The Treekeeper's Tale E-Book

Pascale Petit

• Herausgeber: Seren
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 41

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Beschreibung

Well known for the fierce confessional imagery of her first three books, The Treekeeper's Tale points towards another facet of the poet's gift, an intense feeling for the natural world, allied with a personal response to historical incidents and to other lands. The title section of this four-part collection adopts the giant coast redwood trees in California as a particular talisman. Lyrical, resonant, strange and imaginative, these poems echo in the mind and leave an indelible impression of the mysterious atmosphere of the redwood forests. The second section, 'Afterlives', takes us on journeys to the past, as in the burial of a Siberian priestess, and on trips to other places including China, Nepal and Kazakhstan. The colourful paintings of the German expressionist Franz Marc, such as the famous red and blue horses series, provide the key to the third section, War Horse, where dramatic imagery of the horses blends and contrasts with the tragic fate of Europe during World War One. The final part, 'The Chrysanthemum Lantern', features sensitive translations from Chinese originals.

Leseprobe

The Treekeeper’s Tale Pascale Petit

seren

Seren is the book imprint of Poetry Wales Press Ltd. 57 Nolton Street, Bridgend, Wales, CF31 3AE

www.serenbooks.com Facebook: Facebook.com/SerenBooks Titter: @SerenBooks

The right of Pascale Petit to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

© Copyright Pascale Petit, 2008.

ISBN 9781854114716 Epub: 9781854116185 Kindle: 9781854116321

A CIP record for this title is available from the British Library.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted at any time or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior permission of the copyright holder.

The publisher acknowledges the financial assistance of the Welsh Books Council.

Cover Art: by the author – ‘Treekeeper’ (1987). Back cover portrait of the author by Kitty Sullivan.

Contents

The Treekeeper’s Tale

The Treekeeper’s Tale

Chandelier-Tree

Exiled Elm

Creation of the Birds

A Dawn Trail

Portrait of a Coast Redwood Forest with Mandolin

Uprooted Redwood

The University among the Redwoods, Santa Cruz

Treesitter

Nature Singer

Osprey Nests

Redwood Canopy Explorer

Creation of the Trees

Afterlives

The Second Husband

Two Golden Eagles

Frozen Horses

Siberian Ice Maiden

Salmon

Baby Moon

Atlas Moth

Slipper Orchids

Hieroglyph Moth

Escape

Moon Moths (in the Day Room)

The Bee Mother

My Larzac Childhood

The Reckless Sleeper

Self-Portrait as the King Vulture’s Bride

Creation of the Himalayas

Machapuchere (Fishtail Mountain)

The Hudson Remembers

Night Boat on Galilee

War Horse

War Horse

Dispatch Rider

Blue Foal Dreaming

The Doves of Verdun

Bluish Fabulous Beast

The Trees Show their Rings, the Animals their Veins

The Chrysanthemum Lantern

Scapecat

Jay

The chrysanthemum lantern is floating over me

Jingan Village, June

To an Ancient Cypress

Ghost Sonatas

The Journey

Acknowledgements

The Treekeeper’s Tale

The Treekeeper’s Tale

I have set up house in the hollow trunk of a giant redwood. My bed is a mat of pine needles. Cones drop their spirals

on my face as I sleep. I have the usual flying dreams. But all I know when I wake is that this bark is my vessel

as I hurtle through space. Once, I was rocked in a cradle carved from a coast redwood, its lullabies were my coracle.

I searched for that singing grove and became its guardian. There are days when the wind plays each tree

like a new instrument in the forest-orchestra.

On wild nights mine is a flute. After years of solitude

I have started to hear its song. I lie staring at the stars until the growth rings enclose me in hoops -

choirs of concentric colours, as if my tree is remembering the music of the spheres. And I almost remember speaking

my first word, how it flew out of my mouth like a dove. I have forgotten how another of my kind sounds.

Chandelier-Tree

I find myself staring at the spaces between fronds, where pure blue plumes appear, the air painting itself on my eye.

And I see how the trunk doesn’t end where a person can climb, but continues to the redwood’s true crown, sky-feathers

piercing the stratosphere, blue forest on blue, some white with lace frills of finest cirrus, before the wide canopy

of night, its invisible leaves

suddenly alert with stars — how they are

glimpses of the tree of light.

Exiled Elm

My comet-roots trail earth through the dark, my trunk swarms with homeless insects

and from my starry crown seeds scatter, searching for new worlds.

Creation of the Birds

after the paintingby Remedios Varo

I paint birds from starlight.

The harder my art, the stronger their wings -

solar or lunar feathered, iris-barbed. The ultrasonic syrinx,

drawn from my violin-brush, starts to hum when I’m lonely.

I release them while still wet, their songs liquid and light, not meant for base ears.

Even the nests they weave in our old forests are harmonies — temporary mouths for our trees.

Restless, they embark on great migrations, beat against the glass of earth’s cage.

A Dawn Trail

Each day we come earlier, searching for that hush

no freeway hum will shatter,

when the morning wind blows all sound

into the next creek

and even our footsteps are muffled

by a soundproof carpet.

Deeper into the silence we notice the flutter

of dropping needles

soft as feathers from the sky, and a pause

in which we sense a presence,

where we begin to see ourselves as part of the forest,

the thought emerging

like a white doe who keeps a shy distance,

at home in the heart of the grove,

before language, before the human tongue

took root.

Portrait of a Coast Redwood Forest with Mandolin

When the first ray pierces my canvas

I breathe on its shaft, make solar music.

It’s in these early hours of a painting’s life

that my palette becomes a mandolin, its thumb-hole

a soundhole plucked by brushes. My eye