Charles Goodrich

Since I turned seventy, the ground seems to have gotten harder. And farther down. Still, sitting on the earth is like plugging into a charging station; it replenishes me.  Being grounded is so much more than a metaphor.  

Immersed in tall grass, it’s like I’m a little boy at a family reunion. There’s so much happening! All of these distant cousins I barely know, some of them irritating, even scary, while others are friendly or charming or weird. I’m the shy one, trying to stay out of everyone’s way and just watch the antics going on all around me. 

I didn’t go into the grass with the thought of making a poem. I sat in the grass because I knew it would be interesting and energizing, that I’d be witness to fascinating creatures doing their things. It only occurred to me that there might be a poem in the experience when I watched the tractor-mower cutting it all down. Then, the feeling of loss, of waste is what moved me to memorialize the encounter.

In writing, I often recall Pound’s insistence that “the natural object is always the adequate symbol,” except I believe that many of those “natural objects”—spiders, weeds, breezes—are subjects, i.e. beings, and I owe them the courtesy of knowing at least the names we call them by, and some of their habits and preferences, while respecting their evident desire to prosper. Close observation—attending with all my senses—is essential. My long familiarity with plants and animals from decades of gardening helps. Homework—field guides and internet searches—may come into play, as well.