Traplines

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authority from within, boundaries, Canadian heritage, Cree wisdom, cultural respect, Elaine Stirling, family history, First Nations, honouring self, immigrant stories, narrative poetry, the Good Red Road, traplines

A trapper of the northern
Cree once told me
of the history of man
to beast before the
bludgeoning of bison
and the westward plunge
of iron into grassy soil.

We were toilers, not
of land, he said, but
traplines marking
sacred routes that
twine the hunger of
the one along the other
blessed by Manitou
without the cringing
thoughts of deprivation
and of cruelty.

I was his only
audience, for most
who saw the pelts
laid out of fox and
lupine gray, the snares
and traps, on leathern
heels turned away.

He caught my eye.
You do not fear this
politic. I do. I’m also
curious. My father’s
father fed his family on
small creatures trapped.
Through winters harsh,
there was no other way.

Come closer, then.
An open ear is oft
inherited. His voice
was soft and rolling in
the manner of the
Nations who criss-
crossed this land,
preceding us.

He ran a finger, whisky
brown and mottled,
strong as maple burl
cross a map.

The trapline is a
mastered path through
skill and scent. Fine
balance keens the
resolute and wipes the
weaker clean. But this
is simple chemistry.

The bait that draws
the wolverine repels
the mink; the snow that
covers tracks partakes
as much in symmetry
of hunt as man. No agent
goes unnoticed, nor is
judgment passed, except
in final moments, so I’m
told, when trapper lies
in pools of blood or
doubt. Did I forget? Did
I not honour well the
prey that I am now?

In trapping, there’s
no enemy; the only
foe, distraction. Mind
you not, he warned,
what bait the others
lay. If it repels, the
stench obnoxious
seems, this is your
Nature saying, stay
away—and when the
fir cones or the petals
of a season’s end smell
sweet, then know your
heart is opening, and
drop all doubt to
follow them.

The crossing of our
paths, the Cree and me,
was long ago, and many
trails I’ve walked and traps
both laid and fallen into, yet
his words continue to
extinguish fear, illuminating
something that still shines.
I see him, now and then, at
play with fox and wolverine
in grasses deep that span
the fields of Manitou. Their
hunt exalted, never done,
they’re planning traplines
in the summer sun.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

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Instructions on Building a Secret Garden

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advice for future generations, being easy on yourself, boundaries, brave new business leadership, creative center, Elaine Stirling, experience, humour, inspiration, Law of Attraction, legacies, Live in the Momentum, narrative poetry, poetry, poetry for children, re-energizing self, reclaiming innocence, self-acceptance, The Corporate Storyteller, tranquility, vibrational reality, wisdom

Carve a path, child.
Carve a path around
the bushes, place the stones
that others leave behind in
patterns you’ll remember for
the music they create when
rain and melted snow from
crag and blustered
mountain fall.

Here are tools.
They are used but
good ones nonetheless:
compass, triangle—squares,
they’ll show up soon enough
with not necessarily right angles—
a length of twine for getting and
forgetting rules of symmetry, a
sieve to shake the background
noises to the back where they
belong. What’s left inside the
netted steel is yours to toss
or wear around your neck.

You ask about the seeds.
I’ve none to give. I’m forested,
my limbs to cabinets for guns
and vanities are marked,
but you, your pockets
and the space behind
your ears—that place they
always check and scrub
and scold you for—are
full of unconceived, the
seeds that nobody but
you can see. D. S.

Don’t Stop.
It’s a sign I made
when I was young
and still connecting
dots. I never found a
place to hang or post it
in my garden, though I’ve
known the pleasure once
or twice of hearing it.
You’ll hear it too.

And now I see
you’d like to know
does secret mean
that should you fall
asleep one night inside
your garden, you might
wake one day to find
the world outside has
moved away and left
you with your bottle
caps and robin eggs
and fine clear paths?

This I cannot answer.
Only you decide what
secret means; the world
can only turn, it has nowhere
to go but round and round
and doesn’t care.

Your garden, though,
has heights and depths
and passages, descents
and entryways to places
built for two or three or
fifty-three and thousands
more you may adore—
you made a door, I’ll bet
you didn’t notice, look,
it’s here, as sturdy as a
tree. With every choice for
happiness, you made it
strong, it floats like cork
and locked is safer than
the mint of Knox. Who holds
the key? No one. It’s here
inside this vanity that’s
marked:

I’m me
I am forever me
and that’s enough!

