Of poetry. And trees

Trees like these in Pacific Spirit Park are among my favourite things on this earth.  A recent encounter with a Saltspring neighbour who can spout a poem about them off the top of his head made me think about  what has happened to poetry in the modern world. Photo by John Denniston.

In my grandfather’s time, the pioneer folk on the prairies memorized set-pieces, often selections of poetry – as their contribution to social gatherings. Before television, before the Internet, before video games and Netflix, these were gifts people gave each other for entertainment, to create community, to whittle down the loneliness.

The concept of memorizing and quoting poetry has diminished since then – too hard, too embarrassing, and whenever would you use it? Despite this, my grandfather’s love of poetry lived on through my mother, who could quote long sections of early 20^th-century verse, along with bits of doggerel aimed at sulky children: “Nobody likes me; everybody hates me, I’m out in the garden eating worms, yum-yum” was a favourite. As a child, my sister Diane, who had a good brain for such things, took it upon herself to memorize Oliver Wendell Holmes’ “The Wonderful One-Hoss Shay,” 120 lines about a solid old carriage that lasted 100 years until, “all at once and nothing first, just like bubbles when they burst,” it disintegrated into a pile of dust.

 English novelists of the Victorian era and beyond often had characters quote poetry as if it were common parlance, understood by all. Even Virginia Woolf, a revolutionary in her time, used poetry as part of her characters’ doings. In To the Lighthouse, stiff old Mr. Ramsay embarrassed himself by bursting out into Tennyson’s “Charge of the Last Brigade” when he didn’t realize guests were within hearing distance. Mid-20^th century writer John Mortimer’s popular character, barrister Horace Rumpole, regularly annoyed his clients, friends and enemies with salvos of verse by Wordsworth, Shakespeare, Keats and Shelley.

But mostly, these days, people do not memorize poetry, verse does not ring out on the public streets, nor is it part of most people’s daily lives.

Which is why I was so surprised – struck, delighted – when our new Saltspring neighbour erupted in poetry when we bumped into him recently. It was only the second time I’ve met Halim, but through John, he knows about the master’s thesis that had kept me glued to Vancouver for the past two years. Halim, an indigenous Berber from the mountains of the North African country of Morocco, places a high value on education. His parents left their land and moved to the city to ensure their children could go to university. Halim studied German, literature and philosophy in Morocco and Germany before his desire to see more of the world led him to Canada and his current job as a teacher at Saltspring’s high school. With all that behind him, his eyes shone and his congratulations were effusive when he asked about my studies and I told him I finally had my degree.

And then, standing on the street outside his house in the middle of the village in the middle of the day, he began reciting a poem by heart. Not knowing that I am a tree person with a secret fantasy of living in a tree stump, he chose Pulitzer-prize winning American poet Mary Oliver’s “When I Among the Trees”:

 “When I am among the trees,

especially the willows and the honey locust,

 equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

 they give off such hints of gladness

I would almost say that they save me, and daily.”

He performed the poem, rather than just reciting it, giving a sense of the liveliness he must bring to the classroom – lucky students! At the lines: “The light flows from their branches,” he gestured to the high stand of trees across the road from us, and mimicked a water-like downward flow.

At the poem’s finish:

“you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine,” he added:

“It is for you. A gift for finishing your degree.”

What a gift! That poem, spouting effortlessly out of his head in the middle of an ordinary day, was a reminder of the power of this long-diminished art – to connect, to entertain, to ease the barriers between strangers. It was something my grandfather’s generation knew, and I wondered whether future generations will ever learn it again.

American poet Mary Oliver's trees were different than the ones in B.C., but I think she would have enjoyed them just as much. Photo by John Denniston.

I've referred before to my fantasy of living, like a Beatrix Potter creature, in an old tree stump. How could I resist trying this one out for size when John and I came across it in Pacific Spirit Park this week? Photo by John Denniston. 

Just room for an easy chair in here, and the hole behind me would look great with a stained-glass window pane inside. Photo by John Denniston.

Getting out required some gymnastics. A nice rustic wooden door would work well here. Photo by John Denniston. 

When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver

When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, "Stay awhile."
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, "It's simple," they say,
"and you too have come

into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled

with light, and to shine."