Exploring Nature through Poetry
In the spring of 2024 the Harris Center offered an Environmental Studies Institute (ESI) class called “Transitions,” a workshop on the art of writing nature poetry. The class was taught by the former Poet Laureate of Hampshire, England, Brian Evans-Jones, who has been teaching poetry in person and through his website The Poetry Place for over 20 years.
Workshop participants, who had a range of writing experience, explored the transition from winter to spring in both nature and their own lives. Poets observed the natural world, read and discussed a selection of poems about nature and change, and wrote their own poems in a small, supportive group.
The following four poems were written by workshop participants Sue Copley, Cathy George, Sandy Taylor, and Anna Leversee. We’re delighted to share their work with you here.
Pollinator Heaven
by Sue Copley
For decades I entertained
Young children splashing, laughing
Jumping into my chilly water
Paddling out to my welcoming boulder.
No chlorine, only the freshest clear water
Parents, families watching, chatting,
Night visitors: deer, bear & a family of raccoons,
Appreciating all I provided.
Gradually the children grew up, abandoned me.
My four-legged friends quenching thirst elsewhere.
Alone and bereft, leaving me
Dry, Useless.
A sad sight for all.
But aha! Grey-haired visitors
With shovels and sand
Fill me up with loam,
Seeds, young plants, stepping stones.
The aged benches and patient stone walls remain,
Steadfast in their loyalty.
And now I prepare for full summer,
Playful wet children replaced by sweet-smelling
Phlox, steeplebush, and Joe Pie-weed.
Monarch butterflies. Stunning swallowtails.
Ruby-throated hummingbirds, my favorite.
The quiet buzz of bumble bees, honey bees.
The cheerful songs of nearby feathered friends.
Grandchildren visit, skittering around from one
Discovered delight to another,
Thrilled by my pollinator heaven.
Transformed yet still pleasure-giving,
I am content.
A Rock is Like a Story
by Cathy George
A rock is like a story
waiting to be told.
You see a green vein I miss
reading the marbled quartz tributaries
hidden in a crevice.
Neither of us
notice the long edge smoothed
by river water
over millennia,
Lacy pale green lichen
sews a hem for a forest bride’s gown.
Lying on my belly
the hot rock in sun’s rays
toasts cheek and ear.
I close my eyes to listen
the rock reads it’s memoir
in our silent communion.
The Mountain and the Message
by Sandy Taylor
The profile of the Mountain is like two reclining figures,
head-to-head.
One gazes at the mottled sky above, intrigued with what’s beyond—
the mystery, infinity.
The other feels the solid earth below, content with what is known,
grounded and secure.
Two perspectives from the same vantage point.
~~
News comes about the baby on its way,
the couples’ first.
New job, new house, new stage of life. “It is time,”
my nephew says.
We hear those words again, but from another.
The drive is long but we have time to sit and sing
and try to say good-bye.
She tells us we should head for home. “It is time.
I am ready to go.”
Jumping Spider
by Anna Leversee
Wizened woman
you visit me,
your back a woven basket,
patterned,
a Persian carpet.
Your eyes are Indian pottery
burned black – a split for the soul to come out –
the kind she would collect.
Springing toward me,
you gift me all at once
with the careful geometry of her love
made miniature,
somehow contained
in your perfect, impossible body.
Will there be at least one goddamned picture of me in this house?
you said to me
the day before you died.
How to have known that I will see you always,
to soothe you with this knowing,
small spider,
as you take your leap
away from me now
into the wild and indifferent business of this field,
brave, beloved, and alone.
