ith each Hiraeth Press book you add to your home library

you lend support to the philosophy for which the press stands,

joining us in our philanthropic endeavors and helping to keep

our honorable intentions alive. In an effort to reciprocate,

we choose to publish titles that will not only provide

a relaxing experience for our readers but will act

as nourishment for the spirit. As you sustain us,

we seek in some small way to sustain you.

It is our desire to nourish our readers—offering our books

like a rich mulch to bolster the soul and help the mind flower.

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Now more than ever we mustn’t neglect our well-being.

Be gentle with yourself.

Nourish yourself .

Nourish Yourself

4 Letter from the Editor

5 Wrecker’s Coast Feature Photographer: Duncan George

41

Q & A with Jason Kirkey Interview by: Jenn MacCormack

57 Preview of Th e Sapphire Song A Forthcoming Novella by Todd Erick Pedersen 61 Contributor Biographies

48

Nature and Education An Essay by Th eodore Richards

Wistman’s Wood Feature Photographer: Duncan George

1719 Th e Launch of Homebound Celebrating Hiraeth Press' New Fiction Imprint

21 Truckee River Refl ections An Essay by Pamela Biery

23 Note to Self A Poetry Collection by Jamie K. Reaser

24 Western Solstice A Forthcoming Poetry Collection by Leonore Wilson

45 Estuaries at a Glance A New Poetry Collection by Jason Kirkey

F E A T U R E S

P O E T R Y7 North, West 8 Homecoming Brandi Katherine Herrera

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Th e Poetry of J.K. McDowell

11 Rockpiles 14 Echo Haiku Simon Peter Eggertsen

25 Th e Woodcock’s Courtship Jamie K. Reaser

28 Watershed Prayers28 Remembering the Wild-Sung Heart Th e Poetry of Wendy Sarno

29 Owing More to Silence30 ‘Th e Soul is Here for its own Joy’ Roselle Angwin

33 Take Off Your Socks and Your Shoes 34 Humus Kasey Phifer

36 Marginal Spring36 Th is Region Rodney Nelson

Th e Poetry of Marisa Handler

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Th e Poetry of L.M. Bowning

3739 Path At the Edge of the Sea Beth Anne Boardman

Letter from the Editor

4

Here along the Connecticut coastline it has been a very bitter winter. We saw a great deal of heavy snowfalls which, while pleasing in the beginning, came to try our spirits (as well as the integrity of our roofs) towards the end. With the return of spring I fi nd I have been refl ecting on the comforting consistency of nature. Annually, I fi nd that I am deeply soothed when, for the fi rst time throughout the long gray months of winter, I feel the warmth of the returning sun pen-etrate my chilled skin. No doubt, our biological mother does have her mood-swings now and again. As I write this the levees are barely holding along the banks of the Mississippi River and tornados plow through the Mid-western region of the United States, all unexpected and devastating—hardly comforting. Th ese events coupled with the torrent storms occurring through the world speak of an imbalance in our mother’s moods of late, as if she is preparing to enter a new stage of her life. Nonetheless, even with her unforeseen squalls that can leave us reeling, I do fi nd something reassuring in the dependable passings of the seasons. Th ere is not a great deal that I can predict in my overly busy life—indeed throughout these precarious times there is not a great deal any of us can anticipate. Yet in the face of the worrisome unknown, we can all be assured that, no matter how harsh the winter, come late March the winds will begin to soften, the ice will recede from the lakes, the yellow grass will ripen green and the warmth of the sun will return.

Th e truth I am taking away from this example is that, though life in the man-made work be unpredictable, there is a steady rhythm and dependable consistency in the natural world that can be profoundly soothing in times of uncer-tainty. Th ough we may feel isolated in our struggles there is a presence around us that will open itself to us—always inviting, always conducive. Th e feeling of isolation is a universal burden that every person must deal with from time to time; however, even when we are seemingly alone, we are not. Th e unwavering presence I speak not of is not that of an ethereal unseen being whose existence we must trust in but rather of the ecological omnipresence—a form of sacred companionship that stands silent yet steadfast near us—the Earth. Many of us feel alone at times not because we are so but rather because we overlook a great deal of those who off er themselves to us as companions. We all suff er our period of exile yet even when dwelling as an outcast within certain social circles of humanity we are hardly alone on the path we walk. Even when we are moving through our worst peri-ods of alienation and isolation, we have a companion to turn to—a womb of dreaming and replenishment to reentered. Leaving behind the synthetic world man has constructed, we can return to the natural world to dwell in diff erent circles. Look beyond the distinctions of form—beyond the distinction of two-legged and four-legged, beyond fur, fl esh and frond to see the coursing heart of one who is akin beside us.

In this Summer Solstice issue of Written River you will fi nd the refl ections and devotions made by poets who have long appreciated the company of their biological mother who, while consistent in her ways, still has the ability to bring wonder to our lives.

Yours from the Strand,

© Copyright D

uncan George

North, WestBrandi Katherine Herrera

Believe me when I say this taste for earthhas never been stronger—my tonguetuned to a specifi c gravel and soilto backyards and creek bedsvolcanic buttes, rivers and mountainsdeveloping a penchant for Powell siltand sandy loam, delectable Cazaderotoothsome moss, and tender ferns.

I was born with ash inside my mouthhad already cut my teeth when St. Helens erupted, spewing its fragmented tephraas we looked to the sky—fl akes falling lightly— and opened our mouths for a second helping.

I’ve searched tirelessly, to replicate this hunger, this thirst—in the cindery rind of Humboldt Fog, dirt-fl eshed morel spores, the hint of Jory in a ruby-brown North Willamette Pinot Noir.

But there’s no mistaking the Douglasand Silver-fi r scented water that slakedmy mother’s thirst as I was learning to swim inside her—the liquid never stopped its begging—Bull Run tributary, Johnson Creek and the Sandy River, arteries to the Pacifi c just outside my bedroom window.

Th ey call me to feed on their dampbank-sides, my hunger for the elementalthe search for home in a sip and bitethese are the things that kept meup in Madison, Jackson, Ithaca—savory clay and mouthfuls of sweet,pine-scented, endless Oregon drizzle.

HomecomingBrandi Katherine Herrera

Eight years had taken enough already—the pine-blanketed butte, the sweetsoft drizzle, the clouds low in the widegray sky, and the mountain that sat at the center of our universe.

Th e birdhouse I’d managed to poundtogether in woodshop, still nailed to one of the peeling porch posts of the little blue ranch on Seventh Court, even though another family is sleeping in our old bedrooms, and eating at the same pass-through where we’d perch to watch momma roll out cinnamon rolls.Th e yard out back where I got caughtwith rocks in my mouth—just a toddler feeling out the world with my teeth and tongue.

And yet, the Japanese maple Papa tended all those years doesn’t belong to us, nor my mother’s climbing rosesor the heirlooms she transplantedafter Abuelo died, not the gravesor the carefully chosen headstonesin the cemetery where we buried my sister and cousin, or the way the moon looks from this little plot at midnight.

It’s just easier to say, It was timewhen asked why I fi nally came home—but the truth is a wounded animalwill do nearly anything to get back—stumbling until it reaches a soft place to hunker down, for the familiarity of its fi rst bed, the place where its bones have memorized everything—the way the light shifts each Novemberand the exact moment the steel sky will break open for the downpour.

2011

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… now ride.J. K. McDowell

Blessings of health, blessings of strength – now pour thisLight into the cup of another – a stranger,A friend. Be part of the fl ow, Divine into Divine.

Th e Poet remembered my face and my work butNot my name. I will take two out of three - this praiseIs still sweet milk, so today I am nourished.

Th e workday goes well – fl ow into restful sleep.Tomorrow, the philologist at ten thirty.Now there is an appointment you just cannot miss.

… the same.J. K. McDowell

Patrons crisscross the gallery fl oor. Th e macawGrasps the fountain pen. Clashing expectationsDominate the dawn and darkness stains the beginning.

Imagination sweeps into the ancient storiesAnd the retelling excavates the deep self.What is found in the mundane strung moment to moment?

I long to hear the drumming that decorates theMorning sunlight and feel the roar of silent applauseFrom the garden audience – perhaps tomorrow.

Th e invitation comes the day your arm bones doNot fi t and I am OK to walk, splashing inPuddles on a rainy Th ursday afternoon. Depart.

I remember weeping at West Minster Abby.Facing the currents of history my father knew wellAnd waves of emotion where we were lost.

Focus Jim! Do not drift into resistance.Th e dream holds the ocean folded in a single tear.Rise up to blend with the forces that approach, now ride.

Th e teaching today: Many things that people claimAbout you are wrong, but your task in life is notTo grade their homework on your favorite subject.

Look skyward, the darkness falls and the Black Moon shredsTh e resume. No better time to face the soul.Put ink to paper, paint to canvas, feel the clay.

Th e hammer has fl attened the world but that is notTh e end of the geometry lesson Jim. SoonYou will realize the poem never ends the same.

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RockpilesSimon Peter Eggertsen

Th e gods here do not try to hide their toys, piles of rock,chunks of ingot-iron, glazed in the sun, randomly arranged—careless scattered versions of the pyramids further to the north.

Hurled down, unlike marbles that would bounce, roll, refuseto stack, they pause in strong clumps, hold the desert fl oor down,break the horizon's line.

First time passed, there were fi ve stacks, now there are seven.Could it be? I must not have been paying attention,must not have been counting carefully enough.

Perhaps here the gods play their arithmetic quietly stoned.Sometimes adding. Sometimes taking away.A mathematician would know their theory.

One thing sure, no one disturbs the piles in daylight.No one would dare. Too many hot eyes watch,too many hot eyes protect.Th ese gods would not trifl e with mischievous day movers.Anyway, the heft would be too great for one or many mortals.

But what happens at the edge of nightfall?

Just once, returning late in the day, I thought I sawa newly shifted boulder, delicately holding on to the edge,deifying gravity with a haughty laugh!

Next moment it was gone. Sent down by a whispered wind breath?Less than a candle fl ame blowing would probably do.

Or was it I who had moved as I toppled along to Wad Medani?

Echo HaikuSimon Peter Eggertsen

Gray stone stairway leansagainst the white lilies—confuses the blue pond.

One hundred sun-dappled treesfold into the stone stairway—

a frog leaps the between.

A cup at a timedragon-protected watersubdues day’s long walk.

Fuji sky hazesvelvet green onto therocky, rolling hills.

Blue pond waters coolspring fl ames of red imperial

azaleas.

Gray stone stairway risesto the forgetfulness

of sun-blessed maple trees.

