Ruth and Jake Lawless

On Sunday, July 24, Beth and I took our kayak, and my parents' ashes, and drove to Belfast, my home town. I had been saving my father's ashes since his death in 2002, as my parents had told me that they would like me to mix their ashes together and spread them on the strip of Belfast Bay that you could see from their house. They do have a gravesite in the cemetery in Belfast, in a plot with my father's sister Lisabeth, his mother and father, and his Aunt Mary. We went first to the gravesite, where Beth dug a small trench and I mixed their ashes together - with any spillage going into the plot. We left a third of the ashes there, and then drove to the edge of the bay at the steamboat wharf.
We paddled out, using the Baptist church and Young's lobster pound as our reckoning points. It was late afternoon, the tide and the wind both coming in, a sunny, beautiful day to be on the water.
We spread another third of their ashes on the water, in sight of their house. I wanted to do it just before high tide, so that their ashes would move upstream, take a tour of the harbor, and then head out to sea.
We paddled upstream, under the old bridge, under the new bridge, and all the way up to the head of the tide, under the railroad bridge and under the road bridge.There are not many houses along this stretch of the river, between Route One and the head of the tide. A lot of cedar, hemlock, cormorants and railroad tracks.
Just above the last bridge, at the head of the tide, the tide was stalling and turning. We were in a quiet green paradise ruled by ospreys and kingfishers. It was here, above the final bridge, that we emptied the last of the ashes, as the tide turned, and the water carried them out through the bay that they loved so much, carrying us as well. Another journey, together. Travel well, sweet ones. We love you.

We drove to Rockland to eat supper along the waterfront boardwalk, on the deck at Amalfi, drinking kir royales, eating paella, and celebrating my parents. We wondered how the shore of the river near the head of the tide, where we had just been, could still be so green, so lovely and without humans.
A little research, and contact with my poet friend Kristen Lindquist, found that one side of the river there is protected by the Coastal Mountains Land Trust, as a part of their Green Passy initiative, which is still looking for funding. I gave a donation in my parents' names, to help protect that part of the river forever. Kristen, who works for the land trust, sent me some maps and directions, including a map of the Stover Preserve, which includes a trail from the Doak Road down to the river.
On Sunday, July 31, Beth and I went back to walk down to the river. It was another lovely day, another timeless spot on the river. I urge you all to support the work of the Coastal Mountains Land Trust to preserve this lovely spot, and to support the work of your own local land trusts, to save the many special places still needing protection, for ourselves and for those we love, now, before us, and those to follow.
Here is a draft of my notes from that walk in the Stover Preserve:

What is happening here?
Here where the gentle stream
murmers its song,
on and on.
Here where sunlit leaves
turn in the breeze,
where stone walls and apple trees
look to the past and
the water, the water,
all the way to the Bay.
Everything happens here.
Here where the mosses come
to tell their stories
resting on rock on
granite outcrop.
Here where the kingfishers fly home
where hemlock breathes
where ferns and iris rest
along the river.
Everything happens here.

Loon poems

Last summer I took part in Maine Audubon's Loon Productivity study, then (and again this spring) taking a two hour paddle every three or four days to hang out with the loons, see what they are up to, what is stressing them, to watch and listen, and also to hang out with geese, turtles, osprey, eagles, beaver, lichens and other friends around the lake.
My friend the painter/poet Stephen Petroff says that he is trying to paint the contents of his heart. In a poem 20 years ago I wrote that, like loons, we sometimes "dive under/dive under and/come up somewhere else." These little fragments come from paddling, and diving under, the contents of my heart.

i
wild roses down
to the water
one loon alone
northeast of the island
cedarscent

ii
bright daylily line
high on a hill
across the lake
oak breeze shoreline
trees, osprey
on Loon Island, again
watching, watching
loon calls
off to the east

iii
train whistle breeze
through trees and
beaver down no
loons around

iv
water lily or
loon white
on the water both
bright
flowers flowers
on the surface of
this world

v
loons take our love
into the lake
hello hello
which is the
real world water
in all this darkness
the loons calling
goodnight goodnight
i love you

vi
every night now
i listen for loons
to hear their voices
to leave this body
to return to stars

