Diane
Ackerman: poet, essayist and naturalist
Circle
of sunlight:
When
I was a teenager, and wanted
to get my tan on, I wouldn't just go lay out by the pool. No. I would
make a pilgrimage of sorts, out into our woods. I like catching my rays
au natural and half a mile out into the woods, and right near a stream,
the pine trees grew in a circle that
formed a perfect oval of secluded sunbathing sanctuary.
I
always brought
exactly two books (one fiction and one nonfiction) with me and one
fashion magazine, along with my suntan oil. So, stroked by sunbeams and
soothed by water-music I pursued the no-lines tan.
One
of the books
I brought with me again and again -- just for the beauty of reading it
-- was Diane Ackerman's A Natural
History of Love ("Diane
Ackerman and love were made for each other... The book swoops and.swirls...[It.is].fascinating...insightful...
extravagant.")
-- Boston Globe
My
original copy, pages smoothed
to satin from being touched so much and binding perfumed with the smell
of coconut oil and sunlight, has long since disappeared. But I can
still remember the thrill of reading Diane's words and the conviction
that writing beautifully and about beautiful things was such a gift to
surrender to the world.
I
went on to read every one of
Diane Ackerman's books. And I have continued to admire, to be dazzled
by, her writing.
In
the midst of prestigious
prizes, celebrity (having a molecule named after her) and acclaim,
Diane continues to immerse herself in things that matter to her --
everything from studying penguins and whales to volunteering for a
suicide hotline. And then she writes about these things. You can read
about some of these things here.
She
has touched lives and
inspired writers, like myself, who would like to be like her and
inspire people to do wonderful things , or at least think wonderful
thoughts, with their writing.
I
am so pleased to be able to
share some of her work with you. |
From
Origami Bridges
(Another
Form of Midnight)
Mischief
Minds Its Manners
When
We Speak
Mischief
minds its manners when we speak.
I
don't picture you bubbling with laughter,
coming
unglued, getting under my skin.
(Except
now I do in spades, in stalagmites.)
But
when we speak, I bridle the ample mare
of
my sensuality, ignore her steamy flanks
heating
my legs, her rapid breath that creates
clouds
on frosty mornings. I don't dampen
from
the weather system she sometimes stirs
in
my limbs, nor describe the lusty galloping,
the
heat, the blur of mixing hooves and heartbeats.
Mischief
minds its manners when we speak. |
Watercolor by Paul Klee
Because
your head is a birdcage
(Jeder
Mensch hat seinen Vogel),
because
your brows still ladder high in surprise,
because
your eye slots accept the large coins of devotion,
because
your lips calm a kite wearing a spit curl,
because
your sex is lightpull beneath the hem of an angel
striding
away briskly in pinstripe pants,
because
you float above an organ's rosy music
and
flaming exclamation points,
because
you don't' believe me when I pretend to lie,
dance
you monster to my soft song! |
 |
From
Origami Bridges:
(The
Heart's Asylum)
A
Little Grammar
is
a
Dangerous Thing
Once
life was all verbs --
discover,
marvel, write, love, dare.
You
inhabit a land of pronouns --
I,
you, him, her, us, my, their.
Together
we visit the past perfect's
gentry
-- all the haves and the have-nots;
endure
the agitated conditional --
what
if, could have been, if only, otherwise.
But
the intense mood is where
I
really specialize --
Do
I
employ or implore you?
And
also the first-person transcendental --
Would
that my spirit took wing.
A
word-slut, I'll tense anything
that
dangles or can be modified,
spinning
dreams of future perfect,
until
I suffer delusions of candor
and
become a misplaced aberrant.
An
idea in aspic is a word.
We
could dissect that image
over
lunch, were it not for a cardinal
rule
of analytical grammar:
never
end a sentence with a proposition.
So
you'll have to trust
that
at the diner around the corner,
where
the catch of the day is flu
and
a poetic young waitress
rhymes
her bell-like hips as she walks,
I've
ordered you a cafe latte
and
a double entendre to go. |
Of a
Feather
Abracadabra,
and birds fly.
Meaty
yet ghostlike, they change shape
to
pirouette on high, casting daggers
of
glare or broad black shadows.
To
the devout, flying crucifixions.
Sitting
nearly motionless on a limb,
they
continue flying, but at zero speed,
as
the wind soughs through them.
Even
their fallen feathers fly.
Like
shamans or courtiers,
they
rehearse the intricate rituals
and
ceremonies that rule lives.
A
courting crow on the outs
performs
an appeasement gesture,
dropping
a succulent berry
at a
glossy female's feet.
She
stops chattering abuse,
edges
closer, burbles, rolls a rebus eye.
Another
male stages his own
private
one-bird vaudeville show,
with
hopscotch, tap dance,
acrobatics,
trendy tunes.
Aloft,
birds look like parts of sky
that
have broken loose.
Alternately
angelic and stark,
they
slide across the blue on wings
softer
than skin, soft as our gold standard
for
softness, while constantly
opening
and closing an array
of
small doors in their wings
(closed
with each downflap,
for
cupping the air, then open on upflaps
so
air can stream through). Masters
of
silent commotion, do they hear,
feel
door feathers slamming shut?
In
wistfulness and envy, I gaze at them,
lamenting
just how earthbound I live,
and
sigh the poignant subjunctive
of
our species: If only. If Only
I
could beguile the winds, if only
I
could float the sky upon my shoulders. |
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