May rain glazes blueroof tiles to night window black—

swallows disappear.

f o rt h c o m i n g n o v e m b e r 2 5 2 0 1 1

raveling through the Holy Land, eighteen strangers are forced to take refuge in Jerusalem during a militant attack. Kept in close quarters in an abandoned building, over the course of four days this group of strangers begin a dialogue, discussing love and evil, religion and god; fi nding amongst their num-ber a mysterious nameless man who poses a revolutionary and controversial perspective on these age-old questions.

Journeying on his own pilgrimage as he attempts to come to terms with the violence, betrayal and con-demnation of his past, this nameless man reluctantly steps forward at the urging of those around him to share the realizations he has gathered over the course of his borderless life; leaving those who listened forever changed by the radical transition of perspective his revelations bring about.

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H o m e b o u n d

Imprint of HIRAETH PRESS

Author of : O ak Wise , Ruminations at Tw i l ight and The Bar ren P lain

snameless man A Nove l

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L . M . B r o w n i n g

AVAIL ABLE FOR PRE-ORDER 11-11-11

“Th eodore Richards is a unique and gift ed social activist, one with a well nourished brain as well as a conscience. His commitment to inner city youth wounded as so many are by a culture that prefers consumption to compassion and preaches couchpotatoitism over creativity, he has spent years bringing alive the potential of young people in fi nd-ing their in-depth selves and their place in our amazing universe. In a previous generation someone of Th eodore's depth and integrity might have worked out his vocation in a monastery. In our time, he fi nds his way in the urban world of struggle and promise, despair and hope. He is a philosopher-activist who listens deeply and walks his talk. What he is learning is worth our all listening to. —Matthew Fox, author of Original Blessing and Th e Hidden Spirituality of Men

Theod ore R ichardsAuthor of Handprints on the Womb and

Cosmosophia: Cosmology, Mysticism and the Birth of a New Myth

“Th e story of the Universe is the story that ends as it began: the spark of the Big Bang is in each of us; we have, at this moment, through our creativity, the capacity to create anew the Universe, to become compassionate to the whole of creation. Chaos—and surely we live in chaotic times—is the mother of creative transformation. Even as our individual interiority emerges, our imaginative capacities allow us to return to embeddedness in the cosmic womb. Th is return requires more than new knowledge, but a new myth, a way of connecting us to one another, to the rest of Earth and to the cosmos. Th e new myth will not be created by science or philosophy, but by the collective creativity of humanity. We will need more than mere ideas; to be remade and renewed from our very roots, to become “pure and ready to climb to the stars,” we need poets like Dante. We are, at this moment, like my unborn daughter, putting hand prints on the edge of our world, our womb—not unlike the earliest humans did on the interior of the cave—unsure what lies beyond. — [Excerpt from Cosmosophia Preface]

www.cosmosophia.com

Winner of an Independent Publishing Book Awards Gold Medal in the Religion Category.

© Copyright D

uncan George

h o m e b o u n d

In July Hiraeth Press will be celebrating the launch of Homebound, a new imprint devoted to fi ction titles.

Humanity lives by stories, no more so than in our spiri-tuality yet many of our sacred texts have remained un-progressed throughout history, leaving humanity without a relatable context for the truth that these parables hold. Th e intention of Homebound is to introduce a new world view through assembling a neo-mythology that would directly aid mankind in the trials we face during this modern age.

Th e fi rst two titles anticipated from Homebound are Th e Sapphire Song, a novella by new author Todd Erick Pedersen, slated for release in August. And the fi rst full-length work by author L.M. Browning entitled, Th e Nameless Man to follow in mid-November. Th is novel is the follow up to Browning’s contemplative poetry series released in 2010. Previews of both these titles can be found in this current issue of Written River.

Imprint of HIRAETH PRESS

2011

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P R E S S P H I L O S O P H Y

Going back to go forward is the philosophy of Homebound.

At Homebound we recognize the importance of going home to gather from the stores of ancient wisdom to help nourish our lives in this Modern era, and choose to lend voice to those individuals who endeavor to make the journey. Our titles introduce insights concerning mankind’s present internal, social and ecological dilemmas. We publish introspective full-length works in the form of: parables, essay collections, journals, epic verse, short story collec-tions and travel writing. It is the endeavor of those at Homebound to revive contemplative storytelling. In our fi ction titles our intention is to introduce a new mythology that would better equip/aid mankind in the paradoxes we face in this modern age. The stories humanity lives by give both context and perspective to our lives. Some old stories, while well-known to the genera-tions, no longer resonate with the heart of the modern man nor do they ad-dress the dilemmas faced. Seeking to fulfi ll this need, Homebound chooses titles that we feel balance a reverence for the old wisdom; while at the same time present new perspectives by which to live.

OU R VI E W O N T H E BU S I N E S S O F PU B L I S H I N G

So often in this age of commerce, entertainment supersedes growth; books of lesser integrity but higher marketability are chosen over those with much-needed truth but small audiences. Our Press focuses on the quality of the truth and insight present within an author’s writing before any other considerations. We seek books written by soul-oriented individuals putting forth their works in an effort to restore depth, highlight truth and improve the quality of living for their readers.

EN V I R O N M E N T A L RE S P O N S I B I L I T Y

As an imprint of Hiraeth Press, Homebound holds a fervor for environ-mental conservation. Atop donating a percentage of our annual income to an Ecological Charity (each year we choose a different recipient.) Ever-mindful of our "carbon footprint", we take steps in our printing to ensure there is no excessive use of our precious environmental resources.

h o m e b o u n d

c/o Hiraeth Press, PO Box 416, Danvers Massachusetts 01923.

www.homebound.hiraethpress.com

riverIt really isn’t much of a river; sometimes it’s barely a stream. Th e Truckee River fl ows through Squaw Valley as it nears Lake Tahoe, ignoring the heavy seasonal road traffi c with a mind only to the snow melt, rainfall and summer sun. In the spring, churned and torrential in narrow banks by the town of Truckee, it's fl ow broadens and curves along the journey downstream of nine or so miles to Fanny Bridge and the fi shery at Tahoe City. Th is river bears wit-ness to many chapters of my life. Th e Truckee didn’t belong to anyone, was not strongly associated with any vagrant friends or disappointing relationships. Th is river had a clean slate as far as I was concerned. A safe retreat, a place to recharge. Somewhere to make my own, as much as any place ever is “owned.”

currentMaybe this is why some years back, as I watched the form of my life collapse around me like the fl attened hoops of a grand party gown, I drove to the Truckee River. Sitting near the bank by a fi ne fl ower box, a stone wall and the sound of the river fl owing by, I realized life would continue, though nothing would be the same again for me. Th is, was of course, both good and bad, like so much of life. As I watched the light fade, a little paper cup fl oated by downstream, bobbing along in a seemingly carefree manner. Th e cup was indiff erent to the fact that it might be crushed around the bend, for the moment it was the captain of its destiny. Isn’t this how I had sailed my ship? Not noting that the appearance of control was just an illusion, just glad to be out on the current. Th e evening chill started to set in.

driveNow I must drive back, back to the illusions I had created. To the dream that wasn’t, until the memory of the sun setting in my rear view mirror would seem to be the dream. I had begun to make the Truckee my own.

droughtWhen there’s a drought year you can’t even raft on the Truckee in the early spring. Perhaps it’s nature punishing us for our bad behavior—no, we can’t play in the water this year, we tore down too much ozone and have to make do with other toys. So we do. Th e bikes come off the roof of the car and we race the straight-aways and the bends while birds and strollers scold. Jumping frogs along the marshy northern bank laugh with us, croaking a sacrilegious cho-rus. I leave more of myself each visit.

regeneration When the rainfall has been good, and the summer temperate, the Truckee warms from its winter chill, still fl owing with enough boisterous body to keep a few rapids going. Just like the little paper cup on the river, our raft bobs and dips and even capsizes a few times. Th e day is hot, the water refreshing. Stopping at a sandbar, I bury my feet in the sand and watch my son dive. He rode his fi rst bike along this river. His second and third bike, too. Th is path is now just the point of departure for greater adventures around Lake Tahoe and other trails. He presents me with a sap-phire blue piece of river-worn glass. Holding it up to the light, I squint with one eye, and watch the clouds change color. Regeneration through prisms of light, glass, water and sand.

Truckee River ReflectionsPamela Biery

21

road markerSometimes, I drive along the river, taking the turn off at Tahoe City around to the West Shore of the lake. It’s reassuring to see the Truckee, fl owing on with its tale of life. Th is reassurance has a diff erent tone when driving in blizzard condi-tions and trying to make out where you are; at these times the Truckee’s a critical road marker: something to steer by, a guidepost.

irony I’m not a California native. When I fi rst came to Northern California from Washington state, it was like driving through Mars. Th e sky was so intense and blue, cloudless for days. Th e soil was bright red. Th e traffi c enough to in-spire respect, even from veteran drivers. Road kill was everywhere. I looked at the rolling hills dotted with oaks and blinked. Th en came the heat. 105˚ was a far cry from 80˚ at the beach in Seattle. Here you drive right up to the ocean, so these incredible places are magically accessible—to everyone and all that comes with it. Beauty, trash and crowds: California's irony from the Redwoods to Malibu.

changeA geologist told me once that California was still shift ing geographically—was less “set” then most of America, still changing. Th is feels true. Aft er twenty some years, I’ve become a Californian. Th e hills along one side of the Truckee are sliding, the beetles have killed many of the pine trees that hold the slopes in place. Th e course of this river will change and shift . swirlsAutumn is the shortest season, and along the Truckee, trees turn brilliant red and gold against a clear, intensely blue sky. Water refl ects back its green hue and murmurs along. A hawk swoops low, eyeing a trout, a stray Red-hooded Merganser paddles hurriedly to catch its mate. We examine swirls in the frozen puddles during our early morning walk. Th e air is cold, oft en frosty, but warms to a fi ne fall day. Only fools complain on such days.

moment Each time we see a river, we see a new river. Th e water is diff erent than what passed before. Whether we see it new or through our memories is personal choice, oft en made unconsciously. Memories can prevent us from seeing some-thing new in the moment. Recollections are like boulders that stay the course of the fl ow of new experiences.

newA river is always new.

“Jamie K. Reaser is a rare bird, indeed: a mystic naturalist, a gifted poet, and a virtuoso guide to soul. With the Siren song of her seductive verse, this chthonic critter will grab you by the ankles and draw you down toward the ecstatic and terrifying mysteries of the one life you can call your own, your one true gift for this breaking world. She knows well this fruitful dark-ness by virtue of her own long sojourn below, as these aston-ished pages attest. Note to Self: Once you surrender to Jamie’s poems, all resistance is futile. Turn off the lights on the way in.” —Bill Plotkin, Ph.D., Author of Soulcraft: Crossing into the Mysteries of Nature and Psyche and Nature and the Human Soul

Note to Self Cry.Expand.Let the longingsthat tug at your heartbe the strings of yourSun Dance.