vii

(Belfast)
at the bridge
there are loons, swimming
these are my friends now
i have moved
away from this water
every night now
the loons
singing
everything solid
disappears


viii
last night, in the moonlight
at least three loons
voices in the distance
beyond the edge of darkness


ix
voices
through the night
through trees, fields
moon light
voices through moonlight
loons over
water through
the night

x
to be in the company of
these trees, these grasses
these rocks, this water
these birds
hello hello we
finish each other's
sentience

xi
siren on the highway
geese calling I'm
lashed to the mast

xii
pollen covered lake
3 loons,together, these
holy places, behind the islands

xiii
rockground north of the island
loons in sundown light
voices, across the water
wind blowing smoke

xiv
floating Deep Cove silence
we all dissolve, in shimmering -
and I learn that light
is alive.

xv
dragonflies, calm water, loons.
you tear a hole in the world,
take away the wind -
no words, there are
no words, just
water

xvi
two loons, before twilight
slipping away, into night
turtlesplash

xvii
wet granite
mallard flies by
close to the surface


xviii
august becoming september
one loon calls
in the middle of the night

ixx
pollen line on lake edge
wild iris, turtles and loons
paddling into birdsong
first day of summer


gary lawless

naples and the cumaen sybil

the Cave of the Sybil, Cumae


The Cumaen sybil speaks
through the local journalist
"in Naples there is
no nature."
Above the sybil's cave,
where Daedalus came to ground,
a temple, sacred
to Apollo,
volcano on the horizon,
sunlight on the bay,
ash in the air and
birds, birdsong the
ghosts of old gods,
singing.

Sardine Songs

reading to the alewives, Damariscotta Mills



Sardine Songs

1
(sardine factory, Belfast)

May we be blessed by
the spirits of these fish
swimming through our world
from the world above
from the world below
rising from the depths of the future
blessing the depths of our past


2

waited all night

in the dark they
gather in the cove
nets, in the water,
nets, in the morning
torn and
gone, all gone.

Were there ever any fish?
Was there ever any sunrise?
Did we dream water full of silver our
pockets full of gold?


3

falling into the soft
sea of darkness
slowly, slowly to bed
wrap me in a blanket of fish
shining in the water like stars
like light from a million years
below some vast ocean of sky
where there is nothing
nothing to hold on to -
flashes, and then
gone


4

I am calling the stars in to me
come in through the head
come in through the chest
come in to my heart
stars fall, become
shining fish
in my body
darkness falls, becomes
cold in my body
I am cold water
becoming fish
from hot stars
becoming granite
calling the water to
come into my body

Stars have fallen into the water
stars have fallen into the rock
the sun enters the water
the moon enters the water
the stars enter the water
the light enters the water
fish shine like shards


5

sing a song of herring
all those sweet
sardines those
little fish those
flashes of light
in a dark world
bringing the world back
bringing the world back
to us



Gary Lawless

migrationist

I am in a cave in southern France, looking at a salmon cut into the cave wall 30,000 years ago, a male, over one meter long, detailed, the product of an artist who knew salmon, who saw them swimming through.
Since 1973 I have been thinking about the idea of bioregionalism, thinking about how to learn to live in a particular place, and how to gradually come to be a part of that place, a partner in the natural workings of that place, and to learn to be less and less "intrusive", as we humans have a way of being.
As I learn about my own particular place, living here next to a lake in Maine, I come to learn about all of the beings whose lives pass through this place, at one time of the year or another.These are the great migratory tribes, and their own home regions cover a much wider range than my own. We are coming around to celebrating these friends.
We welcome the loons back, the eagles, ospreys, herons, orioles, grosbeaks, bobolinks and so many more. We watch for turtles in the road. We welcome the alewives as they arrive to swim from the ocean up into the lake, through a series of newly built pools, human-made to assist them in their journey. We look to the milkweed for monarchs, rising up in the fall for their journey to Mexico. And so many others.
As a practicing Caribouddhist I worry about the caribou, moving from protection in Canada into the United States, to calve on the plain of the Arctic National Wildlife Refuge, or the reindeer, living with the consequences of nuclear disaster in their bodies, or the wolves and condors reintroduced in the American west, the bears and wolves reintroduced in Italy and Slovenia, my stork friends flying from Africa to Latvia, Lithuania, flying through the horror of war in Iraq twice a year. And so many others.
As a bioregionalist, I want my own bioregion to provide these travelers with their traditional food, lodging and safety - natural concerns for a weary pilgrim, but now I think that I must also be a migrationist, worrying about the health of their journey, the flyways, the migratory routes, the ocean, the air, so that these travelers are able to safely make their yearly journeys. My bioregion extends to the boreal forests, the south american songbird destinations, all the many parts of the world to which i am connected, my home place is connected , by these wonderful migrating friends. and so many more.

