What follows this brief background paragraph is a poem I wrote a few years ago. At the time I was working for an international nonprofit called Project HOPE (Health Opportunities for People Everywhere), http://www.projecthope.org/. Project HOPE's headquarters in sleepy Millwood, VA, are located on an historic plantation property leased to Project HOPE by the Mellon family (of Carnegie-Mellon fame). In the 18th century, the plantation pertained to Robert "King" Carter, one of the wealthiest colonists of his day. Stately "Carter Hall" presides over the gorgeous property of rolling hills, natural springs, and a wonderful variety of tress. One of those trees is a massive oak just off the curving driveway leading to Project HOPE's administrative building. Under that massive tree is a small bench where I would occasionally sit to eat my lunch. One day while lunching under the tree, memories of trees from my growing up years came flooding back, and I also began to imagine what this oak must have been witness to over its 400+ year history. What resulted is the following poem. Stanzas alternate between my present day imaginings of the history witnessed by this Giant Oak, and my childhood memories of connections with trees. Each stanza is one continuous, run-on sentence of 11 lines. I hope you enjoy it.
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Trees
by Steven Dorsey
August 11, 2006
Sitting under this five hundred year old oak,
With its massive branches whose girths rival
Even the largest trunk of any other tree in sight,
I close my eyes and envision Powhatan,
Weary from an inland trading excursion,
Resting under its then modest shade after quenching
His parched mouth and cooling his sunburned
Face and neck in the nearby natural spring
That bubbles up clear and pure through stone from
Unfathomable and mysterious caverns
Deep below these gently rolling hills.
Lying here as I open my eyes from this dream,
Turning my head first to the right and then to the left,
Absorbing the full majesty of this oak’s expanse,
That is, I am told, broader than any other oak in Virginia,
It occurs to me that this is a Swiss Family Robinson tree,
As I recall the wondrous tale my mother read to us at bedtime
As my sister and brothers and I, huddled in our pajamas
Under the steeply sloped roof of our tiny home’s upstairs bedroom,
Conjured up images of tree dwelling and primitive survival,
And dreamed of shipwrecks and islands fraught with danger,
And counting 1000s between the lightening flash and the thunder clap.
Closing my eyes again I see Pocahontas
Tugging at her father’s deerskin robe, urging him to lift her
High in the branches of this growing giant
So that she can grasp a limb and pull herself up
And go scrambling about its wooden roadways scaring squirrels,
And peering curiously into the robin’s nest at the smooth, sky blue eggs
That soon will hatch and release hungry chicks who will clamor
For worms from mother’s beak and slowly grow from featherless freak
To soaring wonder weaving through branches of this or another
Great oak to find that perfect spot where two branches diverge and
Create a quiet nook ideally suited for a nest of twigs and grasses.
Awakening I can hear the laughter of children
And the applause and smiles of parents called out one day
Under the shady tree in our side yard to see how the show
We had scripted from the fertile seeds of imagination
And years of watching the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon
Had somehow resulted in one of the tree’s branches
Dipping ever so closely to the ground as we played at trapeze,
And made our mother smile because she had been asking us kids
If we had been swinging on tree branches, but we hadn’t wanted
To spoil the surprise of the big show so we innocently denied the deed
That became so readily apparent as we sailed through the air on that branch.
Drifting away I am carried back to a time of revolutionary zeal,
When beneath the boughs of this towering giant,
That began to hint at their eventual grandeur by stretching wide
And hugging the ground because their tremendous weight
Was too much to defy gravity and bend skyward,
Patriots of colonial Virginia likely sought repose after
Fighting loyalists and armies of King George
In neighboring plains and fields with ammunition and weapons cast
In nearby forges by skilled hands who had brought their families
To the new world to seek a freedom and opportunity
That was worth the sweat and blood and lives of a noble generation.