Kneel.Pray.Surrender to your Destiny -the glory of who youare meant to be.

Listen.Speak.Th e Truth chimesin your ears.It has always done so.Now you must give it resonancein your lungs and acrossyour vocal chords.

Remove your shoesand your limiting beliefs.Make love to the Earthwith every footfall.Her’s is the most intimate relationshipavailable to a human.

Look.See.Your purpose visiondwells within your eyes.All three.

Extend.Hold.Th e hand, the bodythat you embraceis the Other’s salvationand your own.We are physical beings becauseSpirit knows what it takesto birth a miracle.

Love.Because that’s what youwere born to do.

“Reading Jamie’s poems touched my heart. Her ability to weave words together opened my eyes to see things like never before. I continue to discover deeper meanings.” —Andrew Soliz, Founder, Sacred Ways

Leonore Wilson has taught at various uni-versities and colleges in the San Francisco Bay Area. She continues to live on her family cattle ranch in Napa, California. She has won fellowships to the Uni-versity of Utah and Villa Montalvo Center for the Arts. Her work has been in such magazines as Quarterly West, Madison Review, Th ird Coast, Poets Against the War, Nimble Spirit, and Trivia: Voices of Feminism. She is the mother of three sons.

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Available June 22, 2011

World as Church

Just think of the blossoming parsnip, or the buttonquail as divinity, try to see the rising moon as soor the touch of the iris tongue, also the early hawkas it perches on the black oak or the thin lankyhindquarters of the ant, the matted camelliasthundering the porch with petal, discoverthe small motes of the dried pea, its husklike the cry of the pine cricket, and the dogmaof arroyos and snow-melt, the passionof needle grass and berries and mistletoein December when it reaches out to uswith is heady midriff ; the world is church,is chapel, altar, blood, and body in its soft skinand its fervor, in all the salt-vacanciesof the ocean in dawn and dusk, the affi rmationof God collects in the russet-headed grassof summer and in the tattered fungi and the fi stfulsof snails and sand verbena and the wingsof the sycamore; the hedgehog in his holeknows the wisdom of Leviticus, considerspassages from Proverbs because his face is alwaysopen to the glaze of morning, as is the nude bodyof the seahorse under the ocean’s momentum,everything of earth is the krill of the cathedral,the fi eld and forest anticipates its potentialas assuredly as the barn owl crouchesto enwrap the vole with its talons, the gospelmanifests itself in the facets of lightand the falling of water, angels both of them,what more proof do we need that pollenhold reverence and constellations holdtransformation, what proof exists at the coreof the orb is there for our asking, therelike any element, in abiding beauty, the wholenessof the fi nite fecund for our delight.

The Woodcock’s CourtshipJamie K. Reaser

“Peent!” “Peent!”says he recently returned.

First near, then far,then near again.

“Peent!” “Peent!”

Is his soul fi ckle?

Th is audible advance and retreat,advance and retreat.

No.

In the misty dusk air he circles.

With his feathered body, he recites the ancient spiral dance known to all mystics,He announces the auspicious Truth of who he is.

Suddenly the Cosmos calls him skywardand he casts himself into the heavens.Up he launches in body and soul,outward and inward.

Rising.

He twitters in the winged voice of ecstasy,a cascade of emotions released so emphaticallythat they collide upon utterance.

His heart becomes frantic as he circlesa hundred meters arisenabove bog or meadow or powerline cut.Twittering.

Photo: Th e Woodcock 2011 © Copyright Jamie K. Reaser

to pledge himself in service

Of the Great Mother.Of Creation.Of Eternity.

Of the destined union of God and Goddess.

Where he lands,

She awaits,

Ready to play Her part.

Ready, like he, to give the Spirits an intimatefl esh form through which to danceand merge.

“Peent!” “Peent!”

Twittering.

Th e heart must expand or explode.Th e heart must expand or explode.

And then, at climax, he chirps.He chirps a loud vocal, urgent “Yes!” chirp, signifying his acceptance ofthe holy duties of embodiment.

More vocal chirps amidst twittering.And more.His heart has expanded beyond reason.

Oh, take note:

Th e descent that follows is no defi anceof Th e Great Spirit.It is instead acknowledgement of his willingness

26

Watershed Prayers(For the Gulf after the 2010 Spill)

Wendy Sarno

Th is bright water is fl owingdown Crooked Creek

to the Meramec,toward the great

brown washof Mississippi,pouring over

the generous haunchof this country

into the spread handof bayou and salt

where birds are calling,the fi sh,

the tiny shrimp,and the people.Here the rain

sparkles with light,with our wild fl ungsilver nets of prayer,

before reaching,as it surely will,

the dark oil.

Remembering the Wild-Sung Heart

Wendy Sarno

From deep night the birdsings on under the dark trees,

here between the rivers ofordinary streets, as the fullmoon sets and dreams pour

like still water over thepillow of a waking mind.

Miles away and mysteries ago,under the wind-swept pines,

this one sang morning upout of the canyons where thesun-scented trees were vanilla

and cinnamon.Like ribbons, or the thread of dreams,

Th e singing stitches a familiar landto another place shaped of rock and

wild-soul, wildfl owers and wind. Th erewe rose with the sun as if born from

old cocoons into dawns coldand full of wild music.

Now, high in another day, asun rises full golden under

the spell of this lilting chant…Unseen friend, singing on in theloom of oak, as tho tiny greenhands were weaving cloaks oflight and music, the breezewrapping us in pale strands

of gossamer song.Remembering, we might sing, too,gathering up from some secret place

the words of it and the tune.Our wild-sung hearts might remember

to build nests on the listening air.We might remember to fl y.

Owing more to silenceRoselle Angwin

I am coming back to the word and again reforming

though the sentence so dreamedmight never be spoken

and the poem beneath the poemwill owe more to silence

and the humming of beesto bluetits scurrying like summer thoughtsin the buddleia’s new raiment

~

I am not welcomehere at the edges where the hawk stoops

I am not welcomepoking my nose into what the huntsman knows

and does not hide

here where I am grasswhere I lie beneath the speeding-heart formof the hare crouched so lowinto this small hollow she is one with earth

I am not welcomeand then I amI become

hare hawkhollow huntsmangrass all of these and none

~

here in spring there is no questionof container and contained

here in springthe location of spring somewhere between sun and rain

enthusiasm, that is the ‘breathing-in of God’, like a green fi re (its passion)(the earth speaking answers to all our questions)

the world exploding around uswith spring

~

spring and the world is made new, made everything –

that bird in fl ight is a vowelthat tree a column of consonants

these words I write –the silence in between –

light and borrowed light,returned and still unspoken

the poem beneath the poemowes more to silence

‘The soul is here for its own joy’ (Rumi)Roselle Angwin

Jack-by-the-hedge and tracks of ragged robin in the marshgrass;Contrails above; and trails of water boatmen on the quiet poolWith its frilled edges of late tadpoles, a moorhen, ghosts of winter geese –

Th e three worlds and we in between, of and not of all of them.What if what we think we might become we are already?How hard, surely, to know this, to then know how to live.

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AmbitionMarisa Handler

Ambitionstumbles. Swoons into aslow tripping over the never-dead— lips on yellow petalsspiderveins blooded mapleforehead against grit of barkchest blooming on trunk

It will hold me I have at times understooddrunken it will off er up all I am bold enough to need—If I am quiet. Bow my head.If I am slow enough to touch—reach—

Still, even;still so as to feel it breathe through mestill as branch, rock, dirtenough to win their trustthe small thingsthe avid and the ruthless andthe question unto question

Ambition calls—I am busy—I am lostin the dark edges of small thingsbud and rot and the sex of smelllight-drenched center andthe slow, slow falling

SolaceMarisa Handler

a stray last leafdrifts downtrees nakedveins drinking skyyou locate solace in this landscapefor grievances lost

you locate breath and body

laying shoulder to rockhip to valleyeye to the sentence of branch and stream the syntax of ant and spider a skein of geese congealing unraveling

ear to the thrumming

solace

CrisisMarisa Handler

the leaves are turninggreen at heart buttips blushing yellow even crimsonI walk beneath face upthe sky is burningcrisis they shout crisisdow jones swoons lifetime savings freshly emaciatedthey were binging on rarefi ed airthe world teetering on the brink of yet anotherwinterthe leaves are turningyou are still two thousand miles gonea melody I hum words undonelist in my pocket blankthe leaves are turningI paste my face to the skythe sky is burningwatch itfall

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Kasey Phifer

Watch them melt into the earth.Press your hands into the soil,and the soles of your feetand watch them followyour socks and your shoes.

When you have gone completely under,it will be dark,but warm.

when you have gone under,you will speak with the ants and the worms and the molesand you will ask the molesif, when the end comes,would they like your fi ngers?

And you will swim in the underneaththrough the soil and the water and the melted eveningsthat gave the underneath their color.

You will promise your fi ngers to the molesand the worms will ask ifwhen the end comes,they may have your fl esh?And you will promise your fl esh to the worms.

You will fall asleep in the underneathand awake in the evening after all the color has gone.You will leave the earth with stones in your pockets.

And afterwards,sometimes,when you touch the earth,you will take off your shoes.

Take off your socks and your shoes

HumusKasey Phifer

Humus:organic matter that has reached a point of stabilityand will break down no furtherand if conditions do not change,could remain as suchfor centuriesor longer.

Doe, dead.one hundred and twenty-two poundsat the narrow shoulder of route two-eighty-two.

For the sake of all white-tailed deer,for the sake of centuries and of unhewn stones,for the sake of all mothers,for the sake of ten thousand sycamore trees,for the sake of estuarine salt marshes,for the sake of sour-fl eshed unripened wineberries and steamy afternoons,for the sake of slow autumns and reluctant december winds,for the sake of a doe, dead,we became humus.we became matter.we became centuries.we became summer sycamores.we became blue-fi nned tuna and beaked whales.

And only for centuries we remained unchanged and broke down no further.And we became scattered teethand dry bones.

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MARGINAL SPRINGRodney Nelson

another spring of high riverand fl oodplain going to tideland

two weeks’ wait at a midtrunk heightof water in the elder grove

the warm air in a vacancywith no arrival wind or birds

catkin turning to leaf somehowbut green only at the margin

to write and make a life in thegeoponic words of fl oodplain

to invent a new one in thehydroponic words of tideland

another spring of high waterand quiet in the elder grove

to be up to your trunk in ittrying to bud out at ebb time

THIS REGIONRodney Nelson

there would come a turning to the summerbut the leaves were many enough for now

a falcon looked set to be peregrineanyway and the geese to make their vee

whenever the blackbirds had a rallyI hoped to attend if only in eye

no jade emperor had moved me out hereand I was not on corporate duty

so I had only me to blame or thankfor my heck of a life in this region

I wanted to up and go fl ocking toobut I did not know where the others were

Departure from Avery PointL.M. BrowningWritten In Route to Flat Hammock Island

I.

