speaking with feral tongues

speaking with feral tongues

1.

“earth my body
water my blood”

2.

what songs are these
that scald our lips
and leave our tongues
hot sand and grit numb
in our mouths.

what songs are these
hissed in bellow anger
that drives us beating
beating palm to stretch skin
under a silence of cleared sky
where no sky had been seen
before.

songs of stump and limb
and sever and ache.

and when the tears come
as come they will
when the anger that burned
is cooled by the rain.

when the tears come
and we sing the lament
of every tree that fell –
until there is no more
in us left to sing

who then will plant the trees –
who then will have breath enough
to sing the saplings to the sky.

3.

what shifts in the mind of man
between seeing breathing
recognising beauty and
want lust greed – i must have it
own it
consume it.

did they arrive here southern
south coast of africa away
away – so far away
did they arrive here green jewel
mist morning glittering lakes and
trees and trees and trees,
stand a moment among a choir
of voices unheard and say
how great is our god of the sky
that he has made a world this beautiful –

or were they afraid
afraid of this thrumming wildness
this green and loud with birdsong world –
(tame it chain it own it)
did he open his eyes on this strange shore
and say mine mine all of it mine.

did we see no more
than a storehouse for plundering –
selling the wealth of the world
limb by limb on boats across the ocean.
selling our earth and our future.

4.

“earth my body,
water my blood”

5.

this forested here lived human inhabited
for ten thousand years before,
was farmed seasonal nomadic
pastoralist for good
three thousand of that
and still the trees stood,
the elephant roamed,
the antelope grazed
the forest edge in morning light

between the 1760 arrival
of first settlers from europe
to these deep forest slopes
and the forest protection act of 1940
the forest was decimated destroyed
logged to depletion
the elephant sport hunted
to functional extinction.
a world harvested like a cornfield
as if it took a season to grow.

and even that protection
was not enough
more timber more land
more people and towns and agriculture
more infrastructure
more habitat loss.

and who are we to sing this lament,
who am i daughter of the moon
daughter of the forest
daughter of a daughter
of a colonial bastard somewhere
who am i to sing this lament.

and i can say not in my name –
not in my name do you rape and burn and fell –
not in my name –
but here i am driving highway
town to town – fetching my daughter
daughter of the river forest
daughter of the moon.
fetching my daughter from school
built buildings mainroad mall mcdonalds
school where the forest stood
where the elephants sang
where others lived on quiet feet
before.

6.

there are remnants
bits of deep forest,
an elephant or two,
old trees that got away
one close by – an old giant
a living monument to what was
(and perhaps one day might be)
with boardwalks and information plaques
age height girth
she towers above the canopy and
i know she is she for the berries
she scatters in hope,
we go there sometimes
cross the ferned stream lean over the railing
to place our hands on that immense lichen moss trunk.
feel the seasons and years and centuries
move through her slowly
know we are in the presence
of all that is holy.

7.

what songs are these
that scald our lips
and leave our tongues
hot sand and grit numb
in our mouths.

what songs are these
hissed in bellow anger
that drives us beating
beating palm to stretch skin
under a silence of cleared sky
where no sky had been seen
before.

songs of stump and limb
and sever and ache.

and when the tears come
as come they will
when the anger that burned
is cooled by the rain.

when the tears come
and we sing the lament
of every tree that was felled –
until there is no more
in us left to sing

who then will plant the trees –
who then will have breath enough
to sing the saplings to the sky.

8.

i sing a song of mothers
the song of mornings
the song of scars that heal
and seed banks held quiet
in waiting soil.
of mphephu and bitou
that cover bare earth
like a gauze like a bandage
like a shroud for the dead
to soothe protect cool the soil
grow the seeds –
the song of keurboom and halleria
budlleja and rhus –
pioneer trees that sprout and sapling
and weave a low canopy
where the old trees the slow trees
the timber giants can grow
slow in the light
in a forest of becoming
and becoming

9.

“earth my body,
water my blood”

---

For Sherry at Earthweal’s weekly challenge: THE TONGUES OF FALLING TREES

https://earthweal.com/2022/11/14/the-tongues-of-falling-trees/

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