"The First Green Thing"
Good Friday / Easter Poem 2010

The first green thing

I saw that spring

was not a hyssop sprig,

not a trillium leaf along the trail,

nor the bourgeoning twig

of ivy on a crossed split rail.

No, before I’d seen a

sign of things to come along the path,

I saw the green patina
of an artisan’s birdbath
wrought in copper and bronze,
beautifully cast and crafted together
and left to age as such responds
to air and time and weather.

It was meant for a garden, no doubt,
but was now cast off and left out
where wooded rains o'erflowed beneath
to its streaked and verdant stand.
The basin was a laurel wreath
held high in a triumphant hand;
the base a sinnewed arm trapped
in the earth and further bound by a briar
that rose from the soil, wrapped
around the outstretched limb and higher

as if to draw the eye

to things above and intertwine

the bowl's reflection of the sky

and laurel wreath in its thorny vine.

This overgrown and tarnished glory

seemed the preface to a story

told without a word...

and forever fixed in time.
For when my curious fingers stirred
the water, I felt the stagnant slime
hid just below the rippling blue.
And wafting from a putrid maché

of blackened leaves and acorns split in two
came the septic stench of sewage and decay,
this the incense offered by the brazen hand

that could not feel the thorns at all

or see that they were rooted near the stand

in the cold and rotting remnants of the fall.

© Copyright 2010, TK, Patterns of Ink

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*************

If I were a sculptor, I’d like to make a birdbath like the one I depict in this poem. It would begin with a strong arm cast in bronze that rises from the ground holding a laurel wreath as if it were being placed on the head of the person looking in the water’s reflection the basin of the birdbath.

Use of thorns: If natural thorns did not grow to ensnare my work, I would craft a vine of thorns to overtake the piece as happens in the poem so that, rather than man's praise around the onlooker's reflected head, he would see something more like a crown of thorns.

Since ancient times, long before the time of Christ, the laurel wreath was the traditional prize for athletic victors. It was also worn by people in power like Caesar and members of the Roman Senate. Using a natural plant (laurel) to make a crown was a well-known practice in the time of Christ.

Since ancient times, long before the time of Christ, the laurel wreath was the traditional prize for athletic victors. It was also worn by people in power like Caesar and members of the Roman Senate. Using a natural plant to make a crown was a well-known practice in the time of Christ, which is why I think planting the crown of thorns on our Savior’s head was much more than a brutal act; it was meant to be a mockery. (As depicted in the 14th Century woodcarving below.) Little did the brutes know that the thorns, being a result and symbol of Eden's curse, only added to the full meaning of the cross. Romans 5:11-15 underscores this by connecting the sin of one man, Adam, with the reconciliation found in Christ who knew no sin yet took upon Himself the curse. "Cursed is He who hangs upon a tree." 

Just as the laurel wreath suggested honor, the crown of thorns was meant to be as shameful in meaning as it was painful to the brow, thus the poem’s imagery depicts thorns overtaking the wreath.

Man’s image of himself is one of strength deserving the world’s praise and applause like the poem’s sinewy arm raised high in victory though bound to this earth. In truth, however, fallen man is worthy—not of praise—but of the thorns Christ wore on his behalf.

All around we see both beauty and brokenness. We are blessed to see God's creation but cursed to know it is not as it once was. In the still water of this imaginary birdbath, for instance, we briefly see the sky, but just an inch below its reflection is the stench of rotting leaves and seeds left over from the fall. This image is very real to me.

In our backyard, we have a birdbath and other small fountains, and often in the spring when I go to clean out all the junk that fell in them before winter, there is a smell much like the smell of sewage that comes from the decay in the shallow water. By then, whatever leaves gathered there are not colorful like the ones in the picture below but blackened and matted together. Those are maple leaves, but we also have huge oaks in our yard, and the squirrels break the acorns and drop them below to mix in with all the other rotting things.

This stench as a contrast to the Old Testament practice of the incense offering. Isaiah 64:6 reminds us that whatever we "offer" to God is akin to filthy rags and fallen leaves: “We are all infected and impure with sin. When we display our righteous deeds, they are nothing but filthy rags. Like autumn leaves, we wither and fall, and our sins sweep us away like the wind.”