Setting out across the deep landscape—afl oat atop the fathomless.Th e bow presses forward into the misted Long Island Sound.

Th e Herring Gulls scavenging the dockfollowed the sluggish boat around the jetty.

Barn Swallows curled through the air—plummeting for the surface to dive,

Only to pull up at the last moment— skimming the surface of a world into which they may not cross.

A fl ock of inky Cormorants planted on the stubby rocksare drying their wings in the morning breeze.

Arms open they face Eastreciting their morning prayers unto the listening wind.

II.

Th e shadow of the strand fades in our wake,as we proceed deeper into the embankment of mist.

Engulfed in the fogit seems as though our boatmakes no progress— same black waters, same opaque surround.

In a limbo of thought and motionI stare transfi xed at the curling crests.A foghorn moans across the gulf.Hardly reaching my ears— my mind enveloped by the depressing curtainof seemingly unchanging scene.

Until, jilted from the shapeless in-betweenwe beach our boatupon the sands of the other shore.

III.

Leaping from the bowthere was a crack underfoot upon landing.Th e shore composed of shells— hollowed out remnants of feasts past.

Befuddled Oyster Catchers hurried alongpeeping back and forth—discussing we un-feathered foreigners.

Black Backs unwilling to budge,sat atop their kelp nestswarming their clutch of three speckled olive and brown eggs.Th eir smooth white breast puff ed indignantly.

Th e drip of blood smudged on the lower beak,red eye rims glaring,the fearless mother sits,harking and barkingin guard of the forthcoming generation.

Th e day wanes too fast.Th e fog burns off in the mid-day sun.Th e captain motions calls.

Th e Isle I was onmerges with the Isle on the chart.Th e duties on the mainland call.And I, unable to go deaf.

the path at the edge of the seaBeth Anne Boardman

there is a path at the edge of the sea

on the southwestern shore….

it leads not over the tawny hills,burnished with golden crackling grassand dotted with cockle burrs….

it doesn’t wander the sandy dunes,fl irting and playful, chasing the inconstant breeze—

or seek for shade under the eaves of crumbled greying bluff s—

and it’s not always there….

it shifts and moves,it rides the tides,lifting and falling through crystal nighton sparkling silver waves….

when the planet alignsso that moon and fog and earth and sea are all in agreement,

and with no fanfare— this rolling fountain of diamonds appearsto any who come to the shoreand brave their inner silence….

free enchantment,riches,secrets revealed to those who look….

often the moon lies hidden for months on end,muffl ed under wooly layers of marine fog….

wandering the beach,longing for your appearance,

I wonder when my gaze will fi ndyour magic,

your glimmering promise….

we stand hereall alone,

we think,

encapsulated in our skin,our thoughts—

yet fi lled withwhirling energy—electrons and protons zingingconstantly through our charged bodies….

we glow with hidden life;we teem with what we cannot see—

like the waters,

the grasslands,

the secret standing woods….

all, even the airis replete with life watching us,heads tilted—curious,and indiff erent….

the merest rocky outcroppingpropels a thousand lives along their days—

and every moment,a million possibilities swirl in our direction….

and still –

there islonging….

have you once looked onthat shifting silver path?

those white-hot sparksleaping and grouping, dancing on the cold black liquid below?

have you never pined for it?and for at least a moment imagined walking out upon it—to some undreamt-of future?

standing in the betweenof earth and sea and sky,

do you never catch your breath with the sudden knowledgethat we are as aloneas this glimmering path?

—and as full of dancing sparks….

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Author of Estuaries and the award-winning title, The Salmon in the Spring: The Ecology of Celtic Spirituality

Inter v iew by : Jenn MacCormack

2011

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What is the eco-philosophical concept behind this volume of poetry?

An estuary is a type of ecosystem that forms where streams and rivers meet up with the sea. In that meeting of salt and fresh water, or terrestrial and coastal ecologies, a new habitat is formed. Like most transitional zones, there’s a lot of life and di-versity in estuaries. I’m using that idea here as a metaphor for the kinds of things which happen when we let our minds become entangled with the Earth.

Mind, as I understand it, is a phenomenon that is not unique to human beings but present through the whole of ecosystems. A forest is a particular kind of mind as are grackles and salmon. It is only through an act of cutting ourselves off that our minds don’t mingle with the minds of these Others. Estuaries is a question, then: what happens when we let our minds meet, when we speak with and to our watersheds? What kind of poetry do we produce, together?

In the preface of the book you write, “The poems in Estuaries suggest that speech and poetry are fundamentally rooted in the ecosystem ….” Could you explain what you mean by this?

I mean that poetry, in its essence, is the articulation of being. When I write a poem I am attempting to speak my depths and communicate my meaning. Th e sound of rain falling is no diff erent. Th at sound speaks the rain’s being and communicates its meaning. Th at is to say that the rain’s being and meaning are one: it means wa-ter, it means life in relation to every organism on the planet, and so on. It’s poetry, we think, to write or speak about all our human concerns, ranging from the pro-found to the mundane, if we somehow are able to illuminate these things or use them to speak deep truths. But what deeper truth is there than wild nature? To me, the growth of moss or the way a river meanders across the landscape is unmedi-ated poetry. It is, in fact, where our poetry is derived from even if we aren’t writing “nature poetry,” per se. Our lives depend on the poetry of the Earth.

Q & A with Jason KirkeyQ & A with Jason Kirkey

How does Estuaries connect to bioregionalism?

Th e idea is that we’re not just relating to “nature” in the abstract. We’re not really capable of experiencing nature—we experience places. It is our situated places, our actual watersheds, that I’m most interested in. What is the poetry of our place and how can we participate in that place through poetry? If the decomposition of the detritus on a forest fl oor is actually a kind of poetry, if the movement of river water over stones is poetry, then what is our poetry in relation to this ecology? I think this is at the core of bioregionalism. When we understand our place in the bioregion through art and our poetry, when our voice is among damselfl ies and otters, then we might also understand how to live within the patterns and dynamics of that place.

None of your previous poetry collections contained photographs. Why did you decide to do this particular collection with photography instead?

For quite a while the book felt incomplete and I put off plans to publish it, think-ing I’d eventually write a few more poems to round it out. Th en last winter as I was putting together our inaugural issue of Written River, working with James Liter as our featured photographer, I had a passing thought that it would be in-teresting to work photographs into the book in some way. It didn’t take long for that small idea to take root and the more I thought about it, considered possible photographs for each of the poems, the more the book started to feel complete. It felt like a more embodied book, appropriate for the imagistic nature of the poems.

“These Bodies: Rain Water Upriver” is unmistakably a love poem, which is unexpected in a book of nature poetry. How does this poem fit into the collection?

It was written for someone I love who I’ve been habitually separated from by cir-cumstances. When I visited her in her home watershed we walked along the Eno River. I wrote the poem both to suggest that her and her river shared a single habi-tat of identity but also to draw a metaphor between the way the water all gathers into the river and the way her and I gathered into each other.

How do you feel your writing process and style have developed or changed during the lengthy break between your last poetry collection in 2008 and Estuaries in 2011?

I see my fi rst three books of poetry, Portraits of Beauty, Songs from a Wild Place, and Th e Ballad of the Sea-Sweet Moon and Other Poems as my apprenticeship to poetry.

In the fi rst book I wrote in very short lines, just trying to get the feel of words and phrases, the rhythm of the poem. Stylistically they were fairly didactic and blunt. Th ere wasn’t much subtlety.

Songs was a bit more ambitious. Th e lines got longer as I learned how and where to use line breaks (not always with success, however). Th e poetry, also, became a bit more complex and varied. I think the fi rst hints of a more imagistic style came through in this book because I worked a little with haiku and prose poetry.

If Songs is the book where I learned how to break lines, Th e Ballad of the Sea-Sweet Moon is the book where I broke form entirely. It’s an explosion on the page and much of that poem doesn’t have lines at all in a conventional sense. It was a practice both in being really free in the verse, but also in subtlety, rhyme, rhythm, and emotion. It’s the fi rst time I think I really wrote something that is both deeply personal but also entirely mythic. It’s also the fi rst time, as a poet, that I think I got over myself, learned to get out of the way, and just let the poetry happen.

I say all that as preface to simply saying that Estuaries is probably my fi rst “mature” book of poetry. Certainly it’s the fi rst collection where I feel like I knew what I was doing and why. Th e frightening part of that is that it means I have to own both its successes but also its failures as my own. Th at’s also the most exciting part, and the part which, I hope, makes it good poetry.

What breaks your heart?

Th e callous destruction of non-human life, the daily abuses of human rights, and an empty tea pot.

In the quiet moments from which these poems arose, how did these stunning, magical words spin out to you?

In all diff erent ways. Each poem is very much its own living organism. Some of the best poems—or at least my favorite poems—came without much visible ef-fort. Both “Twenty-One Ways to Birth a Heart” and “Scattered Leaves” under-went very few changes from fi rst draft to fi nal. Both just overfl owed out of me and all I really had to do was put out my cup to catch them. On the other hand, “Estuaries” was a poem of eff ort. It was originally much longer but when I scraped away all the soil from it I just had a few lines which I shaped, in a much more con-scious and deliberate way, into the poem. It’s interesting, at the end of the day, to

try to spot the diff erence. In all cases though, there was an alchemy of both feeling into the poetry and applying the deliberate, intellectual mind to shape them. One mind shapes the clay, the other one put it into the fi re.

Where do you see things going from here? What projects do you have next?

Right now I’m working on a book called Th e Riverway: Field Note for Re-inhabiting the Earth. I think of Estuaries as its poetic companion book. Th e Riverway is a term I use to describe both the patterns of nature as a whole (the Dao) but also the particular patterns and dynamics of the individual watersheds that we all fi nd ourselves in. Th e idea is that by integrating ourselves into the watershed we make ourselves consonant with the Dao and a more viable and sustainable culture going forward. It looks at the ecosystem as a mind and, from there, how our minds are part of or integrated into that larger mind of the Earth. Th e fi rst draft is almost done so I’ll be spending most of the summer revising it and looking for a publisher.

Fishing with Heron

Come in to the reeds and rushes—there is work to do.Th under through skypours rain like rivers on the Earth.

I will stand as the heron stands,body poised like lightning, watching:the day—my fi sh,a meditative gaze on all the thingswe could, or could not, become.I caught no fi sh.Th e river, instead, caught me.

