Hiking Snowdon with Wordsworth, [removed for submission] Notes:
Inspired by a poem about Snowdon by William Wordsworth, and an experience I had hiking Snowdon. The picture was a picture I took at the top that day. I normally don’t write poems even close to this long, but I think the length of most Wordsworth poems (a length that I usually resent) inspired me today.
This was also inspired by the early bird NaPo prompt to write about a fun fact. Here are some fun facts I learned while writing this:
[*]“On 21 February 1804, the world’s first steam-powered railway journey took place when Trevithick’s unnamed steam locomotive hauled a train along the tramway of the Penydarren ironworks, near Merthyr Tydfil in South Wales.” – Wikipedia This was a really cool fun fact because I only found out about it because I wanted to know if Wordsworth would have even known what a train was, but it turns out that the very first train was built only 20-odd miles away from Snowdon! What a coincidence!
[*]Lord Byron would sometimes call Wordsworth “Turdsworth” I think this is the best fact I’ve learned all week.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Today the Earth cracked open like an egg and everyone saw something different claw or flap or tear its way out. I saw a rabbit, like the one in the moon, poke its twitching pink nose out, blink huge black eyes that reflected the whole galaxy, and bound away in one leap. Mrs. Townsend saw birds, whole swarms of them buzzing like flies, blacken the sky and fill the air with dust. I read there was a little girl in Thailand who didn't see anything escape, but when she looked into the static-black crack, she heard something calling her in.
Based on this book cover:
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
Your jam jars held sticky sunshine while spices stained your fingers brown. Glass chimed, steam hovered in the air, and a magpie landed on the porch to view its reflection in the sliding door. I wish instead of pear butter you had been making candles so I could take the smell with me and never burn it, as I have this toast. The last teaspoon of pear cannot mask its bitter taste.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
around the yard the chickens spin like jerky, seed-fed, drunken men their graceless dancing makes me grin around the clock the chickens spin when nighttime comes they go back in until the sun comes up again then once more the chickens spin like tipsy, seed-faced, chicken men
here's a linocut I made the other day
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
On the way to urgent care, after you caught a fish the size of your forearm. After dehooking, it jerked, smacking your eyebrow with a spiny tail as it plopped back into the water. It left a gnarly cut. I drove, praying you wouldn't get trout worms or something.
On the ground after slipping directly after laughing at me for narrowly avoiding the same fate.
On the couch in my living room the day you quit your job only to come home to an apartment on fire.
On a Thusday night in the basement of our old dorm building. You were holding a whisk. I was singing a song. It was 2 am and somewhere it still is. Somewhere, we still are.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
It is February and we have defeated the wolves that broke our mothers. There are forty aurorae, all green. We tore Arcadia down and you're lying in a ditch in Limburg. Somewhere close by I am playing lake music for the North Sea. The water kisses your eyes. Your wounds, my wonderment. Your flag and faith, my pride and aloofness. We were steppe-children. We ate red art, drank in the genius poplar trees. Maybe the wolves were just a dog. Maybe the car was green, the ravens, jet.
spoilered here is an explanation for this poem
Spoiler! :
A/N: ok this one is a weird one. The prompt I followed said to pick a poem written in a language I don't know and write a poem that explores the way I interpret it. Basically, I wrote what I thought the poem might be saying first (poem labeled 1), then I read the translation of the poem and wrote a response that combined them (2), the I further refined that response (3). Take a look at the original poem in both languages and see how I did it! Original poem: https://www.poetryinternational.com/en/ ... LE#lang-en
(1) Green. Symbolizing metal in my morning. The morning borealis has built a green dungeon. A vast green dungeon. Green seer sound again.
Somewhere I've been gardening. Or rather, I was in the steppes, learning more of the road of art.
Tonight I've stopped leaving green wood on Brennen's house name my invaders and they will break my mother horns for her while. My Arcadia in opposition.
Tonight I will play lake music in Limburg chapel knowing my song is also in the North Sea in February. I hold the door for the worst in my bedroom
Here genius is popular. The worst herding dog. My wonderment. My pride in afloofness. The best partizan war in wolf country. Green druids
kill ravens and my busted-up car.
--
(2)
Forty green landscapes. Forty aurorae. We were in the steppes, you in red moreland, me on the road of art. Art was always red to me.
Your father's breath was an invader, our mothers lie broken on the rocks.
It is February and we are rioting in Arcadia. Afterwards, in Limburg, you lie dead in a ditch while I play music to the North Sea that kisses your eyes.
I've been fooled once again into thinking the poplar genus was a popular genius but at least we both can recognize a dog. Your wounds, my wonderment. Your flag and faith, my pride in aloofness. The partisan wolf war hides in mountain country, this we both know. Forty million raven-black beads
filling the green interior of a busted-up car.
