ABOUT THE POEM & HISTORY OF CINQUAIN FOR MOUNT MARCY

CINQUAIN FOR MOUNT MARCY
Mourning?
Tear in the clouds–
A sadness too lofty
All such wandering souls converge
Rending.

Mary Sanders Shartle

My verse, “Cinquain for Mt. Marcy,” now happily appears in front of the post office in Saranac Lake, visible only when it rains (Adirondack Center for Writing, “Raining Poetry Project”). This is appropriate since the verse is based on the body of water called Tear of the Clouds, the headwaters of the Hudson River on the slopes of Mount Marcy, the highest of the High Peaks. The shallow little lake was named by Verplank Colvin who surveyed the Adirondacks in the late 1800s and began New York’s movement to preserve these precious Adirondack lands and waters now known as the Adirondack State Park. “Tear” in Tear of the Clouds could be pronounced like a tear of sadness or mourning, or “tear” as a rip in fabric. I had heard one from Adirondackers and the other from non-Adirondackers, so I added the two-syllable lines: “mourning” and “rending” to begin and end the verse accommodating those who know the vulnerability and importance of the High Peaks terrain and those visitors who may not.

The cinquain (cinq for “five”) usually unrhymed lines of two syllables, four, six, eight and returning again to two syllables respectively is analogous to the Japanese tanka and haiku. The cinquain is a uniquely local form used by Adelaide Crapsey (1878-1914), who spent the last year of her life in Saranac Lake. She used the cinquain form as a powerfully concise expression as, at age thirty-four, she faced the enormity of her impending death from tuberculosis. In its time TB, like COVID 19, was the most contagious deadly disease known to humans.  

Here’s one of Adelaide’s cinquains possibly written when, seeking a cure here, she suffered through three painful pneumothoracic treatments to collapse one of her lungs:

LANGOUR AFTER PAIN – by Adelaide Crapsey

Pain ebbs,

And like cool balm,

An opiate weariness

Settles on eye-lids, on relaxed

Pale wrists.

I dedicate my poem “Cinquain for Mt. Marcy” as a memorial to Adelaide Crapsey. It was science that produced the penicillin that ultimately cured TB (too late to save her). The sanatorium closed, leaving only the clean, balsam-scented air that was part of the healing that patients like Adelaide sought. It will be science that figures out how to cure this present pandemic. 

“Cinquain for Mt. Marcy”  first appeared in a book of poems, Tear of the Clouds (Ra Press, 2010), by Elaine Handley, Marilyn McCabe and myself. We have collaborated on several books of poetry on shared themes of life in the Adirondacks in three unique voices. Individually and together, the Three Poets have won multiple awards from the Adirondack Center for Writing.  

I want to thank Nathalie Thill and Baylee Annis for the wonderful idea of the “Raining Poetry Project.” I praise and urge continued support for art in public places. Poets, writers and artists have always found solace and peace here. The arts are part of the fabric and history of this region. ACW is a vital part of this community and  has long had my support. I urge everyone who reads this and these sidewalk poems to do the same.

If you want to know more about Adelaide Crapsey, and other women writers of the Adirondacks, I recommend Kate H. Winter’s book, The Woman in the Mountain (SUNY Press, 1989), And I bet the Saranac Lake Library has a book called Verses by Adelaide Crapsey in its archives. When you go there, in the rain, look for yet another poem in the series! Hanif Abdurraqib’s “How Can Black People Write About Flowers at a Time Like This?” It’s amazing how timely all of these “Raining Poetry” poems are. Enjoy and ponder!

Be well! Mary

Raining Poetry Project

This has got to be one of the coolest projects for poetry on the Planet Earth! Poetry painted on the sidewalks in Saranac Lake, but the verses are only visible when it rains! (But who needs rain, when you have water balloons!)