Near-full moon through clouds—a sparse prose,veiled and unveiled like a tide.Th e rain still comes down: work enough for a day. — A Selection from Estuaries

Estuaries is a collection of ecological poems by the award-winning author Jason Kirkey, set along side full-color images taken by photographer James Liter.

{See opposite page for a collage of images taken from Estuaries.}

Empty Tetsubin

Womb black belly,heated spring water,spout sends swirls of steamupward and lazy— smell of steeping leaves.

Th e space around itcan’t help but turnto silence and fi ll itselfwith nothing.Th e teapot fi lls the tiny cups—but the tea fi lls somethinggreater.

A River Flows with Poetry

A river fl ows with poetry—the water’s source: deep withinthe dream of the earth;

its eddies are swirling linesand letters carve a canyonthrough the open page;

its rush and babble, the voicegesturing toward salmon,the holiness of heron;

its long meandered body—the inerrancy of breath,a path to deeper things;

its rapids—white water thinking,and what are pools and riffl esbut commas?

the ocean of longing—its end and opening outinto the speech of things.

Scattered Leaves

Red hair scattered like leavesfallen from the autumn of your head—a reminder of seasonsand the slow slipping awayof everything you ever thoughthad mattered.Transiency is in the airlike the smell of apples rottingpungent, earthy, and sweetlike you and Iand proper love poemswho know they are about to die.

EstuariesA G l a n c e a t J a s o n K i r k e y’ s Ne w Po e t r y C o l l e c t i o n

for more on jason kirkey go to: www.jasonkirkey.com the photography of james liter can be found at: www.wildestbranch.com

Th e poems in this book are an attempt to speak in a common tongue with mountains, rivers, and forests. Too often poetry is thought of as the domain of human creativity with its source in the depths of the imagination. We use it to speak of the world, but not to the non-human world—let alone with it. Th e poems in Estuaries suggest that speech and poetry are fundamentally rooted in the ecosystem—the detritus of fallen leaves, the curvature of a river bend, and the sound of rain on a heron’s wings. All of this might be regarded as the speech of the Earth. When we speak or write poetry that engages these voices we become participant in the patterns of the watershed.

Now Available from Hiraeth Press

Theodore Richards

Nature and Education

Th e best school I ever went to was behind my ga-rage. Th ere was no actual school behind my garage, of course, but I did learn a great deal there. I grew up in the city of Rochester, NY, in a neighborhood with am-ple space for a child to roam and play and in a time—the seventies and eighties—in which parents had not yet become too scared to let children roam and play. Th e fi rst roaming I did was between my friend’s house, directly behind mine, and the space behind our garage. It was certainly not a rural area, but there were trees and bushes, cats and toads. Like many little boys, I de-cided to build a fort. I spent hours behind that garage, hammering away at scraps of wood, building nothing much substantial, but able to let my imagination take fl ight and to get my hands in the dirt. I would suggest that this phrase—“letting our imagination take fl ight and getting our hands in the dirt”—could be the foun-dational principle for the future of education.

I soon was able to venture beyond the backyard area on my own as I got older—not much older; children today would be shocked, and probably envious, at how much freedom I had at a young age. I spent my summer days riding bikes and skateboards, playing basketball and football, talking and fi ghting. Although I occasionally had a camp or activity to go to, I usually had no plan. I did not even have to call a friend. Just going to the local public school was usually enough to fi nd a game to play.

As I entered adolescence, I began to wander beyond the neighborhood. I took the bus downtown with my friends, rode my skateboard to diff erent neighborhoods, played basketball at the park. I saw a world beyond my neighborhood, and people who did not fi t into its narrow socio-economic and ethnic limits. Of course, I wasted time playing video games and watching TV, and occasionally got into trouble—like most kids, I was not particularly aware of my own mortality—but I also continued to explore my world. I got my hands dirty and let my imagination fl y.

~East High School was a sprawling complex made up of various wings, taking up a complete city block. One small wing was referred to, quite indelicately, as “the box”. I cannot say whether this was a name given to it by the students or the offi cial one. I hope it was given by the students. For “the box” was the area of the school where special education students went. Unlike the other students in the school, they were not allowed to roam from wing to wing while changing classes. Tellingly, this is the term prisoners use to refer to solitary confi nement.

Much later, it occurred to me that all schools are “box-es”, based on the principle that containment of our youth is one of their primary purposes. Day after day, year after year, our children are put in boxes. University of Maryland professor Jane Clark calls them “containerized kids.” Th ere

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are days, particularly in northern climes when the days grow short, when our children see no sunlight except through windows. Th e test scores are too low, goes the argument, so we must keep our children in school longer.

Among the great tragedies of modern life is the alien-ation of the human from the natural processes of which we are a part. Our alienation from nature and the Earth is not merely an educational issue; it is a problem for our species. We are destroying the planet, in part, because we have managed to delude ourselves into thinking we are separate from it. For any educational program to truly be subversive, it must challenge the dominant paradigm in the industrial world that has estranged us from the Earth.

In truth, nature is not merely a nice place to go on the weekend. We are nature. Our very existence cannot be separated from it. We could not eat, could not breath, could not survive at all without the community of life around us. To know our selves, then, is to understand the ecosystem in which we are embedded.

As an urban child, I appreciated the culture, the di-versity, the intensity of the city, but did not understand what I could learn from nature. It was not until I was in my mid-twenties, when I went left Chicago for a train-ing program for my work in Africa, that I realized what I had missed. Before leaving for Zimbabwe, I had to at-tend a training program in the Berkshires, the moun-tains of western Massachusetts. I spent four months there, watching summer turn to autumn and then win-ter. I spent hours alone in the woods, simply walking and listening.

Although I could not yet articulate it, I learned that being silent in the woods meant listening to the cosmos. Being silent in the woods allowed for a whole Universe to enter my soul. I connected to the rhythm of the seasons and the days in a way I never had before. I did not learn facts, but shifted my consciousness in myriad ways.

Th is transformation only intensifi ed while I lived on the dairy farm in the eastern highlands of Zimbabwe. Each night I watched the skies come alive as the sunset faded into the starry sky. I watched the milky way spread out across the sky, watched the zodiac rotate, watched Orion do cartwheels. I learned to eat what could be grown and what was in season. I learned to be thankful for the rains when they came.

As the years unfolded thereafter, I sought out oppor-tunities to commune with nature at every opportunity. I felt this need not out of any scientifi c, intellectual un-derstanding for the benefi ts of and our relationship to nature; I understood because I had experienced a rela-tionship—a relationship that taught me who I was.

~In response to our failing education systems, built on the model of the unholy trinity of the factory, the prison, and the mall, our leaders seem only to be able to propose more of the same: more restriction, more punishment, more consumerism. Th e problem with our schools, at its core, is that we use the wrong metaphors to understand education. Th e metaphor of the human as machine has reduced learning to quantifi able outcomes; industrial capitalism has become the primary context for education. To reclaim education—indeed, this is nothing new—re-quires a return to Wisdom Education. While this involves many dimensions, I will focus here on nature. Th at is, instead of thinking of the human as a machine, we must use organic metaphors. More is at stake here than our schools—without instilling in our children a reverence for and embeddedness in ecology, we have little hope of saving our species.

Th ere are also reasons that have only to do with educa-tion—that is, not with addressing the ecological crisis—for including nature in the learning process. A variety of problems arise, as wide ranging as the intellectual and

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creative development of our children and their emotional and physical well-being, from a lack of time spent out-side, in nature. We are better able to concentrate when we spend time in nature. Our children today are seem-ingly always plugged in or in front of a screen. Th ey be-come accustomed to being entertained constantly with quickly-changing images—images that are designed to entice them to buy something, usually. As a result, it has become increasingly diffi cult to get a child to apply the kind of concentration that profound learning requires. Th e answer of many educators has been to give the kids more of the same, to integrate new technologies into the learning process. While some of this is appropriate—indeed, we have done it in our programs at the Chicago Wisdom Project—it is not the only answer. Learning is an organic process. Screens cannot replace people; computers cannot replace nature.

When in nature, we use all our senses, whereas the television screen requires only sight and sound. A forest, for example, can be a context for the imagination to take fl ight. Th e role of nature cannot be separated from that of creativity and imagination. To be intimate with nature is to be fi lled with awe, to be inspired by the creativity of the natural world.

Educators seem even less aware of the need for students to get outside than they are of the importance of art in the classroom. Students who spend time in nature and are physically active will fi nd it easier to concentrate and will have the emotional balance that learning requires. In spite of this, myriad school districts are cutting recess in favor of more time to prepare for tests. Recently, when several districts were forced to cut the school week back to four days due to budget problems, it was found that test scores actually went up. So much for the value of preparing for the test. In fact, several schools have shown to increase test scores through an environmentally based curriculum.

~While it can be a challenge to interest students in na-ture when they have spent most of their lives surrounded by concrete or being driven around from mall to mall, everyone likes food. Once an essential part of the learn-ing process, seldom do schools integrate food into the curriculum. Traditionally, one learned in order to know what foods were safe to eat in the wild and how to pro-cure them, to understand the rhythm of the seasons and how to grow food, and to prepare good foods. Food is not merely something that keeps us alive; it is also an expres-sion of our culture and how we are connected to place.

Th e industrialization of agriculture and our subse-quent estrangement from food has led to economic, eco-logical, and health crises in the industrial world. Indeed, there is a connection between the rise of the factory farm that mechanized the organic process of growing our food and the rise of the factory school, mechanizing the lives of our children. Understanding this process is one of the most important justice issues our children can learn about. Wendell Berry writes:

“Th ere is, then, a politics of food that, like any poli-tics, involves our freedom. We still (sometimes) remem-ber that we cannot be free if our minds and voices are controlled by someone else. But we have neglected to understand that we cannot be free if our food and its sources are controlled by someone else… One reason to eat responsibly is to live free.”

How many immigrants have come to this country in recent years due to U.S. farming policy? Why? How does this policy aff ect what we eat? All these are important questions to address if we are to understand the pressing issues of the day.

Th e best way to learn about food is to grow it our selves. Urban farms and community gardens have become increasingly widespread in recent years. Children will be

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thrilled when they can eat something they have grown themselves. Creating a garden or farm teaches orga-nizational skills. Most importantly, students begin a transformation of sense and sensibility. Th ey begin to recognize the rhythm of the seasons and appreciate the living community around them. Moreover, they spend time outside, away from the boxes of classroom and television. Th ey can get their hands dirty and let their imagination take fl ight, just as I used to behind my garage.