Smiling, then, I stir to the memory of three naughty brothers
Crouching behind the big maple tree in the farthest, rear corner
Of the large yard that surrounded the small house,
Who in childish defiance at mother’s refusal to honor a whim
Decided to run away from home one day and find freedom
And were told that running away was fine as long as they
Stayed in the yard and within eyesight
And were back in time for supper when dad got home from work
But, who ran away without planning, and getting hungry
Sent back in the smallest brother for food because they knew
Mom wouldn’t tell her baby no when he asked for cookies.
Fading again in revelry of time too far past to remember
I see brothers across a geographic divide of north and south
Trudging over these slopes and through these trees
Seeking a quiet, shady oak under which to rest their legs
And clean the weapon whose long, smooth barrel
Dealt out death to charging Yanks or Rebs on
Blood stained pastures and hillsides where in previous summers
Gentle cows grazed on the rich green grasses shot up
Through fertile soil on which corn and beans and strawberries
Grew so abundantly and freely on land that now received the
Dead and wounded as they tumbled to earth pierced by leaden balls.
Coming back to modern day I see the neat line of black walnut trees
Along Farmer-Mark Road where each fall we made an excursion
To collect the fallen walnuts, still tight within their bright green husks,
And took them home to lay them out in the sun on the gravel driveway
So that in time the husks would soften and turn brown,
Signaling that the nut within was ripe and ready to be shed of its
Acrid covering that no matter how hard we tried left a dark
Walnut stain on our hands that took weeks to wear off,
While the nuts that we had so carefully cracked and plucked
From their sharp wooden shells were partly gobbled and partly set aside for use
In mom’s homemade fudge and holiday cookies.
Then through mist I see the frolicking children
In petticoats and britches trying to join hands and make a circle
Around this massive trunk to dance a rite of spring
That has been pent up inside these anxious imps
Patiently awaiting the melting of the snow from off these
Undulating hills that made for thrilling sleigh rides
Followed by fireplace huddles and hot cocoa
In the grand stone house that stands as a sentinel
Together with this towering oak over this ancient ground
That has housed plantation owners and slaves and now
Plays home to a Project named HOPE.
Then in cascades the other trees of my childhood flash by,
The small elm that shaded the natural spring
Where we filled empty milk jugs with clean, cold water,
And the big, shady tree, as we kids called it, that
Unbeknownst to us housed a bees’ nest that we disturbed one day,
And the row of trees on Buckskin Road, a finish line for foot and bike races,
And so I see the hopes and dreams conjured in the mind
By trees that surrounded me and grounded my existence
And forged a connection with the bark and branches and leaves
Of trees small and great, trees to scale, swing from and dream under
Of distant lands and someday climbing high enough to touch the sky.
With its massive branches whose girths rival
Even the largest trunk of any other tree in sight,
I close my eyes and envision Powhatan,
Weary from an inland trading excursion,
Resting under its then modest shade after quenching
His parched mouth and cooling his sunburned
Face and neck in the nearby natural spring
That bubbles up clear and pure through stone from
Unfathomable and mysterious caverns
Deep below these gently rolling hills.
Lying here as I open my eyes from this dream,
Turning my head first to the right and then to the left,
Absorbing the full majesty of this oak’s expanse,
That is, I am told, broader than any other oak in Virginia,
It occurs to me that this is a Swiss Family Robinson tree,
As I recall the wondrous tale my mother read to us at bedtime
As my sister and brothers and I, huddled in our pajamas
Under the steeply sloped roof of our tiny home’s upstairs bedroom,
Conjured up images of tree dwelling and primitive survival,
And dreamed of shipwrecks and islands fraught with danger,
And counting 1000s between the lightening flash and the thunder clap.
Closing my eyes again I see Pocahontas
Tugging at her father’s deerskin robe, urging him to lift her
High in the branches of this growing giant
So that she can grasp a limb and pull herself up
And go scrambling about its wooden roadways scaring squirrels,
And peering curiously into the robin’s nest at the smooth, sky blue eggs
That soon will hatch and release hungry chicks who will clamor
For worms from mother’s beak and slowly grow from featherless freak
To soaring wonder weaving through branches of this or another
Great oak to find that perfect spot where two branches diverge and
Create a quiet nook ideally suited for a nest of twigs and grasses.
