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Davina E Solomon Jun 2021
She's risen coarse on rusted tracks,
through sandy loam, a summer sheen.
Rainbows are but colour barracks,
fair violet, through verdant green.

Through sandy loam, a summer sheen
sparked exile of Fall's fleeting mist.
Fair violet, through verdant green,
adds tint to sun in pigment grist.

Exile sparked in Fall's fleeting mist,
cleared light, silky ivory.
Adds tint to sun in pigment grist,
silhouette of this noble tree.

Cleared light, silky ivory
are petals cast in modest mould.
Silhouette of this noble tree,
tattered leaves, raging wind unfold.

Petals cast in a modest mould
are magi of summer solstice.
Tattered leaves, raging wind unfold
simply envy of breezy fleece.

Magi of the summer solstice,
Purple blush on sun dipped petals.
Raging envy of breezy fleece,
Scalding wind that scarcely settles.

Purple blush on sun dipped petals
Rainbows are but colour barracks.
Scalding wind that scarcely settles,
she rises coarse on rusted tracks.
Read the entire text at:
davinasolomon.org/2021/06/03/across-a-rainbow-of-hardiness-a-botanical-pantoum-for-the-bigleaf-magnolia-along-the-highline/
Davina E Solomon Jun 2021
Blessed are the poorly, for theirs is the kingdom of mudflats

The dispirited streak turgid waters
sinuously, through unsettled feelings
in the wake of boats shedding
filaments of fuel,
sheen on a turbid infusion
and the cordgrass nods a resilience
or an apathy as the silt settles
on their Piscean gleam

Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see a salted heaven

Angelic Menhaden of the Atlantic,
are silvery stretches of scale,
dulled in death under a festering sun
and the retreating tide of dying waters
brined in ocean, freshwater spirited
to secret spaces, some dammed crevasse,
now  tumultuous  fate in a salted heaven

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness for they shall be filled

At the Tabgha of this intertidal palette
Cattails whisper beatitudes
latched onto the tails of wind gusts
and the plovers descended
in a litany of  bird song
amassed like the manna
trailing  tidal waters
as the sea swallows herself.
Blessed are the herons, the mallards,
the geese. Time is measured
in the passage of fish that
cycle themselves through the innards of birds

Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the rocks

The meek Menhaden, leaped
onto the rocks that hemmed the inlet,
escaping the hungry habits of herons.
They inherited Earth in agony    
pounding a rocky surface,
but the air I swim, had no water.
I prodded these  Menhaden of the Rock
to the fringe of retreating tides,
and they leaped to die once more
to breathe water that had no air

Blessed are those that mourn, for they shall be comforted

Blessed is the discomfiture
of my brackish tears
that streak marsh faces
as fish struggle out of dead water.
I take comfort I don't inhabit
tainted places or do I take comfort,
all places are the tint of poison,
the gleam of a genesis of sorrow
The fifth of June has been designated as World Environment Day by the United Nations. Today, in fact, will inaugurate the UN Decade on Ecosystem Restoration (2021-2030), a global mission to revive billions of hectares, from forests to farmlands, from the top of mountains to the depth of the sea [1]. Pakistan is the host country this year for the official celebrations. As we are aware, the protection of the environment and its restoration is of utmost importance given the damage to our environment. Today, helps highlight that our well being and economic development, are intricately and intimately connected to the health of the environment in that, World Environment Day, gives us an opportunity to learn more about our ecosystems, cultivate broad and enlightened opinions, encourages responsible conduct by people, their communities and their enterprises to help preserve and enhance our habitat [2].


I chose to write a poem on the Atlantic Menhaden, fish that are an important part of commercial fisher and in estuarine habitats . They are filter feeders, consume phytoplankton and zooplankton and constitute the largest landings, by volume, along the Atlantic Coast of the United States. They are found in coastal and estuarine waters like in the Hackensack Meadowlands [3]. They are harvested for use as fertilizers, animal feed, and bait for fisheries including blue crab and lobster, are food for striped bass and other fish, as well as for predatory birds, including osprey and eagles. Menhaden are silvery in color with a distinct black shoulder spot behind their gill opening [4]. It was late (November, December) last year that I spotted a lot of dead fish in the Hackensack river. It was reported then, that it may have been the lack of oxygen in the water [5] It was only in April this year that species of Vibrio bacteria were suspected as having caused multiple ***** failure in the Atlantic Menhaden [6]. In any case, high levels of contaminants in rivers, along with sediment make up for low levels of dissolved oxygen in the water in summer and along with the bacteria, are a threat to this variety of herring that are important to many other species that make the Hackensack their home.