Th e lack of awareness around the relevance of farm-ing to a healthy and holistic curriculum is disturbing. President Obama demonstrates in his comments about increasing the school year:

“We can no longer aff ord an academic calendar de-signed when America was a nation of farmers who need-ed their children at home plowing the land at the end of each day. Th at calendar may have once made sense, but today, it puts us at a competitive disadvantage. Our chil-dren spend over a month less in school than children in South Korea. Th at is no way to prepare them for a 21st-century economy.”

In addition to the lack of evidence that a longer school year will improve schools at all—apparently he had not heard about the rising test scores with four day weeks—the president’s reasoning is fl awed for a far more important reason: our estrangement from the agricultural process should not be viewed as an inevitable sign of ir-reversible progress, but as a crisis. While I understand his desire, and the desire of educators from whom the pres-ident takes his cues on this issue, to deal with the prob-lem that our children spend their summers and after-school time watching television, our task as educators must be to fi nd better ways for our children to spend their free time, not eradicate the notion of free time altogether. Maybe we should consider that our young people should be plowing the land, not locked away in a classroom. Th e values expressed in this quote are telling. Th e purpose of education, according to the president, is to prepare our youth for “the 21st century economy.” Th e typical values of utilitarianism and capitalism—the assumption that education is “competitive”—rise to the fore. Th e irony is that I am fairly certain that the president was not educated in this way. If one were to ask him how he became the man he is today—and while I am criticizing him on this matter, I think he has many admirable qualities—he would surely not point

to being prepared for the 21st century economy. And I doubt he educates his own children with this in mind.

Th is is one among many examples of how, although clearly more committed to education than the Republi-cans, the philosophy of the two parties remains funda-mentally the same. While Democrats are quite right to criticize George W. Bush for the No Child Left Behind debacle, it should be remembered that they usually do so only because of the Republicans failure to fund the bill—not because of its focus on testing, with which they basically agree, or at least can off er no alternative.

~Th e lessons of farming truly come alive for the youth when they begin to harvest, prepare, and eat what they have grown. Cooking is a hands-on way for students to learn myriad lessons, seeing their profound connection to the living world through their food.

It is hardly controversial to suggest that there is an epidemic health crisis among our children due to their diets. Th e rate of type 2 diabetes in children, once only found in adults, is soaring, particularly among Black and Hispanic children. Obesity has never been greater. Our leaders take away free-time and eliminate recess, limit the time a parent can be home with children to prepare food, and wonder why these problems are on the rise. Criticizing the victims—blaming obese chil-dren for lacking discipline—is the common response.

By growing, cooking, and eating their food, the youth can see an alternative to fast food and chips. Th ey can learn the skills, knowledge, and creativity required to garden and cook. Moreover, they can begin to recog-nize the relationship between the obesity of the American child and the malnourishment of children in the Global South by exploring the industrial food system that is so diff erent from the simple and beautiful process of growing and preparing one’s own vegetables and fruits.

If one’s garden is big enough, the youth can learn to can and store, as well as sell, their produce. While I have criticized the values of global industrial capitalism, I see nothing wrong with starting a small business with young people. In fact, it can teach many lessons, both practical and academic.

Th e culmination of these lessons on food, of course, is eating. Th is will surely not be lost on any group of kids. We do not share food as much as we used to. Th is impoverishes us spiritually and diminishes our sense of community. To share food is essential to our humanity.

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Any teacher, in any type of classroom, will fi nd his job much easier if students are preparing and sharing food together. While most schools, I suspect, will say that this is too costly and takes too much time that could be spent on learning basic skills for tests, a deeper analysis sug-gests otherwise. How much money is wasted on drugs for children who cannot concentrate because they have too much sugar in their diets? Th ere have been docu-mented cases of children dramatically changing their behavior as their diets have changed. Moreover, sharing meals brings about a spirit of community in a classroom or youth group. We learn in community, from one an-

ing them to develop a narrative that is both personally meaningful and intellectually rigorous.

Wisdom Education has always been about answering fundamental questions such as “Who am I?” Until the modern period, much of this understanding came from a myth, a narrative or story that described how we came into being. Th e creation myth made sense of our world and our place in it while showing how we were at once connected and unique. In a traditional or indigenous society, there were no academic “subjects”—everything was understood through the lens of the myth. And even when subjects did arise—in a medieval school, for

Nature is not place to visit; it is that from

which we arise. Th e human body

is nature. We have evolved not only from the Earth,

but also within the Earth.

other, and food can be a catalyst for this process.

~We are nature. Any discussion about nature is extraordinarily diffi cult because of the tendency to reinforce the dualism of the human and nature. Nature is not place to visit; it is that from which we arise. Th e human body is na-ture. We have evolved not only from the Earth, but also within the Earth. Th e point is that, when we truly understand how we have evolved, the lines between the hu-man and nature become blurred. Our identity, so fundamental to the basic purpose of education, cannot be isolated in the mind, walled in behind our skulls.

In any science curriculum, evolution is a core concept, the core concept around which the study of biology is organized. Th is is sig-nifi cant not merely because it is an interesting theory about science; its signifi cance lies in what it tells us about ourselves. Evolution tells us who we are.

We cannot teach our youth a particular narrative in science without having the courage—and I say cour-age because there will be fundamentalists who under-stand neither the Bible nor evolution who will make this politically diffi cult—the courage to integrate it into the students’ pursuit of understanding themselves and their world. It does not mean telling them what evolution should make them believe. Rather, it means showing them the evidence for evolution and challeng-

example—they were still under-stood through a common lens. We can now criticize the lens—I am not advocating basing a curricu-lum on Scholastic theology—but we have to fi nd a new lens to re-place it.

What, then, is the lens through which we can organize a new Wis-dom curriculum? One possibil-ity is by looking at the world in terms of ancestry, which is essen-tially what the creation myth of an indigenous society does. Th e diff erence, however, is that ours is a pluralistic society that derives much of its knowledge about the world through science.

Modern, industrial society is marked by an abundance of in-formation, uncovered by science

and made available through technology. Th e problem is that the diversity of our society and the overwhelming amount of information make it diffi cult to fi nd a coher-ent narrative around which to organize a curriculum. I would suggest that nature itself as understood by mod-ern science can provide the foundation of just such a narrative, a narrative that can be both pluralistic and unifying. I am not suggesting that we introduce any more information into a school curriculum than what is pretty much already there, but that we can begin to recognize that, through our ancestors, we are intimately connected with every one and every thing. Ancestry is not just about the past, but who we are. Our DNA is a legacy of the past, present in each of us.

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Th e way we structure a curriculum, although we are seldom aware of it, upholds a particular world-view. Th e worldview conveyed through the curricula of a modern school, no matter how progressive, is one of fragmentation. Each subject is disconnected from the others. Th e mind is disconnected from the body. Art is marginalized. A curriculum conveys meaning not merely through facts. I would not propose many new facts to be introduced to our schools. In fact, we probably have too much information. Th e impor-tance in a curriculum is in how it organizes informa-tion. Th e story of the universe would be a narrative that would allow us to organize information fl uidly, interconnectedly, organically.

Teachers, however, generally operate according to the metaphor of a student as a machine. We speak of inputs and outputs, of quantifi able results. We test our children like they are automobiles. But our chil-dren are not automobiles, or even computers. Th ey are as complex and chaotic as a stream. A stream can be studied and understood to an extent through quanti-fi able information, but not with the straightforward simplicity of a car.

~Th e story of the universe is not about a world that was created from the outside and that cannot be changed from within. Th is is the story of a universe that has changed throughout its history, and the universe itself has participated in the change. While this does not mean that we live in the mechanical, atheistic world of some Modern thinkers, it does mean that we par-ticipate in the change that happens. While we cannot control our future, it is also not dictated to us. What lesson does this convey to our youth?

Th e fi rst humans had the courage to walk out onto the African plains. Th ey evolved as they did because their survival depended on their spirit of exploration, their inventiveness, their intelligence, and their ca-pacity for cooperation. Th ey developed the ability to use symbolic language and to make meaning through symbols. Some of the earliest examples we know about are the Paleolithic cave paintings. In 1995, I was lucky enough to view the paintings at Altamira, in northern Spain, of which Picasso was said to have been moved to near-speechlessness, uttering only that, in the thou-sands of years since, we have done nothing more beau-tiful. Many of the images represent the predator-prey relationship. Th ese early people seemed to grasp intui-tively that we are not in competition with nature, but

that we evolve together. Had our predators not been so formidable or our prey not been so elusive, we would not have evolved the above capacities to such a degree. We owe our very existence to nature.

Th e other predominant image in the cave paintings is much simpler, but perhaps even more profound—the handprint. Inside the cave, these people imagined they were inside the womb and made an image that re-minded them of the baby’s handprints they had seen on the mother’s belly. Th ey understood, in their wisdom, that we are like the baby in the womb, pressing out at the edge of our world, exploring it, testing it. Th is is an important part of who we are as human beings. Not as disembodied minds, but as a part of a natural process that connects us to the living world. So, as the narrative of the universe story connects us to nature, it connects us to our role as creators, as world-builders, as mythmakers. Th e role of nature and of creativity cannot be separated.

~Th e highlight of a recent nature retreat in Michigan was surely a midnight walk I took with a group of girls. About ten minutes from the cabin was a small lake. While many of the girls were terrifi ed at the sheer darkness of the woods at night—this group was from Chicago—they came alive when we reached the dock. “It is so beautiful!” several of them exclaimed. I have been moved to tears by the sight of the nighttime sky, so this was something particularly gratifying to me. Th ey were enthralled and inspired, listening intently as I explained that the light from the stars they saw had left many years ago. I am certain that they will remember it better than had they been taught it from a textbook.

It is impossible to exaggerate the importance of such an experience. Th is moment is the key moment in one’s education. It is the moment when we are alive, when we realize that we live in a beautiful, awesome, enchanted world. We realize that, beyond what anyone else can try to force us to do, we are inspired to learn.

~Th e work of education, of course, is not to make bet-ter schools, but to make a better world. Too often, I believe, educators forget this obvious and simple truth. Discussions about education seldom refl ect the kind of world we might imagine is possible; rather, they focus on achievement and success within a given paradigm. Th ey seem not to realize that the way we educate our children creates, reinforces, or shatters the paradigm.

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For example, when we assume that the purpose of education is to help students fi nd a job in the global economy, we forget that the “global economy” is not some force of nature. Humans created it. It exists because of the decisions we made, decisions based upon how we view the world, which is based on the way we have been educated.

While what goes on in a school is important in it-self—after all, our children spend most of their child-hoods there—the ultimate relevance of a school is what kind of civilization it inspires our children to create. A school is not “good” if its students get good test scores but are so unhappy, so disconnected, and so unable to think critically that they go out in the world and com-mit acts of violence and destruction. Such schools only give more power to the mis-educated. I think I prefer the “bad” schools.