“The cold and rotting remnants of the fall,” however, is not referring to the season of autumn but rather the fall of man. As beautiful as the reflection of the sky is, as wondrous as the hope of things to come may be, there is that decay of death just below the surface; there are those thorns strangling out the glory that was meant to be.

There lies the beauty of spring that comes with Easter. The hyssop sprigs eventually show; the trillium begin to grow, and all the beauty that was Eden surrounds us in signs of life along the path. The first green things appeared in a perfect place, Eden, and likewise the green thing I saw in the poem, though of man’s making, "was meant for a garden, no doubt, but now cast off and left out." True, it was green, but the patina that comes from the oxidation of copper and bronze is a muted hue compared to the first green things of creation. And what were some of those green things mentioned?

The hyssop is native to eastern Mediterranean lands but was purposely brought to the western continents where it now flourishes. Along with the laurel, its meaning and many uses have been known since ancient times. Psalm 51:7 says, “Purge me with hyssop, and I shall be clean: wash me, and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Hyssop is known for its cleansing power and ritual use. It is also aromatic—in the mint family. The Gospel of John says that it was on a long woody stem of hyssop that the soldier offered wine vinegar to Christ at his crucifixion when he said “I thirst.” I do not now why that detail is mentioned. It may have been additional mockery by those who had just pronounced him "King of the Jews," but regardless of the motive, the use of hyssop made a vivid link between the first Passover and the ultimate sacrificial moment in history.
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The trillium grows across North America, it was popularly voted the state wild flower of Michigan (but Lansing overruled). It is known for its mathematical design of displaying three leaves, three sepals, and three petals, all of which have been used in Christian circles as a picture of the mystery of the Trinity—Father, Son, and Holy Spirit—united in  purpose though distinct in personality. It is in the lily family (tri=three lily), a perennial that bursts from the ground and shows leaf each year around Easter (but typically blooms in late April and May). Sometimes called a "wake-robin," the trillium flower was used by Native Americans as an antiseptic.

Ivy is a non-deciduous evergreen plant. We typically think of Christmas trees and conifers as evergreens, but holly and ivy and many other plants remain green year-round; they do not lose their leaves in the fall and thereby show the continuity of life in spite of all that changes around them. Ivy survives the harsh winter and resumes its spreading, clinging coverage on stationary things in the spring and summer. We have some split rail fence covered in ivy in our yard, but I included it to evoke the image of hewn wood as is also true of the cross.

Thus in the opening stanza, the brief mention of these green things—the hyssop, trillium, and ivy—(yet unseen along the path) foreshadow the significance of "the first green thing" I did see: the patina of the copper birdbath with its stench of the rotting leaves. The story may be "forever fixed in time," but it is corrected when time as we know it is no more. Ending as it does, the poem gives hope that, for those who believe, the green things foreshadowed in the beginning—cleansing hyssop, the covering ivy, and the symbolic trillium—will triumph over the remnants of the fall.

May the meaning of Good Friday and Easter Sunday be vivid in your mind this weekend.

1965
Here is another Easter Poem form 2007:  "All Else" 

Beyond the Ash and Snow

I've written elsewhere of the fine line between poetry and prose. Patterns of Ink is a collection of writing. It's mostly prose, but even then not always "words in their best order." There are times, I've hit my mark. There are also attempts at various forms of poetry, but they are mostly works in progress. Sometimes they, too, hit the mark--some closer than others. I am sharing these thoughts now to shed some light on how that process works (in my case) with the hope that others may find it helpful.

It was the image of things "burning slowly through time" rather than by fire that made me remember Frost's "The Woodpile" which I linked in the original post. In reading those blank verse lines, I wondered if some latent verse (blank or free) was sleeping in the paragraphs about the fire. So I copied the entire text of the previous post as if it were a marble block and began chiseling away "the prose" (including many facts and details) to render the lines below. I'm not sure that I didn't chip away too much. That happens sometimes in writing, but its interesting to see how other literature (titles I taught in the past) affects my thoughts when I write.   

The title is a hat-tip to Frost's "Fire and Ice;" the sensation that our present is also past comes from Stephen Vincent Benet's short story "By the Waters of Babylon," which takes its title from Psalm 137, a song of lament that basically asks "What happens if we forget to remember." The sense of a "voice" or narrator explaining the simplest things to some future audience comes from "Our Town," and the conclusion alludes to I Corinthians 13:12 and an old gospel song my mother used to sing.

