A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature. Over 20,000 daily subscribers, 7,000 archived posts, 73 million hits and 5 million visitors.
I wanted to tell you
How I grew up outside Houston, the edge
Of the suburbs, wandering the woods
And bayous, following the railroad tracks
Deep into the sugar cane fields, but I kept thinking
Of Swamp Thing, a monster,
An amalgam of mud and water lilies,
Vines and cattails, a dripping thing
In human shape living in the swamp,
Protecting plants and animals,
And I was remembering the deep woods
Of oak and sycamore where pools of water
Were alive with frogs and minnows,
And how if you stood still long enough
The frogs sang ohm like an army
Of Buddhists and one
Sweltering afternoon I watched
Two older boys with a net skeining
A pond and pulling out fish and
Netting a turtle which they beat
With sticks until the shell
Cracked and the naked turtle writhed
And the sun dried its flesh, a wanton
Unspeakable crime. And I went home
To read my comic book
The Swamp Thing in which Dr. Anton Arcane
And his nightmarish Army
Of Un-Men sought the evil ones
Who murdered his wife, and in the middle
Of the night my father caught me
With a flashlight under the covers,
And said we had to talk, and he
Accused me of talking back to my mother
And when his fist hit my belly
I felt it sink deep all the way
To my spine, and when he pulled it out
I thought I heard a sucking noise
Like a boot pulled from mud,
And I knew he could no longer hurt me.
*
The next morning I rode my bicycle to
Wolf Corner where coyotes and dogs were
Hung on a wooden rack to discourage coyotes
From stealing calves, and the story was
That Comanches hung scalps
There to scare the whites, but
The whites came anyway and stayed
And my Irish-Cherokee ancestors
Ranched there, and later
I lay in the dark and thought
Of the snapping turtle the boys killed,
How it could take off a finger, and
An alligator gar, a monster
Left over from the dinosaurs,
Could rend flesh if you
Weren’t careful, but it wasn’t violent.
It was almost tender. To show me
It didn’t hurt, he did it to himself,
Slipping the table knife
Into his anus. I was eight.
He was the older boy next door.
He was my best friend and all
I knew of love. Afterwards
I went into the woods alone
And sat on a log beside the bayou,
Watching the slow water with
The mud and rotting vegetation,
Deer coming to the water’s
Edge early in the morning,
The possums and foxes, the wild dogs
That lived in the woods, free
From the leash and chain link fence.
I imagined myself a swamp thing,
Guarding the trees and animals.
But over the next few years, the trees
Were toppled and burned
In huge bonfires, and Scarlett O’Hara
Mansions and Roy Rogers haciendas
And Frank Lloyd Wright knockoffs
Rose in obscene excess, the stream
Channeled through cement pipes
To invisibly carry sewage underground.
*
I mourned for the trees,
The possums, the gars, and the turtles.
And I lay in the dark defiantly reading
With my flashlight under the covers
Of Swamp Thing, one of the Elementals
Born when a being dies in flames
And merges with the Earth,
The Elementals became protectors
Of plants and animals throughout history,
Eventually joining the Parliament of Trees,
A group mind of former Elementals.
Over time the membership grew with beings
Such as Eyam -- a trilobite,
Swamp Knucker – a dragon,
Bog Venus -- a medicine woman,
Ghost Hiding in the Rushes –
A 3rdcentury Chinese sorcerer,
And of course, me, Swamp Thing
--An early 20th-century scientist.
Until recently, the Parliament
Was stationed in a grove
In Brazil, south of the Tefé River,
While our minds dwelled
In the realm of the Green.
And lying in the dark, with
My anus bleeding, throbbing in pain,
I imagined myself, one
Of the elementals, able to
Transcend pain and defend
The children. And once
United with the Parliament
Of Stones, we set out to destroy
Humankind for their sins against
The Earth. We had to fight off
The fungus-based Grey,
Invaders from another world
Who preached peace while
Actually helping humans with
Their lies. Our allies were
The heavenly power called
THE WORD which passed on
All their power to Swamp Thing,
Me, who refused in the last
Second, giving humanity another
Chance, a few good people,
Mothers and children who
Survived the massacre at
The hands of THE WORD.
And the Parliament of Trees
Is now eternally burning
In the realm of the Green.
-----
Copyright 2019 Michael Simms
A brilliant, stunning poem conjuring the abhorrent, dazzling complexity. It reaches into me to find tenderness. xj
LikeLike
Hauntingly powerful. Thank you, Mike. This is one of those poems I will keep returning to.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Andrea! I admire your work as well. I’m so glad you’ve continued publishing with AHP. You’re a valuable member of the team!
LikeLike
I’ve just skimmed Parliament of Trees, and will return to it when I have time to read slowly enough to do it justice.. But WOW … I think you have a brave masterpiece here! Thank you for sharing!!!
LikeLike
Thank you!
LikeLike
Sad and wonderful.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you, Arlene. I admire your poetry a great deal: the precise language, the sad nostalgia, the wicked sense of humor.
LikeLike