Modern industrial culture is ill equipped to deal with the crises of this moment. For the fi rst time in human history, we face a mass-extinction that threat-ens the viability of life on the planet. Th is crisis was largely created by modern industrial culture. Its values can only lead to more destruction.

On the one hand, we have the current model in which the world is the marketplace for global capitalism, the school a factory, and the child a machine; on the other hand… this is a hand is empty, a story we have not yet told. In part, it is our responsibility to off er our children a new vision. But we also must empower our children to become mythmakers, to tell the story of the their generation themselves.

Th e metaphors and narratives and values of our ed-ucational system are problematic. Th is can be argued strictly on an educational level. Th at is, we can show how the current educational system simply does not work. Our children are becoming less, not more, edu-cated through it. I would like to leave that argument behind now, and address what I think is at the core of the need for a Wisdom Education Movement. Th at is, even if the modern educational system did work with-in its own artifi cial and self-serving parameters—it is telling, I think, that educators have so much trouble showing this considering how easy it generally is to invent criteria that validates a given system—it will fail in the consequences it has for the planet and for our species. Th is is at the heart of our reason for educat-ing children in the fi rst place. Seldom, if ever, do edu-cators discuss it. Th ey may argue that this is because

it cannot be proven quantifi ably. If they do, they will have proven my point.

So what are the consequences of our current educa-tional system? First, our school system, in using mecha-nistic metaphors, raises children to relate to the world as a machine. Th e consequences of this are clear and devas-tating. We can talk about “greening” our schools and tell our youth to recycle all we want, but if we continue to instill in them the notion that the world is a machine, they will unthinkingly relate to it as a resource to be used and manipulated. Th ey will not value it.

Th e consequences of not valuing the Earth, of not holding it sacred, are expressed largely through the sys-tem of global, industrial capitalism. Th e criticism here is not with the notion of “free-enterprise”, but with the notion that the economy is primary, ecology secondary. Economics dominates nearly every aspect of the public discourse, including education. In fact, economics, in its proper place, refers to the way we use and exchange resources. It is a subset of ecology. To be a human being, to survive, requires fi rst to be embedded in a web of life. Without our primary relationship being to ecology, we behave as though we are disconnected from the Earth. When we consider the economy to be primary, we make choices—not simply individual ones, but civi-lizational choices—that express this devaluing of the Earth.

A myth is most fundamentally about how we un-derstand our place in the world. In the myth of moder-nity, we believe it is our place to manage, subdue, and control the Earth through the mechanisms of global, industrial capitalism. Th e only answers we can come up within this paradigm continue to reinforce this skewed relation. We believe that capitalism and technology, for example, are the solution to the ecological crisis.

While technology can and should be part of the solution, we cannot solve our problems through the same mentality that created them. Technological and capitalistic solutions are popular with politicians for one simple reason: these solutions do not require a change in mentality or lifestyle on the part of wealthy, Western nations. Th e reality of the situation is quite diff erent. As resources are depleted, as pollution and global warming intensify, and as species become ex-tinct, we are faced with a choice if we are to survive: ei-ther wealthy nations dramatically reduce consumption or we force—and increasingly, this force with truly be enforced by force—the world’s poor to continue to live in squalor. We cannot sustain our current consumption

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patterns, particularly if the world’s poor demand an increasingly large piece of the pie.

What’s at stake, therefore, is our survival. Th e myths of modernity, reinforced in our educational systems, perpetuate a worldview that not only en-courages us to act as we do; it does not allow us to act any other way. Personal discipline or lack of in-formation is not the problem. Th e problem is that we have been trained by our schools to see the world in a particular way. And this is leading to our demise. Metaphors, if they are powerful enough, have a way of becoming real no matter how absurd they are.

~Th e role of nature in Wisdom Education is some-thing we should not even have to think about. But unfortunately, we must. For nature is perhaps more marginalized from school curricula than any other element of Wisdom Education. Th e ultimate aim should be to create an atmosphere in which children do not think about nature because it has become their basic context.

Even in science classes, our children rarely get their hands dirty, rarely get out of “the box” to truly explore their world. If the conveyance of information were the purpose of education, this

would not matter. But education—Wisdom Education—is about shaping consciousness and about how we relate to and act in our world. To remove, at least partially, the barriers between the human world and the natural world, is to begin the process of shifting this relationship.

And why should we want to shift it? We should want to shift this damaged relationship because our survival as a species depends on it, for starters. Th e absence of nature in modern education is directly related to the ecological crisis. Th e modern project has been many diff erent things, but perhaps foremost it has been a movement to forget our eco-logical identity. Th e psychological reasons for this are un-derstandable. Th e wild is scary and dangerous. Our ances-tors can be forgiven for believing their purpose was to tame it. But now that we have largely—by appearances—tamed nature, it is unforgiveable that we continue to pave it.

Even more unforgiveable is that we continue to pave and to repress the nature in our selves. Th e need to bring nature into the learning process is not only practical. After all, our survival as a species is not guaranteed either way, even if it is more likely if we remember that we are a part of the Earth. Th e certainty is that if we can help the youth to reconnect to nature, we can promise them richer, more meaningful lives, and that they will grow up to be better educated human beings.

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F o r t h c o m i n g A u g u s t 2 0 1 1

Todd Erick Pedersen

~ A No v e l l a ~

T h eSapphire Songv~ A~ Avhirehire

he time and the place are universal. Set in a simple landscape of mountains and rivers, deep-running vales and the ever-changing pageantry of the seasons, it is a world that is as profound and as beautiful and, ultimately, as revelatory as our own. A world in which Metaxaeus and Akasha shall come to fi nd each other even as they come to fi nd themselves. Th e Sapphire Song is a meditation on the possibilities of love, when seen in the light of the spirit, with an eye to the culmi-nating discoveries that await an individual on the spiritual journey. A timeless portrayal of the value of seeking the sacred as it unfolds itself to us in the oft-secreted presence of our own deepest dreams, and told from the outset in spare, luminous language with the poignancy of a parable, this is a story that blossoms, long before its fi nal pages, into lasting poetic resonance, lingering in the memory for days to come…

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“In his poem All the True Vows, David Whyte urges the reader to ‘Hold to your own truth at the center of the image you were born with.’ In Th e Sapphire Song, Pedersen invites us to witness the destined mystery of two incandescent souls who have the innocence and courage to do just that. Every story begins. Here’s your chance. ~ Jamie K. Reaser, author of Note to Self: Poems for Changing the World from the Inside Out.

w w w . t h e s a p p h i r e s o n g . c o mw w w . h o m e b o u n d . h i r a e t h p r e s s . c o m

Todd Erick Pedersen grew up in Petaluma, California. He studied lit-erature and philosophy at the University of Puget Sound in Tacoma, Washington and also at Sonoma State University, where he received his undergraduate degree. He has a love for the arts of storytelling and poetry and has also come to harbor a profound appreciation for the contemplative life. He now lives in Ketchum, Idaho. His poetry has appeared in Written River: A Journal of Eco-Poetics. Th e Sapphire Song is his fi rst book.

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H o m e b o u n d

Imprint of HIRAETH PRESS

Hiraeth Press is a publisher with a mission.

We are passionate about creativity as a means of transforming consciousness, both individually and socially. We hope to participate in a revolution to return poetry to the public discourse and a place in the world which matters. Of the many important issues of our times we feel that our relationship to the environment is of the most fundamental concern. Our publications refl ect the ideal that falling in love with the earth is nothing short of revolutionary and that through our relationship to nature we can birth a more enlightened vision of life for the future. We believe that art and poetry are the universal language of the human experience and are thus most capable of transforming our vision of self and world.

We publish a wide range of books that deal with our relationship to the Earth and the revitalization of an ecologically viable spirituality fi t for the planetary era. Although we specialize in poetry we also produce non-fi ction books as well, such as the award-winning Th e Salmon in the Spring: Th e Ecology of Celtic Spirituality by Jason Kirkey, the Courting the Wild series edited by Jamie K. Reaser and the award-winning title, Cosmosophia: Cosmology, Mysticism and the Birth of a New Myth by Th eodore Richards.

What does Hiraeth mean?Th e Welsh word hiraeth encapsulates the spirit by which we strive and that the books we publish hope to inspire. A direct translation of the word might be something like “longing,” though a more literary reading and a look at its role in medieval Welsh poetry reveals that it is a deep longing of the soul for one’s original homeland. Here at Hiraeth Press we believe that our collective human homeland are the still-wild places of the Earth. We long for a more ecologically and spiritually sane world and believe passionately that poetry is a form of activism on behalf of the more-than-human world.

How environmentally friendly is the press?We endeavor to be as environmentally sustainable as possible, and will continue to raise our standards as we are able. Our website is hosted by Sustainable Websites and is 100% off set by wind power. Additionally we make use of print-on-demand technology, allowing us to print only what we need without the typical waste of resources associated with off set printing.

HIRAETH PRESSPO Box 416

Danvers, Massachusetts 01923info@hiraethpress.com

www.hiraethpress .com

Hiraeth Press is a publisher with a mission.

We are passionate about creativity as a means of transforming consciousness, both individually and socially. We hope to participate in a revolution to return poetry to the public discourse and a place in the world which matters. Of the many important issues of our times we feel that our relationship to the environment is of the most fundamental concern. Our publications refl ect the ideal that falling in love with the earth is nothing short of revolutionary and that through our relationship to nature we can birth a more enlightened vision of life for the future. We believe that art and poetry are the universal language of the human experience and are thus most capable of transforming our vision of self and world.

We publish a wide range of books that deal with our relationship to the Earth and the revitalization of an ecologically viable spirituality fi t for the planetary era. Although we specialize in poetry we also produce non-fi ction books as well, such as the award-winning Th e Salmon in the Spring: Th e Ecology of Celtic Spirituality by yJJaassoonn KKiirrkkeeyy, tthhee CCoouurrttiinngg tthhee WWiilldd sseerriieess eeddiitteedd bbyy JJaammiiee KK. RReeaasseerr aanndd tthhee aawwaarrdd-wwiinnnniinngg ttiittllee, dd CCoossmmoossoopphhiiaa::

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B o o k s t o r E

We want you to feel good about any purchase you make from Hiraeth Press. Remember, when you support the press, you are also supporting

the philosophy upon which it was founded. Every year we give 1% of our annual profits to an eco-charity.

Just one of the many ways in which we are endeavoring to “walk our talk.”

B o o k s t o r E

WWe want you to feel good about any purchase you make from HHiraeth PPress. Remember, when you support the press, you are also supporting

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ALL HIRAETH PRESS TITLES ARE NOW AVAILABLE

AT THE FOLLOWING ONLINE OUTLETS

CONTRIBUTOR BIO GRAPHIE S

Brandi Katherine Herrera - works in Portland as a freelance jour-nalist and copywriter, and she is currently in her third semester in Pacifi c Univer-sity’s MFA in Writing program. Her work has appeared in Th e Jackson Free Press, BOOM Jackson, Madison Magazine, and Th e Ithaca Times.

