The intersection of nature and technology is a place inhabited by poets. Whitman created links in his poetry between ancient religions and modern technology, Yeats questioned the worth of technological advances famously in “The Second Coming,” and now we have Brenda Coultas and her tree. In order to see technology from a vastly different perspective think about how you would describe the world if you were a bird? a rabbit? a pampered dog? a cockroach? or whatever. Or just enjoy the beauty of this lovely poem:
My Tree
I found a pearl and wore it in my ear
Deep ocean echos sing like a seashell
A girl promised a purse filled with jewels, if I would be her friend Purses open secrets as priceless as pills in a jeweled box
Loose pearls, enough to imagine what a great loss that necklace was or was not
I like to see metal turn red and glow and to hear its hiss when it meets the water. Leather bellows, suspended from the ceiling, pump air into the fire. Long handled tongs and picks forge mostly nails. I open all the old purses. There might be change left in one.
I built you a tree of light to see by
To listen to digital libraries in your palm.
Renamed myself writing this book, renamed myself after building this tree
I burnt candles all night to grow these leaves.
I fed books to the flame, to make a blaze to read by
Mined libraries to power this tower of light
built sparkling branches
with flaming pages for leaves
dense as the weeping willow’s cascade of curls
On the mountain ridge my tree stands head and shoulders above
the hardwoods. Along the roadway wooden poles, bathed in chemicals, hold up a network of wire
I built a tree, more cell than sweeping pine or black walnut, as natural as pink pine needles or a silver mylar holiday tree. Glittery pine boughs glue-gunned on.
No needles on the floor
No forest smell
My gift is glittery and eternal
Even in synthetic shreds
dumped on a landlocked city sidewalk
it finds its way to the sea
Brenda Coultas is the author of four poetry collections, including The Tatters (Wesleyan University Press, 2014), The Marvelous Bones of Time (Coffee House Press, 2008), and A Handmade Museum (Coffee House Press, 2003).
Her honors include a New York Foundation for the Arts fellowship and residencies from the Lower Manhattan Cultural Council, the Emily Harvey Foundation in Venice, Italy, and the Millay Colony for the Arts.
I found this on Facebook. Debbie Rebel had posted it. Hope you are having a good summer. I will call your mother soon and catch up on things.
Brenda, I enjoyed reading your poetry. Found it on Facebook posted by Debbie Rebel.
I also enjoyed your poem. Very proud to know you.
Beautiful work, Brenda. So proud of you.
Sad. The world they inhabit is overpopulated. They believe that their primitive technology should be valued over their planet’s natural form.
I see them come & go,
They get thinner every year & better glow,
The family sits & watches their show,
I am a living room just chilling bro,
Longingly, I see, unused, my leash
my water bowl, empty
Refusing to see me
Glowing screens illuminate concentrating faces
I leave, unnoticed
What is left of me is not up to me to decide what is left of me is inside what is left is not right, no matter the price I must return to my master I wish to be indulged and once more hold my head up high but, that evil screen takes him away “it,” takes away what I am after.
MY BOY NO LONGER PLAYS WITH ME. HE SITS AND STARES AT THE SCREEN. LITTLE SCREEN, BIG SCREEN. THEYRE ALL BRIGHT. IM NOT ALRIGHT .
Hello there, giant man.
You look so warm in your home.
And as I hoot in our tree,
I wonder what we’ll be
The day when we’re without these
High above the world I see all.
Their progress forms scars on the world. They cannot see the damage they have done. Nothing will be the same.
I am flying in the sky, looking down at all the strange things.
Buildings, cars, people hurrying around. So loud, confusing.
My wings are gliding. I am happy I’m up here!
From one spot I watch them go
all about, to and fro
they hop, skip,and talk
even trees
with beautiful leaves
are jealous of those that walk
I love freedom yet I yearn for warmth. New adventures thrill my soul yet I love my cozy home. The sun and moon guide me through my journeys
My jacket ready for the cold
not before the rake in
the yard diminishes
the orange leaves of fall
as the maple trees accumulate
but not before the
long green vines swirl around
spring air before all
bright salt pigmented air
each season before next
abduction of seasons
as we wait till next year.
You have a temper
My sweet maple boy
Simmer down baby
Wrangle up your toys
All things will be fine