[Click on photos to enlarge.]

*************

Beyond the Ash and Snow

We had traveled 

to the east side of the state

to see the house--

or rather what was left of it--

lost in a fire just six weeks before.

Most of the family had come

the night it happened
or the morning after,

and being the one  

not there with them felt a bit 

like missing a funeral.
Late or not, a sort of grief
had drawn me to the spot.

Fresh snow, like a pall,
lay on the walk and fallen bricks 
and black debris to softened 
the grim still-life before me. 

Deep in the recesses and shadows

were lines and outlines

of objects large and small
hiding in plain sight...
shrouded only in silence.

Like ancient ruins.
the scene took on the specter 
of a sacred space,

no longer for the living.

And for a moment, I imagined

it had been lost to time
instead of earthly flames. 

My thoughts seemed spoken

blankly to me by some voice 
looking back  
from when things as we 
know them were no more.

"And this is how they lived,"
it said, "...and built their homes,

and 'feathered their nests,'

and bought and stored 
and cooked their food,

and sat to meals and went to bed

and shared their lives together.

This is how man set the stage

upon which life was played."

Coming full circle to the porch

I stepped up to the threshold. 
Beside it hung

burnt garland of evergreen--
faintly true to its name--

still draped across the light.

A brittle string of tiny bulbs

reminded me of when 
their light last burned.

I dared not step beyond the door—

between the closet and the stair—

but it was there we began
our long good-byes

through countless years.

Our stocking feet sorted though

and stepped into the shoes

slipped off each time we came.
Thinking of more things to say,
our parting took forever as we
slow-walked to the car 
for one more hug 
"just because we could."

It was then my eyes lost sight

of things long past 
and flashbacks from

some distant day.

I blinked to see the here and now
but even that was veiled
as if reflected in a soot-stained mirror. 
At best, the present is most clear
when seen through tears 
that soothe the acrid sting 

of time.

© Tom Kapanka, 2-15-2020

When I taught poetry units in a former life (it often feels that way), my classes learned many terms for literary devices and even more than one definition of poetry. I think my favorite was: "Words that don't go all the way across the page," and indeed when poets cross the line from "blank verse" to "free verse" that nearly fits the bill. 

Michelangelo once said,“The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material.” (i.e. "Sculpting is easy. Just chisel away what doesn't look like a horse.") 

Coleridge's distinction between prose and poetry is something like Michelangelo's thought.

There is an implied minimalism in poetry--the assumption that language can be boiled down, distilled to a more potent state, as Jacob Korg said in his book: The Force of Few Words. Even his title illustrated his point by literally distilling a longer thought of Ralph Waldo Emerson's:"Poetry teaches the enormous force of a few words, and,in proportion to the inspiration, checks loquacity." (My own use of unnecessary words is a frustration.) 

Think of it this way: a forgotten orator spoke for two hours at Gettysburg before Abraham Lincoln spoke for two minutes. The former spoke in prose; Lincoln was a poet as he spoke in "verse" about our past, present and future in his short address. 

"Love Among The Ruins"

I was recently introduced to someone at a family gathering, and the person said, "Oh, you're the writer." I was taken back and confessed that I was honored by her statement. In all my life, I don't think I've ever heard those four words. I smiled and nodded but she read the pause behind my eyes and added, "I mean you wrote about the fire. That was beautiful."

"Yes, yes... that is me."  It was much easier to answer to her follow up, but I was no less honored by her words. The fact that I am telling you this confirms just how encouraging it was to hear from a stranger. But stranger still is the thought that something so tragic could possibly be presented to show beauty in the ashes. This post may test that premise.

.[Click on photos to enlarge.]

*************

We had traveled the three-and-a-half hours from west Michigan to the east side of the state for a family reunion. Just a few moments before the kind words of that introduction, I was at the house, or rather the ruins of the house, with my brother-in-law Jack.

It was the first time I had been there for over two years. For six weeks, I had seen only the pictures that I've shared here. All my siblings live in the Macomb or Oakland County, and they had each been at the site the night of or the morning after the fire. I could not come until now, and being the one sibling who had not been there felt a bit like missing a funeral. In a similar sense, I thought stopping by would help bring some closure.

