Naomi Ruth Lowinsky

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YOUR NATURE AND MINE​

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You quote Bashō: “Learn about the pine from the pine, learn about the bamboo from the bamboo.” You’d have me write myself out of the poem. Or at most, be a small figure—a bearded monk perhaps—at the foot of a great mountain. Let nature take over the poem is your teaching. Be the rock the water falls over, the night blooming jasmine, the bees, the grasses, the rabbit in the grip of Great Horned claws at dusk.

Look, the poem is my habitat—where my nature grows wild. I listen for what calls. I watch for what visits. Here comes trouble—raccoon steals into the garden, makes a mess in the compost bin. You’d be off walking the woods, notebook stuffed in your pocket. Me, I’m clanging the lids of my pots to scare off the bandit. You, who step out of your self like an old pair of jeans, return at dusk to see raccoon tossing about your pits and your peels. Raccoon lunges. You stand firm, taking notes, curious. Me, I’ve retreated to my den, am having it out with raccoon on paper. He gets the last word:

It takes a good dose of chaos to get creation going. That’s where I come in.