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Brent Pallas

This series was begun quite a few years ago after I read a note somewhere about how Charles Darwin had raised some 50 plants from the seeds he retrieved from a ball of mud. Each poem is part of this series but each is also meant to stand on its own.

 

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BASKET, BUTTON, MINSTER

…the three Fuegians traveling on board the Beagle

were the expeditions prize specimens….they had been

collected by Fitzroy…and were in the process of

being shipped back.

— from CHARLES DARWIN by Janet Browne

 

Fuegia Basket

Imagine regret, a stone face, the pickled

corpse that lies in the hold. Each effect

translated into passage, a profit’s chorus,

the shining eyes of a white man’s faith.

Now I am a sleeve, a shining buckle.

Does my petticoat show? Do I stare

as if my eyes were fixed on a pin? King

William and Queen Adelaide, it is their

plain ring I wear. A modest bonnet

to shield , the chilly hedges

of an English spring. I grow round

on biscuits, stews and the sloth

of a lady waiting. I must move my

bundle or tip the boat. There is really

no home but the body now. Soon

I will be cast off with my things. A crate

flung from a wave, with whatever it is kind ladies

have packed for me so that I will forget

among the teacups, trays and folded pleats

of things, butter-bolts and beaver hats,

who I am.

 

 

Jemmy Button

Ripeness prevails. Take this leaf for instance

so green, so green it makes me laugh.

Poor, poor fellow! I say to the gentleman

rocking with the waves, it is a sticky

thicket indeed. Each wave must surely

return from where it came. A shore, perhaps,

some inlet where no devilish rain may spill,

where the trees stand quiet and straight

as a princely guard. I can see my face

in my shoes, the polished cloth

of the sea, a silver spoon deep

in its drawer. Do not step on them

little, little boy. You who are too much

a skylark. I will tonight unfold

my things, my hat, my gloves, the deep,

deep pockets where hands are kept.

Is it not cool this evening? Each climate

and color has its place. I make no

distinction or care. I am here to only

take what is given. Do not trouble

a bird’s spirit by shooting it in the sky.

Where I come from there are plenty of trees.

Wait.

 

 

York Minster

Why bother with an explanation? Every corner

will cease to be, erased, its details

will not hold a crease or seam.

I will not bend in the garden but leave

the rake standing, a stick in the English

mud. My fingers will not touch

a root’s claw nor plant a seed.

Your dream is not whole, no current

will carry it, no cry disturb it. You are

too hairy. I cannot see your face.

There is a shadow grown about

your lips. I move along careless,

opening every gate, winter climbs

the hillsides, rain excites the leaves. A clock

is filled with moments. Mirrors live

among the rocks. There are fires burning

where I should be.

 

 

 

 

DARWIN’S AMANUENSIS

The copying was done by Mr. E. Norman, who began this

work many years ago when village schoolmaster at Down.

— from THE LIFE OF CHARLES DARWIN by Francis Darwin

 

….(or some amanuensis) will aid in deciphering any of the scraps

which the Editor may think possibly of use.

— Charles Darwin in a letter to his wife Emma, July 5, 1844

 

Commas scatter like small birds twittering

in the undergrowth of pages. Mr. Norman

sat beneath the world’s shadows, its flights

of stairs descending to gray cellar floors,

oaks stirring in the moonlight as threads

of another cold December snapped

through the floorboards of his cottage.

And then months later the garden a haze

of color, the fly-wheel rattling in the well,

sparrows skimming the open fields

their shrill little cries barely noticed as Mr. Darwin’s

carriage came and left these variations

on cauliflowers, fertilized ova or scribbles

of something of Chapter VI — The Cause of Tears.

Nothing to swallow or disapprove of, schoolboys

to reprimand or hands grappling for heaven

or rent, but simply the point of it — a mirror

of efficiency — these clear-eyed sonnets

of mimicry — every phloxe, beak and period

of the maestro’s notes sung double-spaced

now and ready for correction.

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