Check it out! Adirondack Center for Writing, Raining Poetry Project

TREES, PEOPLE, DISEASES

The dead, brown branches overhanging the fern garden were offensive to me—a blight distracting my vision of the woods beyond. Vowing to clear away this rude intrusion, I bushwhacked the twenty feet or so to the offender. I found it was part of a clump of three, two- to four-inch diameter, better-than-saplings. The group had light gray, craggy bark and long, branch whips of compound, saw-toothed leaves. The dead branches were too high for me to reach with the loppers. The bow saw was too big and the angle too wrong to make more than a halfway cut. I went for the axe. After an inordinate amount of swinging and impact, the tough four-incher came down. I nipped off a foot and a half twig and went upstairs for The Audubon Society Field Guide to North American Trees.

It wasn’t a lot of things, that little tree and its fellow clumpers. I had a hard time believing what said it was: an American elm. I double checked with another source, which agreed. I looked it up on line for good measure. Yup. An American elm.

My father was very fond of trees. He used to talk about our fair hometown city of Troy, north of Dayton, in southwestern Ohio. He told me there were days in the early 20th century when the main streets were graced with American elm, all lost to the Dutch elm disease. “When that elm in our back yard is gone,” he said, “we’ll sell the house.” I was seventeen years old when that came to pass in 1967.

Finding the dying elm here was sad on a number of levels. This is the third breed of doomed trees that I have in my woods. One of the other, now nothing but a tall, dead stick, was an American chestnut. The third is the white ash, under threat from the emerald ash borer. All of these great trees are vulnerable to small beetles.

I thought the American elm had gone the same route as American chestnut. Great swaths of our landscape, rural and other, were decimated by the loss of huge tracts of graceful elm and sturdy chestnut. Dutch elm disease destroyed seventy-five percent of American elms from the 1950s to 1989. Without the Dutch elm disease, many of these trees would have survived for three hundred years.

I look at my woods as a microcosm of the planet. Heavily logged years before we moved here, the land is a crowded tangle of third or fourth growth, which, one tree expert told me, was a prescription for contact spread of contamination–ash to ash, chestnut to chestnut, elm to elm.

I would point out, however, that one graceful presentation of American elms has been rescued and preserved: those on the National Mall in Washington, DC. ( USA TODAY Smolinski, Paulina, August 19, 2019)  Over the years, the National Park Service tree crews have worked pruning, sanitizing and injecting the elms in an aggressive battle with the local vector: Scolytus multistriatus, the smaller European elm bark beetle. From the first appearance of the disease in the 1950s to the 1970s, the fight has gone on. Seventy years later, the elms still stand.

Now, isn’t that interesting!

Mountains

 

2019 Anne LaBa Writers' Weekend

Last summer (2019) at Great Camp Sagamore in the Central Adirondacks, seventeen women gathered for the second year for the Anne LaBastille Women’s Writers Weekend. We gathered in the Playhouse and stood in Tad Asana (Mountain Pose) feeling individually what it was like, perhaps, to be a mountain. It was then suggested that together we could be considered a mountain range–collectively an image of unity, uniquely composed and very powerful.

Now, because of the pandemic, we are in relative solitude, relatively far from one another, and far from the unique place that is Great Camp Sagamore. Since March, we have been in a fearful state of mind and soul, those of us who were once a range of mountains, because of a tiny virus that not anyone, not the greatest minds in science, completely understands, and that has killed over a hundred thousand citizens of the US and infected over two million.

We are hardy women writers. You would think that as such, we would be thrilled to be in isolation, able to wipe a calendar clean of appointments and responsibilities and get down to finishing that collection of poetry or that novel. I, for one, find it jarring to be interrupted by the phone and internet. I have organized and reorganized my office, my forty years worth of journals, and one file twenty years thick with letters to and from my college roommate. I have appreciated that solitude and the chance to do my work, but I have also had all the time, like a mountain, to be very still, very within. I have also been still, hoping to be passed over, like a frog when the heron is nearby,

Governor Andrew Cuomo described the last 100 plus days in New York State as climbing a mountain. Everyday he displayed graphs to show how the slope up was so steep. In fact, he compared the mountain of infection rates, hospitalizations and deaths as “Mount Everest” and a few days later brought it closer to home describing the mountain as Mount Marcy, tallest mountain in New York State. The State of New York is seeing its lowest levels of infections and hospitalizations—the lowest in all the United States. New Yorkers followed the protocols and kept each other safe—wearing masks, washing hands, keeping a safe distance from others.

