Five-Phrase Friday (21): Original Poetry

As we labor to steel ourselves for many long weeks of winter, who in the Northern Hemisphere doesn’t need a little summer right about now? If you’re among the needless (heh), I grant you permission to skip this post.

The rest of us can imagine a lush, cool forest in full summer where the green flora are still bright without the sun. Let us not indulge our fondness of sunshine too much, especially in picturing an Ohio summer where clouds are apt to reign, lest we never come back from fantasy to live our real lives (whatever those are).

Five little phrases of poetry might just be enough to warm your brains for a victorious battle against seasonal affective disorder and any lingering post-holiday hangovers. First composed in 2001 during a visit to Hocking Hills State Park in south central Ohio, what follow are excerpted lines from my freshly revised poem Ode to Cantwell Cliffs:

  1. the greenest / moss-kissed stones I’ve seen.
  2. Fern’s kind of delight— / in one vale, fresh spinach,  . . . lime green Jell-O or young / avocado, best seen in shade / after the rain.
  3. falls of fountain ale ensconce / a vast buffet
  4. assert themselves / in black and green tartan, / like a heady Guinness pint / wrapped in Maypole strands.
  5. to be, to pass, / to climb, to stir a trail of green / to my sight and sense

Now break out those light boxes, eat your spinach for iron, citrus to prevent scurvy, crank up your summery photo slide shows, and pour another cup of coffee . . . or Guinness, or a bright, sweet cocktail. Whatever it takes. After all, it’s the weekend, and the obdurate face of winter looms large.

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Wild Verses: Bits of Nature Poetry, 10 of 10

To conclude my Wild Verses series, I circle back to the sea again (and to a bit more coral, which appeared in the first sample of this series). “Green Turtle Picture” is an unfinished poem I first drafted in April 2009 and revised in August 2014 for writing group. This excerpt begins with stanza two and ends toward the poem’s second half.

Under water, 
a green turtle looks at the camera.

The inanimate, animal expression
accuses. The cold stare—
framed by cold, clear-blue water,
and clustered blue-green coral,
locked within the same 

space as its cold-blooded frown and 
terrible, wrinkled neck, 
its hunched, armored back 
an echo of my subluxation and chronic dorsal 
inflammation—that look, rising above 
the shadows on its flippers, belly, tail,
imposes, penetrates, disturbs. I want
 
to look away, bury 
head into body like it can,
retract the mind down 
into the heart
and let the two mingle, and educate each other. 
Give purpose 
to small humps below necks.
But I can’t. I am out in the picture 

of reality, exposed
to the danger of capture, of shocking
spotlight ogling a creature as it faces 
the unfamiliar.

copyright C. L. Tangenberg

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I hope you’ve enjoyed this 10-post showcase of my nature verse writing, begun last month. To start from the beginning, go here.

My post about Thomas Hardy’s poem “The Darkling Thrush” featured the first sample I plan to build on for a series of favorite bits of nature poetry by famous poets.

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