Migration Prayer

we will greet them with colorful flags,
wave them on their way through,
light fires, burn incense,
prepare a feast to say
We wish you well
pray for your travels
take care, take care

cave art in the Dordogne

In May Beth and I spent 4 days in the Dordogne region of France, going into caves to look at the art on the walls of the caves. We went to Lascaux 2, a replica, as the original cave is now closed to the public.(for more on the tragic current conditions in the Lascaux cave, and to see a gallery of art from the cave, go to www.savelascaux.org) We went into the Font de Gaume, Combarelles, Pech Merle and Grotte de Cougnac caves, the Cap Blanc cliff shelter, and to the Le Thot animal park, where they have living descendants of the animals painted on the cave walls.Seeing the Przewalski horses, and the Tarpans (although "polluted by domestication") was like seeing the horses come down off the cave walls.

We saw polychrome paintings, engraving, sculpture, wonderful animals, handprints, bear scratches, and some pretty amazing caves.There are a lot of critters with antlers - I feel that I am in the sacred halls of early European Caribouddhism.
(My basic text before coming to the caves was Juniper Fuse - Upper Paleolithic Imagination and the Construction of the Underworld, by Clayton Eshleman. Eshleman has been coming to the caves since the early 1970s, publishing a number of books of poems based on his experiences with the caves, and this book combines cave information, poetry and scholarship, along with photos and illustrations from the caves. Another book I would recommend, as another point of view, is Georges Bataille's The Cradle of Humanity - Prehistoric Art and Culture - with essays and talks on the caves and their art.)

After the caves, we took a train from Sarlat to Paris, and in Paris saw an incredible show of the work of William Blake, which resonated strongly with the images and feelings left in us from the caves.


The First Gallery:

"The eye exists in its savage state." Andre Breton

cool afternoon in
black manganese hands
in the rock more
hands in the rock

cro magnon wireless
this dark
I want to tell you
what I saw

"so many souls circulate here"

The Hyena's den
"in the midst of the animal remains were the teeth
and a fragment of gnawed humerus belonging
to a Neanderthal."

"the statue communicated with them
in a secret language."

William Blake
"How do you know but ev'ry bird
that cuts the airy way
is an immense world of delight,
clos'd by your senses five."

William Blake
"Imagination is eternity."

" What is the material world,
and is it dead?"

I left this morning,
covered in weeds and ashes
and the strong words of a friend,
"We'll never see each other,
in this life, again"

Yaqui Easter

Every year as Spring and Easter approach, I remember the Yaqui Easter ceremonies, and go back to read the Yaqui deer dance songs. Beth and I were lucky to have traveled to Tucson to see the Easter dances there one year, and now i am thinking of that world, the world of deer dancers, the wilderness world, the enchanted world, the flower world, and that combination of Easter with Jesus, the Romans, death and resurrection, with hummingbirds, flowers, pollen and deer singers. Here is one of those Deer songs ( the deer is talking to the wilderness world, and the brightness is the brightness of the light before dawn)


flower wilderness,
as I want to go out,
flower wilderness.
In the enchanted flower wilderness world
I went out,
flower wilderness.

flower wilderness,
as I want to go out,
flower wilderness.
In the enchanted flower wilderness world
I went out,
flower wilderness.

flower wilderness,
as I want to go out,
flower wilderness.
In the enchanted flower wilderness world
I went out,
flower wilderness.

Over there I,
under the flower-covered brightness,
I see you.
In the enchanted flower wilderness world,
I went out,
flower wilderness.


(from Yaqui Deer Songs - Maso Bwikam, A Native American Poetry , Larry Evers and felipe S. Molina)