There is still great danger from the virus and that will likely continue until there’s a vaccine. One year from now, will we be able to form another mountain range at Sagamore? We all will have changed. Ice storms, rains and winds alter the surface of the mountains but do not change the core, the structure we hold to: each other.

For more opportunities to write in the Adirondacks or on-line, contact the Adirondack Center for Writing  This organization and the Anne LaBastille Foundation  supported this program at Great Camp Sagamore. Do support these wonderful organizations!

NEW BOOK

Out in paperback and hardback, published by Ra Press:

LIVES LIVED, LESSONS LEARNED: Essays from the Adirondacks 

With:  Mary Sanders Shartle, Charles Watts, McClain Moredock, Mary Anne Johnson, Doug Deneen, Nathalie Thill, Chuck Gibson, and Sandra Weber

“A collection of essays from eight writers who have close links to the Adirondack Park. Through epiphany, history, memory and oftentimes humor, these skilled authors reveal to the reader their love for this place of forests and ponds, mountains and rivers, hardscrabble villages and tough country folk, ingredients all adding up to a world of surreal adventure and unforgettable life experience.”

Available from Lulu

 

 

Lamentation for 2019

It’s raining and sleeting today, so I’m not going to the Y.  I’m sitting in something called a “Chill Sack”. It’s a Thing. Amazon carries them; mine’s deep purple. My legs are stretched out on a needle-pointed ottoman (needle-pointed by me many years ago and made into an ottoman by my mother), and my one remaining cat sleeping on my legs. 

The view from the chill sack is the gray roof of the garage and beyond are the frozen gray woods. Today is an ugly gray day, but I am cozy with my cat. 

This is looking like the annual post. Last year I wrote about the messy tree and the bishop. The bish is still with us, alas. The tree is present again this year and is messier with a couple of long strands of CVS receipts and, for a touch of elegance, a friend’s black silk bow tie that was once worn to the Breakers in Newport, Rhode Island.

I’m not sure I want to add the ashes of my dead cat to this year’s messy tree. That seems a yard too far.

Lest you think I’ve gone completely round the bend. let me reassure you that I likely have. It’s been a rough year. My female cat, Wink, the one-eyed wonder, died of renal failure at age thirteen last March. It was not a good or easy death and ended with the long, inevitable drive to the vet, where she was finally released from suffering. I hope someone is as kind to me.

My new novel-in-progress is dedicated to Wink, since both she and my male cat, Clooney (he’s handsome), have now seen me through two novels. The new novel, Elephant, still has a way to go before any official submission, but we are seeing a dim light at the end of the tunnel. It’s five years and seven revisions in and probably a few more drafts to go before it feels presentable. The cats were focal in keeping me focused. To lose one is much more than missing the furry lump of purr to my right hand, when I get stuck on a concept or character.

I am not unused to cats dying–people, either–and the burying of their bodies or spreading of their respective ashes. I really do try not to anthropomorphize my pets or cast them as angels in some sort of afterlife. Regarding Wink, however, I cannot see fit to release her. Her ashes have been on my desk since spring in a little container with her picture on it and the words of Lamentations put to music by Pablo Casals in a lovely choral piece. I don’t need those words any more. I have finished most of the sorrow bit of grieving. But on this gray, rainy, sleety day, at the end of this year, troubled on so many levels globally and nationally, I thought that I should put those sounds of lamentation out there for all of us in hopes of mourning, of purging in preparation for something brighter for 2020: DO listen to this lovely thing. 

