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.