Awakening I can hear the laughter of children
And the applause and smiles of parents called out one day
Under the shady tree in our side yard to see how the show
We had scripted from the fertile seeds of imagination
And years of watching the Jerry Lewis Labor Day telethon
Had somehow resulted in one of the tree’s branches
Dipping ever so closely to the ground as we played at trapeze,
And made our mother smile because she had been asking us kids
If we had been swinging on tree branches, but we hadn’t wanted
To spoil the surprise of the big show so we innocently denied the deed
That became so readily apparent as we sailed through the air on that branch.
Drifting away I am carried back to a time of revolutionary zeal,
When beneath the boughs of this towering giant,
That began to hint at their eventual grandeur by stretching wide
And hugging the ground because their tremendous weight
Was too much to defy gravity and bend skyward,
Patriots of colonial Virginia likely sought repose after
Fighting loyalists and armies of King George
In neighboring plains and fields with ammunition and weapons cast
In nearby forges by skilled hands who had brought their families
To the new world to seek a freedom and opportunity
That was worth the sweat and blood and lives of a noble generation.
Smiling, then, I stir to the memory of three naughty brothers
Crouching behind the big maple tree in the farthest, rear corner
Of the large yard that surrounded the small house,
Who in childish defiance at mother’s refusal to honor a whim
Decided to run away from home one day and find freedom
And were told that running away was fine as long as they
Stayed in the yard and within eyesight
And were back in time for supper when dad got home from work
But, who ran away without planning, and getting hungry
Sent back in the smallest brother for food because they knew
Mom wouldn’t tell her baby no when he asked for cookies.
Fading again in revelry of time too far past to remember
I see brothers across a geographic divide of north and south
Trudging over these slopes and through these trees
Seeking a quiet, shady oak under which to rest their legs
And clean the weapon whose long, smooth barrel
Dealt out death to charging Yanks or Rebs on
Blood stained pastures and hillsides where in previous summers
Gentle cows grazed on the rich green grasses shot up
Through fertile soil on which corn and beans and strawberries
Grew so abundantly and freely on land that now received the
Dead and wounded as they tumbled to earth pierced by leaden balls.
Coming back to modern day I see the neat line of black walnut trees
Along Farmer-Mark Road where each fall we made an excursion
To collect the fallen walnuts, still tight within their bright green husks,
And took them home to lay them out in the sun on the gravel driveway
So that in time the husks would soften and turn brown,
Signaling that the nut within was ripe and ready to be shed of its
Acrid covering that no matter how hard we tried left a dark
Walnut stain on our hands that took weeks to wear off,
While the nuts that we had so carefully cracked and plucked
From their sharp wooden shells were partly gobbled and partly set aside for use
In mom’s homemade fudge and holiday cookies.
Then through mist I see the frolicking children
In petticoats and britches trying to join hands and make a circle
Around this massive trunk to dance a rite of spring
That has been pent up inside these anxious imps
Patiently awaiting the melting of the snow from off these
Undulating hills that made for thrilling sleigh rides
Followed by fireplace huddles and hot cocoa
In the grand stone house that stands as a sentinel
Together with this towering oak over this ancient ground
That has housed plantation owners and slaves and now
Plays home to a Project named HOPE.
Then in cascades the other trees of my childhood flash by,
The small elm that shaded the natural spring
Where we filled empty milk jugs with clean, cold water,
And the big, shady tree, as we kids called it, that
Unbeknownst to us housed a bees’ nest that we disturbed one day,
And the row of trees on Buckskin Road, a finish line for foot and bike races,
And so I see the hopes and dreams conjured in the mind
By trees that surrounded me and grounded my existence
And forged a connection with the bark and branches and leaves
Of trees small and great, trees to scale, swing from and dream under
Of distant lands and someday climbing high enough to touch the sky.
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