O Vos Omnes by Pablo Casals (1876-1973), Lamentations 1:12,

King’s College, Cambridge

Advent Lessons: Messy Trees and a Bishop named “Love”

The Advent season is upon us. This year it feels like a circus elephant has wandered into our already congested household. The circus elephant is in the form of a tree–a ten-foot Frasier fir. Even in our high-roofed living room, it is a formidable intrusion. We move furniture to accommodate the tree.

The tree upstages everything and everyone. It needs lots of water. It takes two or more people to attach the unusual ornaments. There is the annual debate about what belongs on the tree and how the ornaments should be more . . . well . . . ornamental. This tree is the complete opposite of what droves of people witness at the downtown civic center’s Festival of Trees. Our tree is not a sparkly, be-ribboned, flashy, shooby-dooby tree. Our tree is a messy, hilarious, creepy, emotional tree. It’s an exploded scrapbook of events, people, testimonies, failures, births and deaths going back nearly fifty years! From a child’s lost binky, to a teenage girl’s underwire, to objects like a mouse-chewed electrical cable found during our renovation, a rock from a creek near where my grandfather was born, our five-year pins from a corporation which we gratefully left behind in New York City, badges from trips to Grand Canyon and the Cincinnati Zoo, swizzle sticks, name tags from conferences, business cards. You get the picture, right? Messy. It gets harder and harder to do every year. It’s just a physical and spiritual struggle.

In the midst of all the annual tree-passion, we took time to go to Bethesda Episcopal Church in Saratoga Springs for the annual Evensong of Advent Lessons and Carols. Usually these events are unevenly attended. The challenge is to have more people in the congregation than in the choir. This year for Advent, Dean Vang, our interim priest, invited two other clergymen to be lesson readers: one was the Baptist pastor from the church up the street; the other was a Roman Catholic priest from the church farther downtown. Because of this outreach, our old historic church was crowded with people. The church was packed!

The choir outdid itself. This elegant show of Anglicanism in a purt-near 200-year old structure, doesn’t often meet with such enthusiasm from anyone else in town. And after, as always, there was a lovely high tea with sherry and warm spiced cider and delectable sweets. It all seems to be a bit anachronistic on the surface.

Intermingled with the crowd was a parishioner whose beloved dog died recently and had brought his new puppy to show. Also present was a former denizen of the streets, who, after years of wandering, has found a job, an apartment, good advice and assistance from our parish. There is in our church a woman with no hands in a wheelchair, another who is given to frequent outbursts until the music starts; then she stares agape, enrapt. The church is an exploded scrapbook of diversity, unity, inclusiveness, and it’s very messy and ailing. There are fewer and fewer young families and young children. There used to be a treble choir and an active junior youth group. There isn’t any longer. We barely have a Sunday school. We cling to and embrace everyone. Especially, against all odds, a devoted and enthusiastic group of LGBTQ members.

This is notable because our bishop of the Albany diocese wishes that particular group would just become magically neutered. He is the last Episcopalian bishop in the United States to stand against the sacrament of marriage for same-gender couples. This is in spite of a recent ruling by the convention of American Episcopal churches to allow such unions in parishes that believe that all persons are worthy and welcome to marry, even if their bishop does not agree. We would like to be one of those churches. But Bishop William Love stands firm in Leviticus and St. Paul against same-gender love and sexuality. He forbids such marriages or blessings in any church in this large upstate New York diocese.

I believe a bishop, of all people, should never deny any sacrament to anyone.

Our parish has not accepted this quietly. We are searching for a new rector, but very few priests (count ‘em: only three have applied) want to serve under Bishop William Love. The Presiding Bishop of the American church, Michael Curry, who spoke so forcefully of love at the royal marriage in England this year, has intervened. Soon there will be some kind of decision made. We hope. What will be done about or with Bishop William Love. Will he resign? Will he refuse to budge? Will he bear down on his interpretation of the Bible with an iron clad devotion to a lost cause?

