Pause

halfway up the mountain you

pause     for a catch     

and when your panting     settles out     

the hemlock grove     so still     

no breeze     no crow     no thrum of airplane     

no distant deer hunter     potting targets     

just the high ringing in your ears     that is     

your brain     struggling to calm itself     

in this cool     cathedral clearing     

there     your breath slows     but wars     

drag on     ignoring your long-distance    

attempts at empathy    you are no more     

than a brittle stem    on this old-growth      

slope      which has witnessed cycles     

upon cycles of windfall     and decay   

you are inert for now      in this tenuous

day     catching     a few weak shafts      

of autumnal sun     leaking down     

through the canopy     cold moisture     

quenching your butt     through the duff     

hush    you cannot begin     to glean    

what is given     only to you

 

 

 



Click here to read Robbie Gamble on the origin of the poem.

Image by Alexandra on Unsplash.com, licensed under CC 2.0.

Robbie Gamble:

I often begin to compose poems in my head when I’m out walking. My senses are engaged with the natural world, my blood is pumping, and my mind is loose and associative, a state which opens me up to poetic possibilities. “Pause” emerged from an autumnal hike in Vermont’s Green Mountains, when I was feeling burdened by the devolving conflicts in Gaza and the Ukraine, and a general sense of helplessness about the dreary state of the world. I usually try to leave such feelings at the trailhead when I set out on a hike, but this day they persisted until I huffed up a steep pitch of trail to come out into a stately grove of old hemlock trees, and the majesty and stillness of the scene stopped me in my tracks. Dan Berrigan, the great Jesuit theologian, poet, and activist was fond of intoning “Don’t just do something — stand there,” and I came to the realization that this was one of those moments he was talking about. I stood, and then I sat down for a while on a mossy embankment, and the poem seeped out.

Robbie Gamble
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