Eco Poetry

Cowrie
Speckled shell,
Speak to me
With the sea’s voice,
That song of sorrow.I hear your tale
Of betrayal.
The take, take, take
Of human greed.You can testify
To the ravaging
Of your liquid home.Like a tiny whale,
Humpbacked,
You rest so lightly
In my hand.And there below
I find
The wavy entrance
To your hidden depths
For no-one to see.Help us to feel
The oceans’ grief:
Choked by oil slicks,
Jostled by plastic flotsam,
Coral reefs stripped bare,
Birds and fish mindlessly trapped,
Waters poisoned by our selfish ways.Speckled shell,
Help us to change our dream
From grasping to sharing,
From hurting to healing,
From death to life.Help us to come alive
And feel
The web that binds us,
One to another,
Help us to cherish
The seas and the lands,
Of our small planet,
A cosmic shell
Floating as a lone survivor
In the dark ocean of space.30th October, 2012, started at a poetry workshop with Isobel Dixon.
I sang the meadow
This glowing morning
I sang the meadow!
Cornflower blues,
Deep pinks,
Delicate whites,
Quietly enjoying the sun’s embrace.
I sang the visiting bees,
And insects,
The finches
Adding their reds and yellows
To the glorious mix.A song without words,
Resonating with the beauty
And the sadness,
Nature both cherished
And unheeded.
But here in this radiant place
The mountains and trees
Bear witness
To nature’s glory,
To a deep love,
An eternal wisdom,
And to this amazing gift
Of life!I sang the meadow,
The trees and
The mountains,
And my voice went out
To touch the dancing leaves,
Reaching the mountain peaks,
To bring my song of love
To this, our world.May we all find
Our song
Of bliss,
Of love,
Of celebration
And gratitude.Sue Bayliss, www.sulisconsulting.com, written on 26th July 2012 after visiting the wildflower meadow in the early morning and after the voice exercise as part of the Journey Dance training at Kripalu
If the Sea were a Sentient Being
If the sea were a sentient being
How would it feel
To wash over these stones
In their willing surrender?I sit and breathe,
In,
As the wave before me rises,
Out,
Following its curl
And slow release to the shore.Soon,
My rhythm attuned to the sea’s,
I find I am ‘waving’,
Not drowning,
But becoming the waves,
As my being flows into
The cool waters,
Merging,
Happily released from selfhood.And now I can feel the pulse
Of the travelling waves,
The power of the moonbeams
Gathering me in,
The sun’s comforting touch, the penetrating rain.
And the wind, rebellious child, bringer of chaos,
Making my smooth places rough,
Creating the wild horses that dance
Skittishly on my wave peaks.And, further from the quiet beauty
Of these island realms,
I feel something different, something wrong,
A sickness.
Poisoned
By toxic waste,
Clogged up with plastic,
Choked with oil,
I witness coral reefs and fish
Dying,
Unprotected in my sacred depths.The seabirds cry
With my anguished voice,
The gales howl my protest,
Unheeded.And,
As the spirit of the oceans,
I would arise and claim land,
Marshes, islands, cities even,
Not in anger,
But simply,
Through the overflowing of my tears.Sue Bayliss, written August 2016 at Talisker Bay, Isle of Skye.
Monsters
Beware the monsters
That roam
This blue planet.
They trample, they maim,
They kill.
Servants of the profit machine,
Waging war on the living.Listen,
Can you hear
The crying of the wounded Earth?
As the concrete
Seals off
The living soil,
Bereft of the sun’s rays
Cold and abandoned,
As we ourselves feel,
Separated
From our fellowship
With acorns, worms,
Dragonflies and clouds.
And all that is left
Of the gusting wind,
The wild waves
And the silent snow
Are the luminous figures
Of the onscreen forecast.Beware the monsters
Who deliver you
Into soul dementia,
A state of forgetfulness
As our primal tie
To life’s myriad forms,
The more than human world,
Our rightful home,
Is now severed.Beware the monsters
For there is no escape.
They live within us,
And only our wounded hearts
With their long forgotten
Runes of wisdom
Can deliver us
From the monster grip.Be aware of the monsters within
For they
Can only be tamed
By love.
Written after reading David Abram’s Becoming Animal. 1st Oct, 2014

Swimming Reindeer
Swimming reindeer
Nose to tail
Male to female
In the cold waters
Of a French valley,
13,000 years ago.

Watched by
An early human,
High on the hill
at Montastruc.

He, (or was it she?)
Carved the reindeer
From a mammoth’s tusk,
So small, so fine,
So beautiful.

Why do I weep
To behold
This tiny missive
From our ancestral past?
A fragile thread
Of connection
With humanity,
With the reindeer and the mammoth,
With the cold but pristine landscape
Of so long ago.

And yet so very present,
Lit brightly in the glass case,
Viewed by thousands
In the quiet museum.

And what does it mean,
This thing of tender beauty?
A totem perhaps?
Something to carry us
To another world?

May the reindeer transport us,
Living today
In this mechanistic world,
With nature stripped bare
Before us,
On our own migration
From distant past to threatened future,
To a greater love
And deeper bond
With all that lives
And all that lies beyond.

Sue Bayliss, sue@sulisconsulting.com. March 2010