searching for three acres
for years, poet laureate WS Merwin dreamed of restoring a bit of the earth’s surface. he searched for it across the world, and finally settled on three acres, in Hawaii, which he purchased for $60k in 1977.
holding the Essential WS Merwin book of poetry, i set out to search for my own 3 acres, across 3000 miles of the oldest transcontinental road in America.
4200 miles later, the road still hasn’t ended. and it certainly hasn’t been straightforward. but it has been full of wonder and occasional discovery.
the poems / pictures in this publication are pieces of that road.
the beginning
is not always easy to see
the first page of a notebook
might not be the first
pages torn out
words lost
emotions that couldn’t be described
memories that have long ago faded
road trips that began generations before
even the seedling that breaks ground
belongs to a forest of a family
towering above
holding the ground below
the battle
the storm had ended
the snow had fallen
the leaves now held the weight
and the beauty
as black re-emerged along Lincoln Highway
towards the unknown
the headstones are frozen
their morning shadows outlining last night’s untouched snow
underneath silent white oaks and red-barked cypress
old enough to remember
how the 10000 fell
how the battle for a nation was won
and lost
how the words of a president rose
and fell
four score and seven years ago
a young boy was turning four
the same age as the Great Depression
one decade and two years later
nearly the same height and tone as honest Abe
he would lie about his age
to join the battle as a medic and a cook
Philippines Bahamas Mariana Aleutian Islands
the storm would carry him across the world
and when it finally ended
and his leaves held the weight
his grandson was four
and he took him on the road to see what remained
Salt Lake Phoenix Topeka Oklahoma…
August 10
it’s a day we’ll never forget
a 911 of the land
of the forest
of the fields
derecho
it’s a word we never knew
as if created for a devastation
that couldn’t be described
a wall of wind
100 miles long
80 miles deep
140 miles per hour fast
marching across Nebraska
collapsing into Iowa
flattening the red oak
the white ash
the black walnut
mulching millions of maze rows
mangling massive silos
uprooting entire houses
crushing a man on his bike
the most expensive tornado in history
seven billion in damage
of what can be counted
never before
and hopefully never again
but even as i say the words
they feel fragile
as if unsure they will be able to stand
in the world they have found themselves in
bald eagle
we almost killed the bald eagle
industry / efficiency / ddt / mono-everything
but she fought back
soaring over Iowa fields now
too beautiful to capture
even in a camera
wings spanning across what is
and what could be
golden beak pointing north
eyes looking down, asking
what else have you almost killed
what else will you allow to fight back
the good life
the green sign above the Missouri river says
Nebraska… the good life
each town feels counties apart
dotted with single story homes
a single blinking light
and a single silo of grain
taller than the empire state
Country Partners Cooperative: Together we can
the silo silhouettes in the rearview for an entire Coltrane track
the flat road perfectly parallel with the train tracks
tied across the land — connecting the dots — bringing the pieces together
Union Pacific: Building America
the train steams by
the white pick-up waves — then the red — then the blue
you finally wave back
…the good…
montana mountains
we are now in the mountains
and the mountains are in us
towering cliffs of red granite
puncturing the heavens with pinnacle peaks
soaring columns of golden clay
scaling to stories too high to read
moonlit crowns of ice and snow
telling tales of death and defeat
sunkissed passes of morning delight
whispering melodies of discovery and light
dripping snow from families of fir
disappearing into glaciers
lowly rivers beneath bridges and feet
quietly remembering how it all came to be
arriving
it’s been 7 days 12 states nearly 2700 miles
and you still haven’t found the forest
it’s been 36 years 5 countries and nearly 2700 tears
and you still haven’t found her
just 3 acres is all i need, the poet said
and made a life of it
meanwhile, the hard horned sheep climbs
the snow dusted rocky mountain
meanwhile, the elk herd migrates
across the frozen valley floor
meanwhile, the great basin nuzzles his head
through the thick powder of snow
meanwhile, the grey wolf stands alone
underneath the dark eternal pine
regarding you
before continuing on
ending
Buchanan Shawnee Kepler
Targhee Gellatin Shoshone
Bridger Teton Toiyabe Humboldt
Tahoe El Dorado Stanislaus
to know the name of a place
to be able to say it like your own
may be a type of beginning
or a type of ending
like a first hello
like a first goodbye
the poetry is all in the anticipation
the poetry is all in the anticipation
there is nothing there in reality
the sun in Nevada is up early
an hour before the others
as if ready to defy Mark Twain
the poetry is here
inside the Great Basin bristlecone pines
an island of 3000 year old groves
surrounded by a sagebrush sea of desert harshness
you chase the sunrise east
past the frozen Comin Lake and pinon juniper
up the Egan mountain range and the Humboldt forest
but when you cross the park sign
the parking lot is empty
the center is pad locked
the road is gated…
About