The church household is equally messy to our own home. The tree is just a portion of all of that. So it’s Advent. We await the revelation.

NEW BOOK

A five-year project, finally finished and in hand. Local authors including parishioners, professionals and Saratogians.

It’s an elegant, hard-bound, better-than-coffee table project with beautiful photographs, great writing and a true sense of community spirit.

More information on the click-on above.

Thanks for your continued interest in Writing Quietly, Reading Aloud!

Now back to fiction and poetry.

Reading Poems to Children at a Farmer’s Market

Image may contain: 1 person, smiling, outdoor

 

The farmer’s market at Brant Lake (Clark’s Country Mall) is an outdoor market that does a brisk business on Saturdays from 10 a.m. – 3 p.m. on Route 8 in the Adirondacks. The big draw in August is the sweet corn, peaches and pies. I sit at a table at one end, “Meet the Author” banner behind me. People pull in with bikes, kayaks, cars and trucks and aim for the produce. It’s difficult to draw customers to fiction or poetry, away from the bounty of Buhrmaster Farms.

So I’ve taken to calling out to folks as they pass by with their pies and peaches “You want literature with that?” More often than not, the response is “No thanks, I’m good.”

With kids, especially younger ones, I ask if they would like me to read them a poem. I feel a little like the Old Dope Peddler or worse. “Hey kiddie. Want some of this?” You have to be careful luring young children in with small samples of poetry. What if they get hooked?

Often one or two get enticed. I read a short poem and if I’m lucky I get “I liked it!” (as if surprised). “Awesome!” one said. “Did you write that?” which indicates a level of curiosity beyond the words—a sort of incredulity that:

1) this is poetry and it doesn’t bite.

2) in their sketchy education they have previously been exposed to poetry that sucks  and they now hear angel harps.

3) they experience complete awe that this adult does this, like it’s an occupation or something, making money selling words at a farmer’s market way the hell up in the Adirondacks.

If successful, the Old-Dope-Peddler approach brings in the parent(s) as well. Sometimes they are so enchanted by their kid’s enchantment they will spend $10-15 on a book or two of poetry, and I make gas money and something to put in the Three Poets Old Age Fund.

One child, six or seven years of age, was very suspicious, as all children should be of an adult offering them poetry. She looked both wistful and mistrusting and sidled closer to the food where the parents were shopping. They seemed unconcerned or distracted. Fingers in her mouth, the little girl listened to the poem, eyes shining and only occasionally darting to the left to check in with Mom and Dad. It was as if she was worried they might think she was engaging in risky behavior, but they were oblivious to all but Mrs. Smith’s pies.

That particular poem, “Silver Bay Lullaby” by Elaine Handley, from a chapbook of ours called “Notes from the Fire Tower” has sold more poetry than fiction at this Farmer’s Market as well as at other book fairs depending on the crowd and number of young children whom I can entice into the sticky, drug-addled web of poetry dependency.

In this American idiom, the local Farmer’s Market, I have engaged with visitors from way out West, a woman wearing an “I Miss Obama” tee shirt, a man in a “Make America Great Again” red cap and four lovely and excited immigrant teenage girls wearing head scarves. Our conversations have covered more weather than the current political climate. But of all those who visit my market table burdened with fiction and poetry, I have most engaged with children. I have learned hope from them as they listen to simple lines. They hear a language richer and deeper and more colorful than what they hear in normal conversation. They are mystically blissful, and so am I.

“Silver Bay Lullaby” by Elaine Handley

The mountains cradle

the last morning mist between them

like parents who’ve brought the baby to bed.

White breath, white silence, expectation.

They are poets who spend the day singing

jade, amethyst, emerald, cobalt

and hush the lake to silver dusk,

and hush the lake to silver dusk.

from “Notes from the Fire Tower” Three Poets on the Adirondacks.

