Nothing new to write

I’ve come to the end of the year, a busy year at that for publication acceptances. I’ve worked hard on revisions and submitting manuscripts to publishers, agents, and contests. I rode my bike up the Rhine River through Germany, France, and Switzerland. And, I’ve come to the end of new stuff to write about.

So it feels like. Lately.

Perhaps, I need to lower the bar or slow down. Part of my preparation for my talk at the Festival for Faith and Writing, Slow Looking, is about honing observation skills. Living in the moment. Creating a Zen-like attitude toward the world. Definitely not listening to the news.

I never liked nature poetry. I relegated it to old ladies, to people who went to bed at 7 pm and asked for the senior discount at the donut shop. There was a 4 o’clock special at the Denny’s restaurant I worked at in Centerville, where we could count on the same retirees showing up with their potbellies and suspenders and pocketbooks full of half-used tissues and Hawaiian white ginger fragrance from Avon.

Now, at 65, I love that smell. I save Kleenex. Time for some nature poetry.

The urban (not urbane) poet, James Schuyler spent almost his entire adult life living in New York City, specifically the lower East Side and the Chelsea Hotel. From most all accounts he lived a rather poor existence because of health problems, primarily mental health. He had friends and care-takers—often falling in love with them, see Tom Carey. Often what Schuyler wanted or thought he wanted was out of reach, either in the past, on another continent, or monetarily beyond what he could afford. His disease alienated him from his friends and his income didn’t always allow him the freedom to visit—though for years he squatted with the Porters in Southampton on Long Island. He was grateful for small gifts.

In other words, he is not someone we would think might write nature poetry, but was, in fact, obsessed with plants, flower, trees, leaves, the color green. He spent hours sitting and writing at his studio apartment window, just observing. When able, he’d visit his more financially endowed friends in the countryside (Joe Brainard and Kenward Elmslie in Vermont were favorites) where he’d take walks or putter in their garden, spending time in nature. Many of Schuyler’s poem were composed at the couple’s farm in Calais.

His poem, “In the round,” is a seemingly curious piece of work. On the surface very simple, random, stream of consciousness, but dig deeper—as the poet does—and one can see more. Visually set up, the lines are 1-2-3-words long, short snippets of thought/riffing. In the round is a phrase meaning: visible from all sides. It is an artistic point of view. Theater performed “in the round.” Artists sculpt thinking three-dimensionally, or in the round. In the round allows for all perspectives, gives a sense of openness, the unconditional.

In the round

bed the inter-
loping grass
is beaded
at the wrist
the petunias
show
a crumpled horn,
morn-
ing after
rain and light-
ning the
dirt chewed
and chewy
wet, a
mocha sauce.
“How frail
are flowers
and frailer
still are
we!”. . .

The short lines limit and yet give space to Schuyler’s rambling observation, where he lights upon the petunias, the mud, and interjects his own mortality. This is not old-lady nature poetry, but a burlesque full of comedy, asides to the audience, self-reflection, and, as the poem goes on: a willingness to persevere, to greet a new day after a stormy night.

In the frenetic “acid blue” of “Buttered Greens,” Schuyler muses on seasonal change—Letting what / comes, go / and go in / dark, in / green and / acid blue / that fumes / as he frets / about lit- / tering houses / inside all / is not con- / tent, yet / the chance / of it is / there, free / leaves fall / and the will / stirs and / turns out / from it- / self, housed / in disposable / rib cages / (the heart / thumps) in / disposable / houses, wood / ribbed and / glazed to / flash back / buttered / green, what / it means: / leavings and / the permanence / of return / “I’ll be / back by / night” wind / raking leaves . . .

I can imagine Schuyler jotting into a notebook, having to break lines, flip pages, and then, later, transcribing the experience by tapping into a typewriter, the transitory nature of nature, what it gives and takes, comes and goes, and how it is done—back to the poem, the end—not by / us or for / us but / with us / and within / the body / of a house / the frame / of wood or / bone it is / much the / same

No dot, no period, just leaving (leafing) off.

Here we read in these examples, using short lines, dittys, someone who scoops up what he sees and processes it, and spits it out onto the page. Not highly selective or with an ear toward lyricism or sugar-coating, but simply

                                    looking.