Read more at
davinasolomon.org/2021/06/05/on-world-environment-day-beatitudes-for-the-dead-fish-that-inherited-the-mudflats/
Davina E Solomon May 2021
In an ocean of night, dreaming of a closed dining space / We were snooping in on a harsh conversation of strangers that we knew / Towards dawn you spoke / as real in the dream as an apparition in the real / of Father and Mother / of them cruising off on a road trip / You faltered at a word I recollect but won't spell / It absorbed into whale song ticking to a time piece / itching to signal morning / and I could feel the depth of many fathoms  floating over a waking to Spring / like being pressed against a cherry blossom trunk / in a tug of war, a push and pull / Let's go Jungian on this, he is much more pleasant / I did see a bumble bee yesterday, not a golden scarab, although that could have been a circadian premonition / and I woke up to a shower of blossoms //
This post was written for the North Atlantic Right Whale, of which sadly, only 360 remain. As per NOAA, " The North Atlantic right whale is one of the world’s most endangered large whale species, with less than 400 individuals remaining --- Whaling is no longer a threat, but human interactions still present the greatest danger to this species. Entanglement in fishing gear and vessel strikes are the leading causes of North Atlantic right whale mortality. Increasing ocean noise levels from human activities are also a concern since the noise may interfere with right whale communication and increase their stress levels".
The article cited below wades through many concepts including: mistrust of the unconscious, wake centrism, in a waking dream and refers to the cinematic treat 'Jacob's Ladder'. I'd like to return to this movie again someday, Tim Robbins was wonderful in this. I've quoted some part of the essay below. Poems sometimes just conjure like a mist above a fallow field, there's no logic to it, or is there? Maybe someday, the dream scientists will let us know.
Here is an interesting read about Dreaming [1]. Quoting part of the article here: The mind seems to grow fidgety and uncomfortable cooped up in a body 24/7. Mentally, dreaming is like taking off a pair of tight shoes at the end of the day: the liberated mind is no longer constrained by somatic sensory and motor processes. Reminiscent of common notions about the soul leaving the body in sleep, dreaming unfetters the mind from the world of matter; and, having vacated the body, consciousness is free to pandiculate, ponder and play. The dreaming mind stretches, yawns and reawakens in a strangely familiar place where it can time travel, dialogue with demons, get trapped in a mundane loop of doing dinner dishes or soar with angels. With Jacob’s ladder in place, the sky is literally the limit.
[1]~https://aeon.co/essays/we-live-in-a-wake-centric-world-losing-touch-with-our-dreams
Davina E Solomon May 2021
We thought of us today as single cells
'Ciliating' across the universe of colour
under the coverslip of time; a microcosm
of pedalling plants or fettuccine of cells.

The hues of darkness are pink and bright,
in beach slippers tracing paths on glass,
and those springing Vorticella are flowers
we created in our fictions of science ...

But all possess a veneer bound
cytoplasm of affection, crawling like
Annelids across the void in a world
bursting in avatars of the invisible

or their transparent real selves
glowing like gemstones in the sky,
or simply opaque as we are, each
to the other under the play of light,

polarized views secreted within some
dark muddied pond, harbouring
the cells of love, shedding cuticles
of sorrow, laying the germ of tomorrow

or funneling delight in little green globes
that make food ... are food. We must be
blessed to be cytoplasm like them or cursed,
I don't know which, but it's all profound.
Blepharisma is found in fresh and salt water, is a unicellular ciliated protist and is pink due to the presence of the photosensitive pigment, blepharismin. These pink creatures are photophobic, seek out darkened areas and lose their colour or die in strong light.

Vorticella is a ciliated protozoan with a stalk that is made up of a contractile organelle which serves as a molecular spring, so it can contract. This organelle or spasmoneme is said to have a higher specific power than the engine of the average car.

Volvox is a green algae that forms spherical colonies of up to 50,000 cells and live in freshwater habitats.

Cyanobacteria are Gram-negative bacteria that obtain energy via photosynthesis, also called blue-green algae but aren’t eukaryotes like algae.

Stentors are among the biggest known extant unicellular organisms and also ciliated.

Annelids belong to phylum Annelida that includes earthworms, leeches and the microscopic polychaete worms, oligochaetes.

Cytoplasm is the jelly like substance within the cell membrane, excluding the nucleus. All together, they make the protoplasm of a cell.
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
Whispers I sent out to dawn latched
on to the solitary sun to trail
the arc of a common time
in a sky the hue of gold in grass.
The land leans on the baobab
in a dust storm of wheels and lenses.
Wheels and lenses.

When the dust settles, I will dust
my shuka and the goats will return
home, to comfort my eyes that flow
the spate of the Great Ruaha,
seeping secretly into the baobab
I have chores to do, a shuka to ****.
A shuka to ****.