 

Chipmunk

 

One only understands the things that one tames,” said the fox. “Men have no more time to understand anything. They buy things all readymade at the shops. But there is no shop anywhere where one can buy friendship, and so men have no friends any more. If you want a friend, tame me…”

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, Le Petit Prince

 

The chipmunk was Hoovering the site where the tent and buffet table had been just days before for my daughter’s wedding five years ago.  The chipmunk followed a random forage pattern that encompassed the tent site, the back garden with its bird feeders where cast-off seed and cracked corn could be found, then around the side of the house to where he/she/it was nesting in the rock garden under the Buddha head out front.  Wherever I sat in the ensuing days, I would watch he/she/it/they making the rounds and often passing quite close to me or my feet, pausing only to sit up on hinders, sniff at me, look around, then dash off again.  

I brought out a handful of shelled raw peanuts from the bird store and put them in a dish in the approximate pathway the chipmunk tended to take. He/she/it/they caught the scent and gradually tracked down the peanuts, stuffed cheeks full and ran off in the direction of the rock garden, unloaded and returned. In the meantime, I had moved the dish slightly closer to my foot, then closer, then closer with a peanut on my shoe, then one on my knee, then in my hand. Over  a couple of days, the chipmunk, now recognizable as a single entity with a significantly torn left ear and a scraggly tale, emboldened by the smell of peanuts, became a regular visitor in my lap and in my hand. As long as I held still, he/she/it was content to graze until the pouchy cheeks were full.

A routine began, usually around tea time, I sat on the deck with peanuts, book, tea, and soon the chipmunk would appear. The cats would watch intently from the windows, as the chipmunk rambled over the Adirondack chair, table, books or magazines and me in search of the peanuts. In the cats’ horrified opinion, I had gone to over to the Dark Side.

This went on for about a week or two.  My new son-in-law also became a part of the event one day.  My stolid husband witnessed this, and said he was moved. The only warning from people I knew was that chipmunks are really pests and will eat your cherry tomatoes and burrow in your garden. I’m not much of a gardener, and I’m not fond of tomatoes, at least not raw. Perhaps, fed enough peanuts, the chipmunks would not attack the cherry tomatoes. As far as I was concerned, I could share my garden. I was the interloper in their territory after all. I was a refugee from the city to the woods. I was beholden to their acceptance.

The Mayflower movie theater in downtown Troy, Ohio was the beginning of my affliction about animals. I often refer to myself as a “Disney Cripple.” Snow White, Bambi or Cinderella were all part of my early passions. There were animals—bluebirds singing, rabbits lisping and thumping, motherless deer, smiling raccoons and squirrels—the whole panoply of woodland creatures not to mention house cats, dogs and mice capable of bursting into song at 78 rpm. (They even sewed things!) In a somewhat confusing childhood, Disney cartoons with their very cute but unrealistic looking animals were like a promise of happy endings when all looked dark. That was the beginning of the downfall of my critical thinking, and my immersion in fantasy. It has led to me talking to bugs, birds, cats and now chipmunks.

This has been going on for five years now. The chipmunks have changed or rotated in dominance, but usually there is only one. The one who has engaged me this summer and some of last summer, too, has a distinctive mark on his right flank. One of our granddaughters got in on the act this year and named this particular one “Myrtle” because he lives in the myrtle bed off the back deck. I suggested that, since being a male, “Myrt” might be more appropriate. Sometimes there is a female who comes from the same area of the myrtle bed, likely Myrt’s mate. Actually, I would rather not name them. It is enough that over the years they have been driven by harsh instinct, overriding their fear of humans enough to fill their underground larders with peanuts; enough to let an interloper who is kind enough to offer a bottomless supply of raw peanuts and keep the cats inside. They enthrall me in a everlasting childhood delusion of fantastic connection to the real denizens of these woods, as if they are in fact, my friends.