Planting trees can be an intimate experience of creativity, of healing the earth and ourselves.
That’s why The Naturalist School plants with poets instead of skid loaders, with artists instead of augers, with bare hands instead of backhoes, with kids instead of crews. We plant small trees grown from locally-wild and native seed collected by our friends and members.
Planting wildly connects us to our local ecosystems and nourishes the living communities in which we live. And of course we write poems, compose songs and do art. Every act of curiosity and every act of creativity can draw us more deeply into the wild energies of the cosmos. That’s what being a naturalist means to us!
*Jack Phillips with McCarthy Trenching, photo by Harrison Martin. Top: planting trees in Omaha’s Old Market and Prospect Hill Cemetery with TNS members, artists-in-residence from Bemis Center for Contemporary Arts and staff from Union for Contemporary Art.Middle: Nebraska State Senator Megan Hunt; precocious native sapling from our neighborhood.Photos by Rachel Kolb, Megan Hunt, Troy Soderberg and Chelsea Balzer.
Dragonflies and damselflies belong to the order Odonata and their larvae (naiads) possess a long and jointed labium with a spoon-like structure that opens into two sharp knife-like teeth. Odonate means “toothed-one” or “tooth-baby.” (This little one tried to eat a bullfrog tadpole in the holding bucket.) The labium can be examined by gently pulling it with a tweezers. The naiad above was admired, thanked and released unharmed.
Odonate larvae are often difficult to identify, but the bright green larvae of the Eastern Pondhawk (Erythemis simplicicollis) are distinctive. I spent a few mornings this week collecting and observing dragonfly larva and adults with photographer Robert Smith and filmmaker Emma Piper-Burket in Fremont County, Iowa. Of course we made time to write and read some poems.
Baby Dragon Zugunruhe*
Rattle-dragons the Odonates the tooth-babies so carnal as larva so carnival
as fliers the darners the meadowhawks the Halloween pennants come thin
days from fat-moons from muck wriggle forth naiads as our own days grow
shorter forgotten from whence we writhe and rise the time to stir to bite a
tadpole to fly, still somehow a zugunruhe for us.
Filmmaker Emma Piper-Burket. Photo with Emma’s phone.
*prose-poem by Jack Phillips (Becoming a Naturalist, Part 58.)
Jellied Moments of Disjecta Membra by Jack Phillips
Though poetry for us is a communal act the pandemic has rendered it a solitary affair of disjecta membra so this morning from a friend came a fragment and it reads
to be understood, it must be experienced as a type of jelly
and taking the form of a one-line haiku or an American sentence after the manner of Ginsberg it is so so true in so many ways for rhubarb (that tartness may have a say) for salamanders (that they may breathe and slink and breed and be) for marrow for the baking dog biscuits and for those who spread it on toast as marmalade.
An excellent morning poem and wildly born brings the poet and the reader to that jellied moment of generativity somewhere between the crust of reality and the goo that makes it go or perhaps it came to him as he lost his swamp-shoe in the soft bottom or recalled the time I dared him to eat the green gunk in a bean-pod or maybe and most likely beneath the slickering velocity of Vallonia pulchella or snail of another sort or slug.
*Becoming a Naturalist, Part 57. Poetic fragment by Joe Janowski.
Dalea purpurea, purple prairie clover. Fremont County, Iowa. (Robert Smith.)
Hello! I’ve been reading Black Elk Speaks this week and came across a part that I wanted to share with you.
In what feels like a different lifetime, we talked about Emerson’s essay Circles, and Rilke “living [his] life in widening circles” and of course there was the circle in the snow drawn by someone named Jack and the way that ephemeral artists like Andy Goldsworthy also make the sacred shape with leaf and stone!
Well now, this book has directed me to more evidence (as if I needed more) that circles have a wild power about them. I am certainly paying more attention to the overlooked circles again.
From Black Elk Speaks:
“Everything the Power of the World does is done in a circle. The sky is round, and I have heard that the earth is round like a ball, and so are all the stars. The wind, in its greatest power, whirls. Birds make their nests in circles, for theirs is the same religion as ours…”
A poem for birds and their circles:
The birds are still loudly praying/ I hope they don’t ever stop/ the birds are the worst kind of sage/ I asked one grackle if he knew his name/ he didn’t reply/ this bird was the kindest sage/ I asked him if he knew his nest was sacred/ he knew what I was going to say/ before I could say it/ he continued praying
-Joelle Wellansa Sanfort
Joelle Wellansa Sanfort is Naturalist-in-Residence at TNS.
The Naturalist School is on pandemic hiatus but poets were nonetheless observed at social distance on the first morning of summer. Photo by Shyla Punteney.
Spike and First Funk of Summer
(Becoming a Naturalist Part 56)
by Jack Phillips
So boasted Thoreau of milking the sky for metaphors but why drink of grammars and not of the earth herself trade bottle for the udder and bobber for the carp sucking trope and rhyme not nectar and blood?
The forest gives us birdsong the canopy leaks of tanagers a bass parting duckweed in flight grabs a dragonfly a fungus from a stump coyote on a kill a hole in the solstice dribbles out toads.
Write your odes to nature but praise the tick and spike and funk the itch that reminds you that language is made of spit and of tongue every thought has a scent every poem comes with juices.
They say in these woods the poets go naked and above in high meadows but alone on the bank in flannel and barefoot the morning is cool. Does a poem spawn within her or stick with the muck or skitter with turtle as she dips in the pond?
Friends of The Naturalist School, please remember us on Wednesday, May 20th for Omaha Gives!
We’re looking forward to our weekly workshops and saunters when we can gather once again, but in the meantime we’re still counting dragonflies and other marvelous creatures, creating chemical-free urban nature preserves, saving and planting native trees, and supporting our friends in their search for a deeper intimacy with the natural world.
We’ll see you in the bush before too long, we hope!
We give our hands to healing earth, put skin to good science, add our quiet voices to the music of woods and meadows, open ourselves to creativity within and all around and to help others do the same.
Even now in these pandemic days, The Naturalist School friends and members continue our work each in our own way, earth in our hands and under our feet, exploring wildness where we find it and making our back yards and neighborhoods ever wilder.
We hope to see you when we can gather again, but for now you can join us in the work of wildness with a contribution in any amount. Please remember us for Omaha Gives!
Becoming a Naturalist (a prose-poem*) Part 54 by Jack Phillips
Flamed tiger-snail (Anguispira alternata) in Harrison County, Iowa. Photo by Neal Ratzlaff.
The moon of May is the flower moon but it might as well be the frog moon or bunting moon or the flamed-tiger moon because frogs are mating songbirds breeding woodland snails are coupling she pulls the tides the primal waters in every cell a sea of being exactly as full on earth as she is in heaven. The better and wilder and wetter part of me loves the wane and wax the dark side and bright and like our sister moon we (all of us) live by given light.
* For Megan Hunt in response to her series of questions. For a longer version of the prose-poem, see Senator Hunt’s newsletter here.