Patience for the Poet

This morning brought a doe to our back yard, though they wander through our front yard at 3 a.m. all the time. I liked her boldness, showing up at 9:30 and taking her time. She nibbled away at the rhubarb patch under our evergreen and then ate some long grass and hosta by the garage.

I give her credit for staying away from the bee balm, which is one of my favorite flowers. I sprayed our front yard circle this morning with a liquid that smells like rotten eggs; it is supposed to repel the deer but we'll see. I just want my front circle, they can have the rest (except the bee balm).

There are also reports in my neighborhood of bear scat, which is less appealing to me than the deer, though I do like bears as long as they're as socially distant as possible. I'm sharing all this with you because I live twelve minutes from the city's capital and can't believe there are still all these animals here.

I'm told there is a man who bought up all the land in this neighborhood and let it stay wild, bless him, so that's why the animals are congregating. Growing up in New Jersey I saw rabbits, squirrels and birds, but the world was too populous and living close to New York City meant even less animal life, except for pigeons. So it's fun for me to have moved to the Midwest and see all these animals here.

My friend Beth, who is a journalist, remembers a journalist conference here where she says nothing but rabbits were discussed for two hours running. People were so impressed by the size of our rabbits. I cannot even imagine it.

Deer in the yard this morning made me think of the Denise Levertov poem The Breathing so I want to share it with you, since she was kinda-sorta a Beat Generation poet and I'm starting to work through more character development on book three of the Beat Street Series. In any case, since my main character Ruby wants to be a poet eventually, she should know this poem. Don't you think?

The Breathing

An absolute
patience.
Trees stand
up to their knees in
fog. The fog
slowly flows
uphill.
White
cobwebs, the grass
leaning where deer
have looked for apples.
The woods
from brook to where
the top of the hill looks
over the fog, send up
not one bird.
So absolute, it is
no other than
happiness itself, a breathing
too quiet to hear.
--Denise Levertov

Sometimes I think (more than sometimes, actually) poets like Levertov were easily as good if not better than the male Beat Generation writers like Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso, and the rest--and just didn't get the attention they deserved, because, well. You know why. Maybe writing the Beat Street series about a young female poet is my way of saying that.

Book three brings Ruby into her own as a poet, and it's my job to get her there. I just know I'm going to need that absolute patience Levertov is talking about.