Again, we welcome your submissions of poetry to Deep Times: A Journal of the Work that Reconnects on the themes evoked by Joanna Macy and colleagues’ Work That Reconnects:
- gratitude for Earth and the ecological/social justice movement, The Great Turning,
- honoring our pain for the world,
- deep time (thinking like a mountain) or the Fourth Time (past, present, and future as one),
- systems thinking (thinking like an ecosystem),
- deep ecology (the wisdom of honoring all life as sacred circle)
- paticca samuppada (mutual causality, dependent co-arising, or interbeing)
- the shift in perception of flows vs. things,
- our collective work to create new systems,
- preserving the good and holding actions to stop destruction,
- how we clarify our roles as agents of the Great Turning towards a life sustaining culture.
Preference will be to publish work or translations by practitioners of the Work, and for poems that would be appropriate to use in the deep ecology workshops.
Contact me at my two names as one word at hotmail about how to submit. Next deadline is Sept. 25, 2016.
Karina Lutz, poetry editor for Deep Times
The squirrel plants the nut
of the tree it most loves.
The human plants the corn.
The mouse stuffs milkweed tufts
into its nest and surrounds the seeds
with pee and turds.
The humans drill gas and fertilize the corn.
The tree drops leaves to nourish its own roots.
The spider makes a web of its own body.
The human makes a hybrid of the corn.
The finch grows a beak to crack seeds.
The human engineers the corn.
The eucalyptus poisons a circle around its trunk
so no other tree will grow.
The human turns its arsenal against all but corn.
The wasp makes a gall for its home.
The beetle eats the most tender bark.
The beaver fells whole trees.
The human makes a machine
to flatten the forest
and patents the tree.
Acid rains down.
The human begins to rouse.
The worm turns waste useful.
The human makes a new word.
The mushroom turns waste wondrous.
The word is biomimicry.
The mycorrhiza draws energy from the fir
and feeds it to the fir-shaded birch.
How place names come to mean
Place names come to mean
events. New Orleans, Pompeii,
—come to mean
elements. Water, fire.
Stone, as fire.
New Orleans used to mean Mardi Gras
or a style of music.
Bay of Pigs was a place people lived
and still live.
Normandy, Pearl Harbor, Hiroshima.
To many, Orlando used to mean a week a year
of cartooned humans in sweaty costumes.
But to me it meant—Oh Orlando!
androgyne of my heart, oh tour de force through language’s lips,
shape shifter through history’s pageant, you
“China robe of ambiguous gender
among [my] books,”
you were potentiality incarnate, and incarnate again.
(Where on my body
shall I engrave the stone:
“the tsunami reached here
do not build below this point”?)
Stonewall meant a place to stop.
To stop the hiding hatred demanded,
and the hatred hiding commanded.
Orlando, once I read you as Sappho’s daughter
and now you mean hatred’s slaughter.
Let’s take back from that gruesome night
the freedom you meant,
My mother and I stepped over trash
on a sidewalk, and she taught me
to judge the litterers.
My father taught me
to pick it up: the glee of superiority.
My priest and our youth group
stepped around a drunk face down
on a sidewalk, and he taught us
My government and my peace group
debated the war and then
how to leave, what is our
who has the moral authority
to take responsibility
for the mess we have made.
Who do we think we are?
This and other poems were published by The RavensPerch June 2016.
A little something for Emily Dickinson: “Dear Emily” published in Wilderness House Review.