My family and I spent the night at Kathy and Jack's temporary home the night before. One carload went ahead to the gathering, and Jack and I went in his car so we could stop by the house.

As we pulled in the snow-covered driveway, I said, "I know it may seem strange that I am asking you to do this, but I really wanted to come here in person."

"Nope. Not strange at all," Jack said," I come by every day. I've gotten to where it feels normal."

We walked through the scorched hedges that line the walk to the front porch, stepped over the security fence, and just started roaming around at our own pace, stepping over fallen chimney bricks, timbers, and black debris.

My eyes kept squinting toward details, as if they had "facial recognition" software and the ability to zoom in on twisted skeletal steel frames and other unrecognizable forms in the blackened ruins.

Like a grim version of the "I Spy" picture books my daughters and I used to search at bedtime. Each page had dozens of objects hidden in plain sight. [These past two pictures show a doll crib by sister got for Christmas about 65 years ago.]

It was several minutes before either Jack or I spoke, and I simply said, "I'm glad you are past the shock of this, but I'm warning you, I could just bawl." I swallowed hard, but kept methodically pacing and peering into the sad mess.

Then I began taking pictures of the things my eyes had sorted out, and in an odd, inexplicable way there was a strange sort of beauty in each discovery. Seeing a type of art in the ruins removed emotion from reality in the same way that archaeologist find beauty in the stones of  Rome or  Pompeii or Aztec digs.

I walked the full circle around the ruins and sometimes poked my head into thresholds and openings in the walls. I never fully crossed to the "inside space." It felt unsafe but something more... it felt sanctified, set apart. It was no longer a place for living.

As I stood in the outside kitchen door, I remembered how it used to be as if it had  not  been lost to fire but instead to passing time like an abandoned "Woodpile" in the woods:

"And this is how we lived," I thought. "This is how we built our homes, and 'feathered our nests,' and bought and stored and cooked our food, and sat to meals and went to bed and shared our lives together. This is how man set the stage upon which life was played."


The thoughts seemed spoken as if  by some omniscient sage looking back from a future time when things as they were might seem an ancient past.

I stepped around the corner to  where my walk had started. Jack had gone to close the garage which left me there on the front porch alone.

Stepping to but not through the threshold, I noticed to my left the burnt garland of evergreen boughs dangling from the porch light.

I touched the brittle string of melted Christmas lights. I'd forgotten the fire had happened just three days after Christmas. It felt like an eternity ago.

Just beyond the door frame was another frame of what had been the coat closet door. Nothing hung inside. There between the closet and the stairs, for years and years, was the scene of our legendary long good-byes. Coats were handed out as stocking feet sorted and stepped into shoes that  had been slipped off in the corner of the floor. I could now see through the floor to the basement.

It was then my eyes and nose began dripping, and I hoped Jack couldn't see.

"Ready to go?" he asked, now waiting by the car.

"Yes." I said without showing my face. I blew my nose and wiped my eyes then turned toward him. Stepping from the porch, I smiled  a smile I hoped worked from a distance.

It didn't. I plopped in the seat and closed the door with thud.

Jack started the car. "It's okay, Tom. I get it.  Sometimes I just come here and stare... and think... and stare some more."

I have not yet seen the plans for the home Kathy and Jack will rebuild, but there are plans. A rebuilding process is beginning where it matters most. They know God has a plan; they know He chose to try by fire; they know much chaff has burned away and, up from the ashes, there is love among the ruins that endures to begin anew.

*************

Robert Browning's poem "Love Among The Ruins" tells the tale of a glorious ancient city that is now reduced to a single standing pillar, but at that pillar the poet's love waits to meet him. It is not my favorite poem, but it has a great title. Browning's somewhat strained lines say in so many words, "Glorious as past realities might be, after all is said and done, only love endures."  Having stood there on the ruins of my sister's porch and looking through the walls to days gone by, that much I know is true.

 (Demolition begins this week.)

A recently exposed dresser (contents may be salvageable).

The roll-top desk where some documents survived.

The Amish-made timbers of the breezeway.

From the porch, as you look through the fireplace and living room, 

you see the home behind the home 

where the story behind this story took place from 1968 to 2008.