Spirits In Peace Blog

How out of whack things are! In this area, we have snowfall such as I have never seen, with little break and almost no melting between storms. Icicles at least six feet long are dangling from eavestroughs, and spring flooding is anticipated due to the incredible snow-pack.

Oddly, the conditions often give rise to a poem on the theme of nature, as I am deeply concerned about global warming. We are clearly seeing devastating effects, and have been for a good while now, but yet governments argue over carbon tax and people continue to drive gas-guzzling vehicles.

And still our Aboriginal Peoples, who understand nature better than anyone, are excluded from conferences and symposiums on the matter. Yet we can hardly think of looking seven generations down the line…

Recently, I was watching some of those killer icicles melt as the late February sun grows stronger each day, and it gave rise to an etheree:

Thoughts On Icicles Melting: A Reverse Double Etherée

On noting the melting of several
large icicles this mild afternoon
I contemplate the patterns of
nature and therein observe
that each single aspect
is perfectly planned
our human greed
being the bug
that upsets
this fine
form
and
knowing
that my own
role in mayhem
is no less than that
of most I simply stare
at the incessant dripping
and know that similarly our
planet is trickling away surely
as the icicles will soon disappear

©Carol Knepper

Those of you who have pursued some of my poems will notice that I often make mention, or develop an entire poem around, the theme of the colours of nature.In fact, I have an entire e-book, appropriately entitled Colours, devoted to that sort of idea.

Earlier today, I had written an etheree which focused on winter as a restorative period of necessary dormancy, and in it I entertained the idea the human beings also go through such periods, followed by a period of growth. A friend’s comment on the etheree, in which the term “winter blues” was mentioned, immediately prompted the piece posted later in this entry.

I must admit to having suffered from those winter blues, and this year I have gradually developed a different attitude, as life is simply too short to go around disliking an entire season. I must say the process, which was a matter of spiritual work, and comes down essentially to my love of all creation.

My Winter Blues

My winter blues are cerulean-clear, unlike
summer’s cumulus-climb of saturation’s shower.
My morning blues are crystalline azure-gray,
when ice-encrusted alders glitter-gleam in solstice
morning sun. My sporty daytime blues are denim-steel,
on frozen pond where some ingloriously strive to glide
on faltering flat of blade, while others curve and carve
on elegant easy edge past wobbling clumsy crew.

My winter nights are cobalt-rich, with sparkling stars
appearing well before repast, the supper hour spent
watching dazzle of Big Dipper and Orion’s awe.
As inky indigo creeps across such scintillating scene,
I thank Creator for the winter blues He brings to me.

©Carol Knepper

Photograph http://www.bigfoto.com/

Nature poetry can be inspired in most unusual ways. In my case, I do not necessarily gaze at a sunset and then proceed to write about it, although that can of course happen.

Oddly, physical work often causes a poem to spring to mind. Poems write themselves in my mind when I am washing the floor, vacuuming, folding laundry, shovelling snow, raking leaves or mulch, or doing other relatively mindless chores. Just recently, while chipping ice for the umpteenth time this winter, the following piece began to tweak in my brain, and presented itself in its entirety a short while after, while still in the heavy jeans and sweatshirt I had donned for the occasion.

Yearning For Yellow

I dream of drip of icicle and sigh for slop of snow,
as March gales begin their gust-shift into welcome
waft of spring. I yearn for yellow crocuses, stamens
saffron-stained, and pine for push of peony
through sodden April soil. I acutely ache for
elegant evenings, heliotrope-heavenly, and thirst
for trill of wood thrush in search of wiggling worms.

I long for late-night lingering on patio or porch,
while viewing vermilion sunsets well past
solstice supper hour. I miss merciful mellow
moments of blissful bask in blessèd warming beam
of beauteous Brother Sun. And I passionately
plead for his rapid reappearance from winter’s
straggle-stray, whereas his cold and crooked walk.

Nature can be an inspiration even at times when the weather leaves a great deal to be desired. Right now, most of us have had winter, with its accompanying ice and snow, up to the proverbial ears. But yet there is a brutal beauty in the season, and life is too short to waste fretting over something we cannot control.

This winter, it has been my personal mission and mandate not only to see - for I have always seen it- but to enjoy without a trace of rancour or even spring wistfulness - the beauty in the crystalline trees and snow-capped cedars. Nothing is quite so magical as alders after an ice-storm, or tall black spruces draped in their snowy garments.

It helps if one can simply let one’s child come out and play, and let go, even briefly, of all the adult chores snow and ice entail. Do our lawns and gardens not involve chores as well? Do we not have to water petunias and tomatoes? Do we not rake those multi-coloured leaves in October? Why, then, do many of us consider winter work to be a special form of drudgery?

So this season I have let winter’s considerable enchantment in, just as I allow myself to be captivated by daffodils in May, lilacs and peonies in June, hydrangea in August, and the vibrant reds, oranges, and bronzes of the autumn’s leaves. I will not deny myself joy for three months of the year.

Nor do I have the right to dislike any aspect of God’s creation. After all, we are all part of this vast and mysterious Oneness, so in the end, to despise any aspect is to despise something of ourselves.

And that avails us nothing.

Study Of Spruce-Slouch

On this magical mid-winter morn snow falls
feather-silently on towering tamaracks, balsam firs,
silver pines. Through frosted window, I observe
bow of birch and slouch of spruce as branches
bravely bend under wonder-weight of white.

I note no bough is broken and detect graceful
arching drape of fully-skirted evergreens over dashing
dot of doe and drag of hoof. I study solid lessons
that such dazzling day as this surely strives to teach,
faith and flexibility its beauty’s beneficial themes.

© Carol Knepper 2009

Often poetry is designated as spiritual and I suppose such a term might easily be applied to certain pieces that clearly have this type of focus. I view every poem as a gift, my Muse being most generous, and those who are poets, as contrasted to simply writing doggerel or cute little ditties, are often very aware that poems often arrive as if almost pre-written in some other dimension. The poem, in effect, chose the poet, as opposed to the poet sitting down and laboriously composing the poem, with many corrections and revisions necessary.

Such pieces present themselves as polished gems, with little or no editing required, and that often involving merely the correction of typographical errors. In many cases, one cannot type fast enough, as the mental and spiritual processes are occurring with such rapidity.

Thus, are not all poems in some way spiritual? If I were to forget about Spirit (if such a thing were possible) and attempt to write, what am I doing other than playing at penning poetry, as everyone does, say, in elementary school? In that case, I am simply doing a creative exercise, rather like knitting a sweater from a pattern.

The poem cannot be separated from the poet. They are one and the same; as the poem arrives as a gift of the Universe, the Oneness of which everything is a part, the poet cannot be divorced from his or her work.

Such is the nature of One, and as such poems to me are gifts of Spirit, and in some way spiritual.