Three Pacific Northwest Pagan Reveries
Three Summer Poems by Ryan Elston
Looking at Canada from Oread Isle
by Ryan Elston
Scattered rocks and shells across the sand.
Crashing waves, a cosmic rhythm.
Crystal sky adorned with a vortex-wisp of gossamer clouds.
Bright sun burning, yet I recline in shadow upon a plastic chair.
The sound of sea-spray,
sparkles of sunlight flashing from the wave-crests.
Enchantment.
Beauty overflowing, almost too painful to gaze upon directly.
A light wind refreshes.
A speedboat and two kayaks glide past.
A lone sailboat in the distance.
There is a border here . . . a border between nations.
But the cosmic rhythm of crashing waves,
the refreshing light wind,
the burning sun,
the crystal sky and vortex-wisp of gossamer clouds,
make all such borders meaningless.
Two crows glide past.
A lone plane soars in the distance.
Crashing waves,
the sound of sea-spray,
sunlight flashing from the wave-crests.
Enchantment.
(6/26/11)
A Forest Quest – The Mountain Trail by Ryan Elston
Hiking deep into the woods, deep into the embrace of Grandmother Earth and up to the top of the mountain. The first part is the hardest. We sweat, we toil, we verge on despair, yet we trudge on, onward and upward. Earlier, Brother Hawk guided us here, and yesterday a wedded pair of bald eagles circled the quiet lake while we toasted to our anniversary. Last night, Jupiter was brighter than ever before, the Seven Sisters were smiling, and we were dazzled by three shooting stars. But now, it is hot. We sweat and we toil as we trudge onward and upward, deeper into the woods, higher up the mountain.
We stop at a sacred grove. Three giant tree stumps, elegantly crowned with plumes of growing fern. They resemble three distinguished matrons, wearing their newest fashionable hats to court. Or three stately high priestesses with elaborate headgear, presiding over a secret woodland rite. After pouring a libation to the sacred grove, the scale upward becomes slightly less difficult and the songbirds serenade us on our journey. Moss-covered arboreal denizens begin to take shape, dazzling us with an array of emerald forms: snakes and ships and caves, ogres and trolls and imps, vibrant old jesters, solemn queens, orgies of satyrs, battalions of jousting centaurs, wild gangs of grimacing gorgons, a row of sleek beardless youths poised for a race, pairs and groups of lovers locked in the throes of passion, mothers giving birth, a nurse trunk with a full-grown adult tree sprouting forth, two trees entwined, two trees spooning, two trees with clasping hands or clasped embrace, a titanic glove holding a spear, a surrealist series of crutches propping up a diagonal temple frame, trees with deep roots whose trunks are precariously, improbably positioned over pathways, families and schools and entire tribes of trees of every shape. Then we notice mushrooms clustered like mussels or stacked like bookshelves or layered in pockets. Fungus growths like beehives, beaded necklaces, dried seedpods. A distant goldfinch catches my eye and I look up with my binoculars, only to see a wondrous treasure: a tree oozing trickles of golden sap – not mere amber – but lustrous, shimmering, metallic and glittering like gold. I bow in reverence and silently we move on.
The ground levels as we ascend to the next stage of the trail, and the chorus of songbirds increases, punctuated only by the cackling laughter of the occasional woodpecker or the nearby rustling of a rabbit darting about the underbrush. At last, we reach the lookout point and think we’re done. The view is exquisite – islands upon islands upon islands, islands scattered like tea leaves, spaced like bits of sediment in the bottom of a wineglass. Distant, yet vaguely numberless, so many shapes and sizes and types, from gentrified upscale communities with multiple ferries, to lush unpopulated nature preserves with multiple faeries, to tiny specks of rock with sunbathing seals. The cliffside is sheer, the sky is baby-blue with patches of fluffy clouds, the sea a green-blue, pale-blue hazel-grey.
We recline on a rock and read the posted map. We think the quest is finished, but we’ve only reached the halfway point! Where will the trail lead us? To another lookout? To the mountain’s peak? Or will it just suddenly stop in the middle of the wilderness? We decide to press onward. A grey rabbit scampers down the trail in front of us, like he was leading the way, only to be followed by a low-flying peregrine falcon, who dives down the path in hot pursuit. Moments later we hear the ominous, baritone, almost helicopter-like sound of flapping wings as an enormous raven plunges down the same trail. Rabbit and falcon and raven could not be wrong. This must be the way.
Much later, we encounter a jagged rock formation that looks like the sculpted face of a stern and serious elderly man with a wild beard overgrown with moss. It’s the face of the Old Man of the Mountain! We pour a libation of water and utter a prayer of praise and respect to the wise and ancient king, the grizzled god of the mountain himself, the ancient son of Grandmother Earth, the hermit hidden in the woods, the solid force beneath our feet, the primeval power behind the entire experience.
Throughout the journey, there were moments of sheer aesthetic arrest from the sublime, transcendent beauty that permeated the entire landscape. At one point we were both overcome with euphoria, a light-headed sensation accompanied by a burst of adrenaline and endorphins, possibly brought on by the combination of high altitude, intense physical exertion, and remarkably pure air. Or perhaps it was just the overwhelming beauty and truth and wisdom and power and freedom and goodness of this sacred place.
It was a magickal three hours immersed in enchantment, and yet it also cemented the realization that my previous life in the so-called “real world” of a prosperous career in the big city was only a fragile illusion. The higher reality is right here in these woods, on top of this island mountain with the trees and moss and mushrooms and rabbits and falcons and ravens. Here with our fellow children and grandchildren of Grandmother Earth.
(8/24/11 [Wildstar’s birthday])
The Perfect Gift
by Ryan Elston
Vision of purple in my mind’s eye.
Vision of green, and the blue-grey sea.
A striped seashell from Father Poseidon,
a cackle of distant gulls,
the silver clink of beach stones underfoot,
steady pulse of wave-rhythm,
saltwater fingertips and kelp-scent.
Islands cloaked in cloud-clusters,
the snaky tide scatters quivering jellyfish
and crab remnants across the rocky shore.
On a driftwood log beside my Beloved,
I pour a libation to the Lord of Waves,
while he discovers a jettisoned chopstick,
an ornately carved memento,
an exotic messenger from another land
who surely traveled far to greet us.
A light breeze whispers past,
my Beloved kisses my forehead
and I am perfectly happy,
completely in love,
and entirely at peace.
At peace with life,
at peace with the world,
at peace with the gods of this world,
at peace with the love that permeates this world,
the love that permeates all of existence . . .
I have found the Good.
(9/18/11 [my birthday])
The great Canadian painter Emily Carr (1871-1945) was a major inspiration for these poems. To me, her paintings of the Pacific Northwest Coast captured exactly many of the same colors, impressions, visions and feelings I was compelled to write about here. We also had the good fortune to see many of her transcendental paintings in person at an exhibition in Vancouver shortly before these reveries were composed. To see more paintings by Emily Carr (whose work is in the public domain), please check out her pages at WikiArt and Wikimedia Commons. She was also an accomplished writer who wrote several delightful memoirs describing her life as an artist. Three of these books can be read for free at Project Gutenberg Australia. Or go to Bookshop.org to purchase physical copies of Klee Wyck, The House of All Sorts, Growing Pains, and The Heart of a Peacock. Also, check out our Aesthetic Arrest Podcast: Gimme Shelter, Queen Sugar, Street Food & A Sidecar, where we discuss the work of Emily Carr.
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Ryan--your poetry/writing is breathtakingly beautiful. Vivid visuals are created in my mind. And yes, paired with the the paintings of Canadian artist Emily Carr is so fitting.