It begins almost like love: a seed
shaken off into some dark root,
growth without the realization of growth.
To the elm, it is just another dark
aspect of forest alighting on the body—
the first tendril like wind, or a soft
trail of rain still sliding.
and still the tree barely feels the seed,
the hungry intentions of such a small, pale body.
The white foot, the thin root,
scrapes the flank of elm. In darkness,
legs begin to lengthen—growth
over the mottled bark, growth
into the wet soil, the entry like a moan, a soft
bed, returning home beneath a darkening
sky. How is it that this seed
already holds the leaf and root,
the fever of living wound tight in its body
—the body
that will topple an elm, despite the long growth,
despite the many rings and branching roots?
It must be love that lets the vine tug, soft
against the taproot—at least the seed
of longing that allows this twining in the dark.
Even if desire is not the word, the dark
ground will still hold the elm in place: a body
trembling at its tips, forced to feel a seed
unravel itself in some peripheral crook, the growth
of vines climbing the trunk, softly
asking favors. Would the tree run, if not for the roots
sunk deep into ground, the tripping roots
that once gave life? Vines arch darkly,
latticed across a torso of elm. Soon the bark softens,
as if relenting to a terrible love. The body
seems to creak and kneel as it dies, though the growth
of vines holds up the original shape. Most seeds
begin in this quiet way—the host body
not knowing what the growth
of love can do, barely even feeling the seed.
*"...The roots [of a strangler fig] grow down to the forest floor where they take root and begin to take nutrients from the soil. Gradually the roots wrap around the host tree, widen, and slowly form a lattice-work that surround the host's trunk. The fig's crown grows foliage which soon overshadows the tree. Eventually, the host tree dies leaving the fig with a hollow trunk-which is easily climbed thanks to the many openings in the trunk." (source)
Other notes: my friend Genna has a great tattoo of a strangler fig on her calf, which is where I got the idea for this poem. This is the first time I have ever voluntarily written a sestina (albeit a cheating sestina), and there was a lot less bloodshed involved than I remember.
Specific concerns: I'm not sure how clear the scenario is to someone who doesn't know what a strangler fig is. If there are any particular points of confusion or ambiguity, please--anyone--point them out.
Amy, this was beautiful. I am very jealous of your sestina-writing abilities; I was never very good at them. I think what you did right was choose very simple words for the repeating terms. The repetition of the words is almost unnoticeable; that is how well you strung the lines together.
ReplyDeleteAs for your concerns:
The blurb citing what a strangle fig was explained the concept a little better to me when I read it after reading the poem. When I was reading the poem, I got a little confused at one point, thinking that maybe it was the fig itself that was dying, but that may be because it was just my first time reading it.
Okay, I just reread it and it was just my stupidity; it is clear that the strangler fig is the one doing the killing in this poem.
This is a very sexy poem! It brings into question how people react in situations where they may be falling in love (or, probably more correctly, when they are falling out of love but feel as if they do not have an escape). Looking at it in that respect really paints the end of the tree in a much more morose tone.
These are all of my comments for now, but I'll probably read this again in an hour and see what else I can come up with