Will they buy the beads I strung
as I rocked Naeku on my back,
to make circles of day and circles
of night, as wide as the baobab,
in the colour of clouds, the colour of sky.
There's colour to stars in a darkened night.
A darkened night.

Killeleshua is fragrant in thousand leaves
Am I not worth more than thirteen Zebu?
The watering hole was flecked in hippos
and the firewood is the colour of dusk
abundantly generous as the baobab
Time, a viscous passing of the sweetest honey.
The sweetest honey.
It was in the Ruaha region of Tanzania that a Maasai woman kindly agreed to pose for a photograph. I do not recollect her name now but in every photo, she appeared to be in shy contemplation. Here is one in which she leans against the baobob, while adorned in the collar jewellery that the Maasai are also known for. I wrote a poem for her, to her graceful beauty; serenely contemplative she appears.

Notes:

Zebu cattle ~ Maasai cattle that are well adapted to semi arid conditions. Bride price or dowry is set in cattle and paid to the family of the bride.

Killeleshua [1] [Tarchonanthus camphoratus L.]~ A plant the leaves of which are used in bedding or as a deodorant or for fragrance. It smells really lovely.

Shuka ~ garment worn by Maasai, an adaptation of the Scottish tartan

Baobab [2]~ Adansonia digitata, most long lived of the vascular plants and dots the savannas of Africa. Baobab wood has a high water content (up to 79%) and low wood density (0.09-0.17 g · cm(-3)).

Naeku [3] ~ Born in the early morning, the name of a Maasai girl born at dawn

Check the rest at www.davinasolomon.org
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
And the knowledge of the hedgerow plant, I found embedded in leaf veins ... like in mine, etched along blue lines of a notebook. In the ripples on the remnants of water that pooled, before the mudflats claimed them are the striations of  ol'butot near  Naivasha. His stories tell of caves, a gleaming obsidian of a pre historic introspection. Do forty day fasts suffice to exorcise the springs of sulphur or the forced baptism of a flash flood washing six souls to Hades ? The sun glinted at me through a narrowness of fate, a gorge of interminable seconds and I marvelled at the strata of time in a warp, for it blurted out a moan.

Love spoke in nuanced layers of molten flow that crawled to stillness. Can I not say that stone speaks? A couple of hundred years back in time, self titled discoverers  had seen land that had not been unseen by the thousands who lived for thousands until then. So yes, the strata spoke to me, like the striations in the leaves and the lines that were everywhere telling stories of interminable seconds. Time grooves like a death valley in an engraving, etched like a memory of that which has never been, ripples on sand, circles on water,
Anything can trigger a poem, this one dominoed into Hell’s Gate Park in Kenya. Down below, a random photo I took inside, a few years earlier. It was strange, there was hardly anyone there that day, except the hot sun and a tiny array of grassland herbivores.

“A sparse region of natural beauty, Hell’s Gate runs west of the ancient lava flows of Mount Longonot, a 9,111-foot-high extinct volcano dominating Lake Naivasha and the Rift Valley. Combined with Longonot and Naivasha, the region forms a unique sanctuary for bird and animal life. It has been a longtime favorite of hikers, rock climbers, and nature lovers” [Ref~https://www.csmonitor.com/1985/1203/ohells.html]
Davina E Solomon Apr 2021
A lonesome threshold,
yesterday was light as confetti / from a wedding that
bled in thirty litres of martyred roses / How long are
three hundred steps from a church, to stucco walls
the colour of sorrow?

Soil, the tint of blood,
ichor of mountain Gods, deveined for lost embrace
of roots / Wind whistling away regrets in the dust of
liberated souls / Would it sing for her, embalmed
in the bowels of earth’s sanguine hum?

April heat, weighted with a dirge
of tears salted in ocean / rusting the trumpet
and violin strings / Who will tune the piano for mass,
now that those musical men sailed before her,
in paper boat memoirs?

The Goliath tree rooted in bones,
a giant on such sustenance / gatekeeper of souls
tethered to fleshy sinews in beds of solitude /
Will she be interred in fruit, as he suppers
on her animated putrefaction?

Suffering, twice a child,
once a lady, she didn’t stay long to be swaddled
in linens of pity, cottons of commiserations /
Where will I store the enameled chamber *** for
when I grow up to be her likeness?

Nightshades, funneling viscous memories,
trumpeting in a pastel wilderness, alkaloid racket
waiting to sound in the poisons of prayerful echoes /
When will they bloom, toxic with grief of a swelling past,
so I may sleep as soundly as her?
Inspired by death in my village, remembering my grandmother ...
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