Row, Row, Row your Boat

Row row row your boat

gently down the stream

merrily merrily merrily merrily

life is but a dream

I loved nursery rhymes innocently
just as climbing trees was innocent, and
no poem was lovelier than my pine tree
with its low branches spreading over red
needles and reindeer moss and winged fairies.
Poetry didn’t claim me, not even
the love poetry of my teenage years—
not ‘til Under Milkwood and Romeo
and Juliet and sweet Joanne who loved
poetry and women, but not necessarily in that order.
We climbed trees together, sometimes clothed and
sometimes naked! How had I forgotten?

This autobiographical journey
holds me entranced, taking me back to my
own flow: a 6-part poem about marching
in DC; a 4 -page poem about fists
and swallowed emotions; late night readings
at the Women’s Center with Joanne and
Catherine and Cricket and Creek and Tree.
Love made words flow in streams erotic and
angst-full—until I dove into the wreck
of truth and lies with Adrienne Rich and
Audre Lorde who was more erotic than
me and strong—strong of voice, strong of heart.

I rowed my boat passionately, gently,
bravely, courageously and joyfully—
but not always merrily. The world
loomed too large in violence and nightmares,
infecting any innocence left over
from youth, any carefreeness of my bed
or cooking or rolling down grassy hills
or climbing trees. I learned from Audre that
“It is better to speak” and chose the stage
as my boat and oars, leaving poetry
a dream until teaching brought it back and
retirement made way for poetic streams.

(There is more to this poem, a winding journey, but only these three verses stick with "Row Your Boat."  Below, you can read a poem I wrote after retirement about the childhood climbing tree.  And, Joy, I want to thank you for prompting this journey which will draw more surprises out of my memory as winter nears.)

For FIRST POEMS: DOOR TO THE WILDER EYE

My blog poems are rough drafts.

Please respect my copyright.

© 2022 Susan L. Chast

The Climbing Tree 

(2012)

Mom drew the long-limbed pine while I watched chipmunks

and fairies run and hide from me in reindeer-mossed

hobbit homes under the brown-skinned roots

of the ancient tree, surrounded with rattlesnake-filled

stone walls where cows once grazed in the old days. 

I climbed quietly to a still low limb to scout until pine 

tickled my nose into a sneeze.

 

Later I dreamed untamed forests full of elves, lost

ghosts knocking on our walls and windows, and magic

so loud I couldn’t sleep and, indeed, the morning footprints

dotted across the driveway could have been elf horses

and not two deer trespassing to chew lettuce

with the rabbits, little Peter Cottontail in the lead

as they ran before the morning sun.

 

I leaned my rake against the fence, clothes pinned

the towels on the line until they swept the ground

and scolded the crows and red-winged blackbirds,

robins, and starlings and swifts not to eat

mulberries over the fresh wet wash and to leave

some on the tree for me to eat with milk before

I visited the climbing tree.

 

Was it gone?  Did it Brigadoon away when the night 

moon played tricks on pathways and tree limbs?

One more rise, to climb and then another—

I knew it was closer yesterday, but not as close as when

my older brother or mom came along to play or when

the fairies slipped a dime under my pillow

in exchange for a tooth.

 

Now, where did fairies put the teeth?  I scuffed

the thick mat of rusty needles to find them, reached

into nooks and climbed higher to see if

they hid my teeth up in the tree.  And I heard mom

laugh at me, but she also told me stories of

when grandfather’s geese cornered her, bit her

heels and chased her home.

 

That is when Rip Van Winkle started bowling,

the skies turned angry with fat cheeks blowing

hard to shake us from the limbs–and this time

everyone ran: elves and fairies, mom and brother

and me, deer, rabbit, horses, ghosts, leaves and rattle

snakes just like the cards in Alice’s trial falling

and leaping for shelter and towels and naps and dreams.

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