Last time, I wrote about how I write poems but didn't tell you that my real muse is Morning Edition on NPR right as the alarm goes off. More than a few poems have been inspired by that semi-awake state and an intriguing story on the radio. So with apologies to my friend and naturalist Liz Bradfield who will no doubt know that this image above is probably not the real English grass in the poem, here my somewhat abashed confession on this environmental conundrum.
I know I should be appalled
that English grasses are growing
in Antarctica --appalled
or at least alarmed -- how once more
humans have upended nature, bur
latched to pant leg, seed fallen
from the pages of a paperback last read
in a backyard in Surrey -- alarmed
or at least dismayed -- how tufts of green
cricket lawns dot this white island where
they decidedly do not belong -- dismayed
or at least concerned.
I should be appalled but instead I am
awed, mesmerized, uplifted -- how life
makes life wherever it finds itself,
the power of the faintest pulse.
How can I be dismayed when this is
what I want -- thaw in deep winter,
improbable color, the chance to inhale,
embed, enfold the exotic other.
(c) Beth Feldman Brandt 2012
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