Poems About Trees

Poems About Trees

ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery

A poster for an exhibit on "Three Thousand Years of the Human

Adventure" at the Muséum national

d'histoire naturelle in Paris (1979.)

Poems About Trees ENGL 2030—Summer 2013 | Lavery

Poems About Trees


Chaim SoutineAutumn Trees,

Champigny1942

Oil on campus30 3/4 x 23 1/4Collection Mme. Castaing, Paris


Chaim SoutineTree of Vence

1929Oil on Canvas

32 x 24 1/4Collection Mrs. Lloyd

Bruce Prescott, Rosemont, New

Jersey


Chaim SoutineAlley of Trees

1935Oil on canvas

Collection Mme. Castaing, Paris


A Bristlecone Pine (photo by Nick Paloukos)


Vincent Van GoghPeach Trees in

Blossom


Paul CezanneThe Great Pine

1892-1896Oil on canvas

33 1/2 x 36 1/4 inMuseu de Arte, Sao

Paulo, Brazil


Piet Mondrian, Gray Tree (1911). Oil on canvas. 78.5 x 107.5 cm (30 7/8 x 42 3/8 in). Haags Gemeentemuseum, The Hague


William BlakeLetters, 1799

The tree which moves some to tears of joy is in the eyes of others only a green thing that stands in the way. Some see Nature all ridicule and deformity, and some scarce see Nature at all. But to the eyes of the man of imagination, Nature is Imagination itself.


LostDavid Wagoner

Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside youAre not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,Must ask permission to know it and be known.The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,I have made this place around yoou.If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.No two trees are the same to Raven.No two brances are the same to Wren.If what a tree or bush does is lost on you,You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knowsWhere you are. You must let it find you.


The ForestCharles Simic

My time is coming. Once againMy trees will swing their heavy bells.

My termites, my roots and streamsWill stitch their chill into the heart of manLaying out my most ancient trail.

I speak of the north, of its pullStuck in my mouth like a bit.

Whoever looks now in the palm of his handWill notice the imprints of strange flowersI have preserved in my rocks.

I will bare bones to tell fortunes by,Snow with tracks of all the fabled highwaymen.Ladies and gentlemn, you will hear a starDead a million years, in the throat of a bird.

The human body will be revealed for what it is—A cluster of rootsPulling in every direction.

Poems About Trees


The TreesAdrienne Rich

The trees inside are moving into the forest,the forest that was empty all these dayswhere no bird could sitno insect hideno sun bury its feet in shadowthe forest that was empty all these nightswill be full of trees by morning.

All night the roots workto disengage themselves from the cracksin the veranda floor.The leaves strain toward the glasssmall twigs stiff with exertionlong-cramped boughs shuffling under the rooflike newly discharged patientshalf-dazed, movingto the clinic doors.


The Trees (continued)I sit inside, doors open to the verandawriting long lettersin which I scarcely mention the departureof the forest from the house.The night is fresh, the whole moon shinesin a sky still openthe smell of leaves and lichenstill reaches like a voice into the rooms.My head is full of whisperswhich tomorrow will be silent.

Listen. The glass is breaking.The trees are stumbling forwardinto the night. Winds rush to meet them.The moon is broken like a mirror,its pieces flash now in the crownof the tallest oak.


Trees, MenJuan Ramon Jimenez

Yesterday afternoonI returned with the cloudsThat were entering low rosebushes,(A great round tenderness)Among the steadfast tree trunks.

The solitude was tenderAnd the silence was inexhaustible,

I stood still like a treeAnd I heard the trees talking.

The lonely bird flew awayFrom so secret a hiding place,Only I could remainAmong the last of the roses.


Trees, MenI did not want to returnTo myself for fear of offendingThe trees, that were all so similar,By a tree that was so different.

The trees had quite forgottenMy shape of wandererAnd, with my shape forgotten,I heard the trees talking.

I waited for the starlight.In a flight of soft radianceI went down to the edgeWith the soon already in the sky.


Trees, MenAlready as I went down,I saw the trees look at me.They were aware of everythingAnd I found it hard to leave them.

Among mother-of-pearl cloudsI heard them talkingAbout me, in a gentle murmur.And how could I disappoint them?

How could I say to them no,I was only a passerbyAnd they should not talk to me about me?I did not want to betray them/

And then quite late yesterday eveningI heard myself talk to the trees.


W. H. AudenReflections in a Forest

But trees are trees, an elm or oakAlready both outside and in.And cannot, therefore counsel folkWho have their unity to win.

Turn all tree-signals into speech,And what comes out is a command:"Keep running if you want to reachThe point of knowing where you stand.". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

Our race would not have gotten far,Had we not learned to bluff it outAnd look more certain than we areOf what our motion is about. . . .


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Poems About Trees