Marisa Handler - Writer, singer-songwriter, teacher, and speaker—is the author of Loyal to the Sky, which won a 2008 Nautilus Gold Award for world-changing books. Her writing has appeared in Th e Sun, Tikkun, Orion, Salon.com, the San Francisco Chronicle, Zeek, and other publications. She received her MFA from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and was a Fulbright scholar in Creative Writing. Along with academic settings she has also taught writing at meditation retreats and one-on-one as a tool for healing with the chronically and mentally ill.

Simon Peter Eggertsen - was born in Kansas, raised in Utah and schooled in Virginia and England, now lives in Montreal. He has degrees in litera-ture, language and law. His pedigree in poetry is recent. His work has been pub-lished, or will be, in Nimrod, Vallum (Canada), Atlanta Review, Th e Caribbean Writer, and New Millenium Writings. He has won an International Publishing Prize (Atlanta Review, 2009), was a fi nalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize in Poetry (Nimrod Interna-tional, 2009), and Runner-up for the Little Red Tree International Poetry Prize (2010).

Jamie K. Reaser - has a deep fondness for the wild, intimate, and unnamable. She received a BS in Field Biology and Studio Art from the College of William and Mary and her doctorate in Biology from Stanford University. She has worked around the world as a biologist, international policy negotiator, envi-ronmental educator, and wilderness rites-of-passage guide. She is also a practitioner and teacher of ecopsychology, nature-based spirituality, and various approaches to expanding human consciousness, as well as a poet, writer, artist, and homesteader-in-progress. She makes her home in the Blue Ridge Mountains of Virginia.

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Kasey Phifer - Rooted in southeastern Pennsylvania, Kasey Phifer is an undergraduate student of creative writing and sociology in the Philadelphia area. She is a tender of gardens and chickens, a writer of poetry and dedicated guardian of honeybees. Her work has appeared in Inklings literary magazine and is inspired by people, earth, and experience.

Wendy Sarno has lived in the Midwestern bio-region all her life. After grow-ing up in the forests of northern Illinois, for over forty years she has been in the St. Louis area where she raised two children and found community and cultivated work she loves. She has been listening with people as a Spiritual Guide for more than fi f-teen years. She leads retreats and facilitates workshops on a variety of topics designed to nourish the soul and lead toward greater presence and wholeness. In the last few years her own creative focus has turned toward writing about her encounters with the land and with the beings of the natural world, animal, vegetable and mineral.

Theodore Richards - is a poet, writer, and religious philosopher. He is a long time student of the Taoist martial art of Bagua and hatha yoga and has traveled, worked and studied in 25 diff erent countries, including the South Pacifi c, the Far East, the Indian subcontinent, the Middle East, Africa, and Latin America. Richards has received degrees from the University of Chicago, Th e California Insti-tute of Integral Studies, Wisdom University, and the New Seminary where he was ordained. He is the author of Comosophia and Handprints on the Womb, a collection of poetry. Th eodore Richards is the founder and executive director of Th e Chicago Wisdom Project. He currently resides in Chicago with his wife and daughter.

Beth Anne Boardman - grew up in the foothills of Colorado and lived for fi ve years in the Midwest before settling in California, where she raised her children. She loves words, images, reading, writing, hiking, dancing, singing, and time spent under the silent stars. She holds a current registered nursing license in two states, earned a master’s degree in English, one in Mythological Studies, and is currently completing her dissertation toward her Doctorate in the same fi eld. Her passion, hope, and the subject of her dissertation is adolescents.

Pamela Biery - is happiest when outdoors. She received her BA in Humanities with a special focus on writing from Dominican University of California, and her MA in Management from University of Phoenix. Consistently engaged in conserving and preserving wild places, Pamela has contributed her voice to regional, state and national conservation eff orts, including Oceana, Coastwalk, Sierra Nevada Conservancy and the Sierra Fund. Her work has appeared in Sierra magazine, Bird Watcher’s Digest, California Poetry Society Quarterly and many other publications. Pamela divides her time between the Pacifi c Northwest and Northern California.

Roselle Angwin is a Westcountry poet and author, well-loved leader of the international Fire in the Head creative writing programme, and the environmental Ground of Being workshops. Her passion is the eco-bardic, and psycho-mythology. She’s interested in the connections between creativity, consciousness and the environ-ment, as well as in the interplay of outer and inner landscapes. Her workshops happen in the Westcountry, including Dartmoor, in the Hebrides, and France. Forthcoming in 2011 are Imago (a novel), Bardo (poetry and prose poems) and, with photographer Vikky Minette, River Suite as a limited edition.

J.K McDowell - is a poet and Ohioan expat living in Cajun country. A life-long lover of poetry, McDowell was raised in Buckeye country by a mother who spoke of “Sam I am,” “Danny Deaver” and Annabel Lee” and a father who quoted Shake-speare and Omar Khayyam. Lately, mixing Lorca and Lovecraft, McDowell lives 30 miles north of the Gulf Coast with his wife and two beautiful companion parrots.

Rodney Nelson’s work began appearing in mainstream journals long ago; but he turned to fi ction and did not write a poem for twenty-two years, restarting in the 2000s. He is is both old and "new." A lifelong nonacademic, he has worked as a book and copy editor in the Southwest and now is back in his native northern Great Plains.

Duncan George is a London based landscape and nature pho-tographer. His work has been published in print, on the web and he has won a number of photographic competitions. Although George has held a lifelong passion for photography his principal career to date has been as an executive in the media industry. In the last year however he has focussed solely on building up a portfolio of images. As a well seasoned traveller his focus for this project has been almost exclusively the British Isles, putting to rights that old adage that its easy to forget about the treasures you have on your own doorstep. Th e project has taken him to many regions, drawn to

wild and bleak landscapes. His favoured style is one of minimalistic, uncluttered compositions with a natural colour palette.

For more information on Duncan’s work go to:www.duncangeorge.tumblr.com

F e a t u r e P h o t o g r a p h e r

Written River Copyright © 2011 Hiraeth PressAll poems and essays copyrighted by their respective authors.

Photographs Copyright © 2011 Duncan George except where otherwise noted.

Editors: Jason Kirkey, L.M. Browning and Jenn MacCormack

H O M E B O U N D S U B M I S S I O N G U I D E L I N E S

call for submissions!

Homebound is an imprint of Hiraeth Press. Going back to go forward is the philosophy of Homebound. We recognize the importance of going home to gather from the stores of ancient wisdom to help nourish those in this modern era and lend voice to those individuals who make the journey. Using traditional forms of writing no longer prominent in mainstream publishing, our titles introduce insights concerning mankind’s present internal, social and ecological dilem-mas. We publish introspective full-length parables, essay collections, journals, epic verse, short story collec-tions and travel writing. It is the intention of those at Homebound to revive contemplative storytelling. So often in this age of commerce, entertainment supersedes growth; books of lesser integrity but higher market-ability are chosen over those with much-needed truth but small audiences. Our imprint focuses on the quality of the truth and insight present within an author’s writing before any other considerations. We seek books written by soul-oriented individuals putting forth their works in an eff ort to restore depth, highlight truth and improve the quality of living to their readers.

Homebound is currently accepting unsolicited submissions. We primarily publish full-length works of: Fic-tion, Epic Verse, Travel Writing, Biography, Journals Short Story Collections and Essay Collections.

Although we appreciate hearing from our readers and prospective authors, postal mail requires a lot of pack-aging, paper mailing materials, and fossil fuel to ship. If you absolutely need or want to send us something through the post you may do so. However, we strongly prefer electronic submissions and correspondence. If it is absolutely necessary you may send your proposal by post to:

homeboundc/o Hiraeth Press

P.O. Box 416Danvers, MA 01923

We prefer electronic submissions. Review the following submission guidelines and submit your proposal to hombound@hiraethpress.com as a Microsoft Word (.doc or .docx) or PDF attachment.

Please include in your proposal:

· A brief cover letter · Th e fi rst 30 pages or 3 sample chapters of your manuscript · A biographical statement including publications history (if applicable) · A complete synopsis of your book (1 – 2 pages) · An outline of chapter descriptions (5 – 10 pages) · A marketing overview and/or a letter of intent stating what steps you plan to take as an author to assist in the promotion of your title)

We usually respond to proposals within 12 weeks. Th e submitted manuscript should be previously unpub-lished. A limited number of excerpts may have appeared in print or online, but the author must hold sole rights to the work. Simultaneous submissions are permitted; however, we ask to be notifi ed promptly if your submitted work is accepted elsewhere.

Written River is a literary journal published by Hiraeth Press which focuses on poetry and non-fi ction prose exploring nature and our relationship to it. Published quarterly in digital format, we strive to encourage the discipline of eco-poetics and return the voice of the poet to the body of the Earth. Eco-poetics is poetry in which the energy of the ecosystem fl ows through the poem, creating a written river of words which ebbs with the creativity of the entire Earth community. Written River marks the confl uence of many streams and many voices as they fl ow back into the nourishing ground of the watershed.

SUBMISSION GUIDELINES FOR WRITTEN RIVER

Written River is accepting unsolicited submissions. Our Journal primarily publishes Poetry (any form as long as the verse is theme relevant), nonfi ction, (essays, autobiographical stories, and travel writing), interviews and book reviews.

Please send a short cover letter, biographical statement and a Microsoft Word document (.doc or .docx) attach-ment of: • Up to 5 poems not exceeding 15 pages. Please send a query letter and an excerpt if you would like a long form poem to be considered. • Nonfi ction work of 5000 words or less. • For each issue we usually choose one feature photographer. If you would like to be considered for this please submitted a digital portfolio of 12 nature-themed images. 300dpi resolution.

Please email submissions to: writtenriver@hiraethpress.com.

We prefer electronic submissions. If necessary, however, you may send your proposal by post to:

Hiraeth PressAttention: Written River

P.O. Box 416Danvers, MA 01923

We usually respond to submissions within 4-6 weeks.

Th e submitted works should be previously unpublished. We are open to publishing a limited number of poems or essays that may have appeared in print or online, but the author must hold sole rights to the work. We do accept original artwork/photographs. We request that images be scanned with a resolution of at least 300 dpi and attached it to the query email, which should also contain a cover letter.

Simultaneous submissions are permitted. However, we ask to be notifi ed promptly if your submitted work is accepted elsewhere.

If your work is seasonally themed you should consider our issue deadlines:Winter Solstice Issue: November 20thSummer Solstice Issue: May 20th

www.hiraethpress .com