-- (3)
It is February and we have defeated the wolves that broke our mothers. There are forty aurorae, all green. We tore Arcadia down and you're lying in a ditch in Limburg. Somewhere close by I am playing lake music for the North Sea. The water kisses your eyes. Your wounds, my wonderment. Your flag and faith, my pride and aloofness. We were steppe-children. We ate red art, drank in the genius poplar trees. Maybe the wolves were just a dog. Maybe the car was green, the ravens, jet.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
It’s in the flyers advertising samba classes, puppies, estate sales. It’s in grease-smeared menus at roadside diners. It’s sitting on the first stair, written on the first dollar, curled around stomachs on the first day anywhere. Derbies, applications, airports. Watching meteor showers at midnight. Poised in the wings of a bird. It’s in the center of rocks. There! In midair! On the cusp of coming down. It’s in the way the drive there is always longer than the drive back home.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I will write you only sonnets, sonnets till you’re sick of rhyming. I will write you bouquets of sentimental love songs, it’s what you’re worth, it’s time you knew. My light, you will have a room of poems spilling out into the hall. You’ll have to wade right through to reach me, kiss me if you’re willing. Shout for me to cease, I never will. My true devotion, shedding words like flakes of snow, is not to you exactly, rather to my own obsession with perfecting flow. I need a muse for love to gather to. And if my navel-gazing makes you leave, I won’t mind, I’ll feast upon my grief.
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I'm really loving all of your poems, Rook! The 'turn' in each one is always new and interesting. 'The World is Full of Apricot Jam' already starts off with this kind of surreal premise but you add to that with the "donut-earthers" and the new "faction" and the speaker's insistence on eating the jam even if everyone else is like no. The play on 'dulce et decorum est' was neat as well. Your day 10 poem definitely got me thinking it was a sweet little love poem at first, until the turn haha.
Don’t spill, Silver Satin’ll take the paint off a ship but I’m making pickled pike in little jars and it don’t matter if the wine tastes like shit since it’s going to guys who know where the fish are.
Kill the tapeworms plaguing fish in the great lakes. Head it, gut it, butter against the white fleshy grain, onions, salt, and pepper, throw it in to bake. Never freeze: it’ll never taste the same.
Alder and apple branches off the tree softer smoke for trout, like maple vines. Hot smoke for salmon: cherry, hickory. Then soaked in molasses or soy-based brines.
A weaver in Bucovina has no doubt the air holds smoky dreams of all her trout.
Similar to the note I wrote for “Pastoral,” I’m going to describe the method I used to write this poem, because for both poems, I fear I lost something really good during my polishing, and I think sharing the process of writing a poem can be informative and interesting!
Spoiler! :
With this poem, I started with this poem that I wrote that I think is Bad:
Sometimes the critics get it wrong. This is not a new take, and most will agree. And yet/But still/Nevertheless, there are scads of poems (yes a poem about poetry, sue me) overlooked, and most for good reason, that sit in thrift shops. They sit there, sentimental, lovely, droll, the perfect shape and size to turn your nose up. They’re lazy, uninspired, unedited. They laugh at a world where poetry needs to hold its own weight, where verse cannot ride on emotion and strong feeling alone. And yet/But still/Nevertheless, although the critics might not see it, (even if they were to read the poem) I agree: sometimes trout are smoke. It has nothing to do with hunger, there’s no meaning but beauty, no method but peering into the stained glass of the heart and writing what’s written there.
This is a poem I do not like, but I did like one singular image from it: “trout are smoke.” And in the moment when I closed the window and Word asked what if I wanted to save the document and what it should be called, I put in “smoke for trout.”
This phrase haunted me. I really liked it. But what did it mean? I tried to just use it in a poem but it wouldn’t come naturally. I had to see if someone else had ever, ever used the exact phrase “smoke for trout” before.
So I googled “smoke for trout” in quotes. And found, as is often the case when you google weird combinations of common words, a bunch of unlikely websites. Sites I would have never, ever seen were it not for this specific string of words being pretty rare.
So I copied all of the interesting instances of the phrase (along with some interesting other tidbits from these sites) into my document. Here’s an example of what that looked like from a fishing forum:
“…[Silver Satin] actually tastes like sh**, and will take the paint off the boat – so don’t spill.
“I know how to get pickled, I’ve read how some of you pickle your fish and I ate lots of northerns prepared this way as a kid, but I wonder if anybody has pickled lake trout?
“never freeze lake trout it just dont taste the same after. I use an apple wood and box alder smoke for trout or bake it by heading it gut it butter the inside onions salt and pepper
“He’s right about the Silver Satin too…most god-awful stuff I ever tasted.