And now it’s time
for me to let you be.
Your garden’s built and
growing, and I spy a pair
of irises fast rafting down
the winter melt affixed on
you. Enjoy, my sweet
young architect, adieu!

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013

Triptych

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boundaries, confluence of elements, correspondences of time/space, creative process, disintegration, Elaine Stirling, form poetry, I Ching, Kabbalah, Law of Attraction, nagual, self-importance, self-reflection, Spenserian stanza, The Corporate Storyteller, the Mysteries, triptych, vibrational reality

I

Unplucked, the highest fruit must fall, the Book
of Changes says of you and me, this day
of twenty-three, disintegrating hook
by crook and other piracies that slay
your notions of lukewarm egalité.
All blood is royal blue until it’s spilled,
all secrets that once shocked us fade to gray.
The fleurs de lis you wore upon your cloak
now decorate the oxen’s humble yoke.

II

Thunder, it is said, in winter months hides
deep in mountain passes, where no one can
penetrate; a solitary force bides
she, till heated whispers of lightning’s plan
arouses her. She creeps across the land
sharp-focused, rumbling through the fertile minds
that have no fear of mysteries, she’ll dam
the rest, their wayward tongues she’ll scorch & bind
and leave you chasing shadows till you’re blind.

III

The purple ash outside my house stands tall.
Descendant of Armada’s fleet, he knows
the names and faces of the ones who call,
regardless of the hour, and he throws
the stubborn profligate as food to crows.
Our moments of past symmetry may shine—
don’t know—but polished copper pots don’t grow
a garden or a book, so leave what’s mine
for me to blend until it turns to wine.

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2013
Image of Victorian French Dore Bronze Triptych
mirror from http://www.rubylane.com

In Defense of Entropy

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apiary lore, boundaries, Elaine Stirling, humour, life lessons, poetry, self-expression

I have just completed six weeks
of schooling with bees. Don’t quote
me on the time frame. The buzzing
in my head that went on for decades
may have been early language training.

The Queen bee worries that I won’t
get this poem right, since I can’t dance
it for you with my hind end. I told her that
kind of dancing is another form of poetry.

Start with something simple, she said.
Tell them how pre-life hums in hexagonal
thought cells, holding the honeycomb that is
you, only you, safe from fatal buzzings.

But humans, I argued, are far too sizzled
by stress to believe something so six-sided.
Besides, I’d rather say it my own way.
Queen bee sipped her honey. Drone on, she
shrugged, and laid fourteen hundred eggs.

Okay.
What Her Majesty said.
Plus this.

Each of us is a self-containing colony of workers
and drones, baby bees, dying bees, hiving and
thriving an intricate play for the fun of it.

Swarming of people and bees won’t hurt you,
unless you squinch in between them and their
queen who’s looking for a better place to stretch.

If a swarm attacks, state loudly into their whiskery
conformist faces: I Am Not Your Egg Layer. Buzz Off!

Hive invasion is a myth, the untrue kind, drawn
from our tendencies to vibrate in sympathy.

The finest honeys are brewed from a blend of
pollens. Gather what entices, like the bees do,
in parts of your body that were made for the task.

When you have the proper mix of ingredients for
sweetness—and this is the important part:

Spit
It
Out.

~~~
© Elaine Stirling, 2011
(with thanks to poet friends who helped me with edits in the original Facebook post)

Rails

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boundaries, Elaine Stirling, poetry, self-assertion, steampunk, tarot

Freed from the task of

picking up your wreckage

Steampunk Tarot by Ben Stirling, see more at Attempted Artistry

I wondered what to do with

~

the rail ties of seduction

you threw across admirers

their bodies and attention

~

parallel tracks to your senseless

destination, while you yawned

and clicked on, rolling over

~

kindnesses, high on the

fuel of a fading reflection,

pretending to resent all

~

that it has bought you

‘til I saw something fly

from the back of the train

~

a bundle bound and gagged

in strips of cheap linen. I set

down the ties and caught what

~

you’d thrown, hearing soft

mewling cries, I peeled

back the rags, looked into

~

its eyes, saw my answer

and thanked the mute creature

laid it down on the parallel

~

tracks for you to retrieve

when your voice catches up

and rolls you again to yourself

~~~

© Elaine Stirling, 2011