shape.

Towards the end of some time at the Missouri Botanical Gardens, a beautiful space in St. Louis that I walk at least twice a month, my wife and I stopped in the gift shop on our way out. I bought a collection of Poems centered on trees, called Tree Lines: 21^st Century American Poems, edited by Jennifer Barber, Jessica Greenbaum, and Fred Marchant. I have been thinking about what it is that makes poetry a collection, as I’ve been kicking around the idea of publishing a book but haven’t known where to start. There are the questions of what poems should make the cut, if the book needs one overarching theme or multiple, and how to gather existing poems together to find a common element when they were not written with one connecting thread in mind. These are all questions that can be answered but are daunting because I haven’t done it before. Flipping through the book later that morning, the idea of writing a collection composed entirely in natural spaces, gardens, and wilderness came to me as an interesting way to begin a series and possibly bring a poetic compilation together with the intent of publishing.

With some time off from work approaching, I made a plan to return to the garden on one of those days and pen a piece as I wandered. Upon arriving, I entered the garden with no agenda other than to write whatever I encountered and allow a theme to emerge on its own. I would walk, then sit and write a stanza based on a flower, tree, or idea that had come to me from the setting, then stand and walk to the next bench where I felt inspired to stop and repeat. A series of poetry I am subtitling Garden Walks began to bud.

Maidenhair is the fourth poem I have written in this manner and the first that I have published. Perhaps it’s the fresh air and beauty, perhaps it’s simply setting my notebook in my lap instead of on a table, and perhaps there will only be a short-lived benefit coming from this new way of writing that will eventually grow stale, but it has created more frequent moments of poetic flow than I have ever had in my dining room, and a faster pace of quality poems than I’ve written before (eight that I’ve grown attached to in a two month window).

For now, I will continue to visit the muse outside with my notebook and pen in hand. Perhaps the work will become a book, or a section of a book, or perhaps just a beautiful series of memories that live within me. Most importantly, the muse lives in this place for now and visiting her in her element seems like the only sane thing to do. She will move on to a new location at some point so I will have to search again, find her, and follow, but the unpredictable creative path seems like a fun one worth navigating.

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Themes

Part 1

The maidenhair, also known as the gingko, is a tree that has a storied history of over 290 million years. They have seen dinosaurs, mass extinction, the emergence of homosapiens, the beginning of recorded history, and every great dynasty’s rise and fall. They have heard the teachings of every great spiritual teacher, the sounds of the industrial revolution, the shouts of world war, and the winds of many seasons.

Even individual maidenhair trees can have resilience and life span that today’s biohackers can only be jealous of. Six trees in Hiroshima were among just a few living things to survive the atom bomb. Multiple maidenhair trees are believed to be over a millennia old, with one of the oldest standing at a Buddhist temple in the Zhongnan Mountains of China, age 1,400 years. Another stood at a shrine in Japan from the time the shrine was founded in 1063 until 2010 when it was toppled in a storm, but the stump of this tree has since sprouted new growth.

Yet even in its history, this tree has an annual cycle of life and death. Each year, the tree produces a stunning array of leaves that bud green in spring, fan out in summer, and fall in golden showers in autumn. This beauty then serves as replenishment for the soil to eventually return to each tree as nourishment for its future growth. The maidenhair teaches a lesson that all beauty is fleeting but also part of an aged story, one that is not frivolous but necessary for continued survival and evolution.

Part 2

This brief stanza is a mystical depiction. It uses the image of an egret standing on the edge of a pond so still the real bird and the reflection are interchangeable.

What we believe about our individual boundaries truly exists on the surface, in that I am I, and you are you, and we have a layer of skin that separates us from the other. But in other ways, this boundary is a fallacy. We know through modern science that all matter is mostly empty space, that matter is not created or destroyed, and that we are made of matter that existed in other forms before what we call ourselves came to be. Science is just catching up with what spiritual adepts have taught for thousands of years, in that there is a spaciousness that is the background of things, and that there is a connection that underlies everything and that can even be experienced in our everyday world through careful attention and by dropping the conventional labels that we have placed on the world. Bird, reflection, the surface, and the observer are different yet the same.

Part 3

The final stanza is a culmination of the recognitions from the earlier stanzas within one individual. It is an embrace of their place in the world, their few years only a drop in the larger ocean of time but also an integral part of that story. Using an image of the maidenhair tree on a day in late autumn as it drops its leaves, we acknowledge a reliance on everything found outside of ourselves and that we can live, even in a joyous way, with the knowing that our life is only for a moment, and that in death we return to the life we had before we took human form.

Final thought

Maidenhair prompts many large questions, perhaps the largest being how is your relationship with time? Mine is tenuous at best. I have a deep desire to maximize what I do and optimize how I do it, which often robs me of all that time offers.

Time is a backdrop on which we live our lives, not some being that we can bend to our will. It is the space where we work, where we play, and where we relate to others. We know it exists because we can remember our past and imagine our future, but when we look for time, close inspection reveals no moment other than now. How we relate to time informs how we relate to ourselves and those we love most, it shapes how we interact with all we do, and is directly related to our ability to walk through life with equanimity.

Like anything we explore below the surface, paradox appears. The paradox I am faced with as I ponder this poem is how do I fully accept my current relationship with time and seek to befriend it in a deeper way?

I think the answer is found in continuing to ask the question.

May you embrace the gift that time offers you this day…

Brian

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If you missed the original “A Poem” post of Maidenhair, I hope you will read and enjoy! You can find it here.

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