“Apple all the way, baby … From the dried branches off my tree. :dance:
“Think softer smoke for trout, white meat fish with apple or alder woods, and for stronger smoke on salmon or others where you prefer more dominant smoke flavor, Cherry or Hickory. Alder and Cherry mix is bit lighter mix that work well with salmon and steelhead – particularly where you hae high moister content that will require a longer time in the smoker. Cherry is nice flavor for Salmon particularly when using molasses or soy based brines.
“Roughly chop the dill, and then pat the herb down onto the paste-covered salmon/Trout … Press well so that no pink(orange) from the salmon/Trout is visible … Quickly but not frenziedly, turn the fish over without its losing its paste and herb coating.
“Actually prefer the taste of a hot smoke for trout…”
And there were other sites that had the phrase “smoke for trout” too, including, most noticeably, a travel site for Bucovina.
I was really taken by all of these strangers’ writings that were in no way written to be poetic. So I took their lines and rearranged them into a poem! Here’s that poem:
Simply amazed by the beauty of wool rugs, Bikes for everybody, including the young! Learn how to make the thread, wave the carpet You can learn how to smoke for trout.
For pike-Hot pink Super Fluke, If you fish it with faith-they will come. For Bass; a tube, Slow, circular fall Either Black or smoke. For Trout, Panther Martin With dressed treble.
THIS IS THE ONLY REASON TO KEEP THOSE SLIMY THINGS: Put into small containers, pickled pike Makes a welcome gift to friends OFFER THIS ONLY TO YOUR BEST FRIENDS AND GUYS WHO KNOW WHERE THE FISH ARE.
I know how to get pickled. He’s right about the Silver Satin… most god-awful stuff I ever tasted It’ll take the paint off the boat so don’t spill No problem with y-bones, they will dissolve.
Never freeze lake trout it just don’t taste the same after. Use an applewood box and alder smoke for trout Or bake it by heading it gut it butter the inside onions salt and pepper Apple all the way, from the dried branches off my tree.
Think softer smoke for trout, White meat fish with apple or alder woods, And for smoker smoke on salmon or others, Cherry or Hickory.
Hopefully you can see how I used the exact quotes here. I actually really like this version of the poem, looking back on it. It’s quirky and I think a full-on cento is always kind of fun as a reader too. But there’s this little part of my brain that needs to refine and process and refine until it’s smooth as a stone. So I rewrote this in more of my own words:
Wine that takes the paint off a boat pickled pike in little jars for the holidays given to guys who know where the fish are
To kill white and writhing tapeworms nosing for a home in small intestines you must bake the lake trout. Head it gut it butter the inside onions salt pepper Never freeze: it just don’t taste the same after.
Applewood, dried branches off the tree Think softer smoke for trout, alder and apple, vine maple. Hot smoke for salmon, cherry, hickory, molasses and soy-based brines.
There’s a little place in Bucovina with forest fruits and a skilled weaver. Wool rugs, embroidery, mushrooms, a sauna. The air holds the dreams of all her trout.
Then, because my brain loves to point this kind of thing out to me, I noticed how close the word “vine” was to rhyming with “brines” and thought, “how cool would it be if I made those rhyme?” I think seeing “lake” and “bake” close together also made me think this. So poetry-poisoned person that I am, I thought, “I bet I could make this into a sonnet. Wouldn’t that be funny if this crunchy poem about the technical aspects of fish smoking was actually a sonnet, a form of poetry most known for frilly, silly, lovey-dovey fluff?” So anyway, I wrote the sonnet that you read at the top of the page.
Let me know what you think! Which version of this did you like the best? The sonnet? The cento? The weird middle evolution?
Instead, he said, Brother! I know your hunger. To this, the Wolf answered, Lo!
I’m walking through a field of flowers I pick a dandelion. I’m with my brother catching bugs. I’m with my mother, giving hugs and asking when we’ll go on a trip. She looks distant and says, “someday.”
I’m all alone, and I found some beautiful things. I found a heart and tried to reach it.
There’s lots of monsters around me.
There was a girl who had no parents and no brother or sister. She had a house and a pot of gold. She knew how to cook. She knew how to do dangerous stuff.
I’m climbing up a ladder to try to reach the heart. There’s the sun. It’s mixing with the clouds and rain is falling but the sun still shines. I saw a rainbow of all my favorite colors: red, yellow, and purple. And there I am standing in the middle of it. I’m coloring up. I feel like a rainbow. I found the gold that no one else will find.
I reached the heart and I got it.
There’s a type of bird called a seagull and they live in the sea. But this bird has a crown on top of his head. He laughed so hard he fell to the ground.
This is me falling. This is grass.
It was snowing the next day when I came back to the park. I tried to help a butterfly return to her home. It was summer, and we got to see the fireflies at night.
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