Or

 

Courage is hard work. As an individual, I waver. As a species, we are wavering. The earth will move on with or without us, but my greatest hope is that humankind will have more courage than cowardice to do what’s best for our planet.

The quote in this poem's striking line can be found on p. 30 in ALL WE CAN SAVE.

Wind

 

WIND

Wind:
unseen
powerful
mover of air
through the atmosphere,
flung by earth’s rotation
and sun’s uneven heating.
Pollinator, turbine turner;
hawk lifter, energy provider;
bringer of rain, hope for our green future.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

I have a complicated relationship with wind, having come from a father who grew up during the Dust Bowl in the arid high plains of Eastern Colorado and having myself lived with its nearly constant presence and the very real consequences of dust storms and drought. But it gives me great hope to see a new "crop" for a part of the country that may eventually have to transition away from agriculture as the current drought worsens and the water table dries up: wind energy. 

Tucked at the bottom of a recent post on Reasons to Be Cheerful (thank you, "Cousin" Tanita) was this: 

"The world has passed another mile marker on the road to sustainability: according to a new analysis, clean power provided the planet more electricity than coal in 2021."

 

Contrails

 

The Thing Is

contrails are pollution.
I’m sorry to be the one to break it to you
but a sky crisscrossed by blazing pink lines
lit by the rising sun
on a cold, late-winter morning
is not a sky full of kisses
is not a glorious gift
is not a positive sign from the Universe.
Contrails cause cloudiness
that contributes to climate change.
They are categorized as “homogenitus” –
clouds resulting directly from human activity.
This is just to say,
no matter how delicious or beautiful,
they’ve got to go.
Forgive me for saying so.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

Contrails don't give me hope in a time of climate crisis. They play a significant role in aviation-related global warming by creating clouds that trap heat on earth. But the fact that scientists are studying them does give me hope. The sudden, dramatic drop in airplane traffic in 2020 proved to researchers at MIT that their mapping of contrails was accurate. 

Researchers at the Yale School of the Environment remind us that the ONLY way to shut down global warming is to curb CO2 emissions. 

"But if the world wants a big short-term contribution from aircraft to keep us below some specific temperature target, such as 1.5 degrees C, then action on contrails can provide it."

 Researchers at MIT are

"working with major airlines to forecast regions in the atmosphere where contrails may form, and to reroute planes around these regions to minimize contrail production.

Steven Barrett, professor and associate head of MIT’s Department of Aeronautics and Astronautics. "There’s an unusual opportunity to halve aviation’s climate impact by eliminating most of the contrails produced today."

"Most measures to make aviation sustainable take a long time," Barrett says. "(Contrail avoidance) could be accomplished in a few years, because it requires small changes to how aircraft are flown, with existing airplanes and observational technology. It’s a near-term way of reducing aviation’s warming by about half." "

Now THAT'S hopeful. Let's go, airline industry. The ball's in your court.

(This poem was written using The Thing Is by Ellen Bass as a mentor text.)

Mend It!

 

MEND IT

There’s a hole in my jeans
too big to ignore.
Should I throw them away
and go buy some more?

No, I think I will mend them
with bright purple thread
because of statistics
I recently read:

Three-fifths of all clothes
are thrown in the trash.
A dump truck is filled
every second! That’s rash!

We need to buy less.
We need to mend more.
Use needle and thread,
don’t go to the store.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

True story, those jeans. True story, my decision to mend rather than buy a new pair. I follow several "visible mending" artists on IG and I intend for all of the pairs of jeans that I've owned for more than ten years to last more than ten more. Mending gives me hope.

From the fabulous essay in ALL WE CAN SAVE, "Dear Fossil Fuel Executives," by Cameron Russell:

"Fashion's carbon footprint is big and growing, responsible for 8 to 10 percent of global emissions. We must accept responsibility for growing a culture of rampant consumerism, too. Three-fifths of all clothes end up in a landfill or incinerator within a few years of being produced. By some estimates, textile production is on track to use at least a quarter of the world's carbon budget by 2050." p. 205 (emphasis is mine)

Daily Alchemy

 

DAILY ALCHEMY

Out and in trees silently breathe,
turning carbon into life:
a living clean-air factory.
Out and in trees silently breathe.
This spring we’re planting, saying please
help us, Trees, while there’s still time.
Out and in trees silently breathe
turning carbon into life.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

Today's poem is dedicated to Friends of the Lower Olentangy (FLOW), who are sponsoring tree planting and invasive species removal projects weekly throughout the month of April in the Olentangy River watershed, and to the Ohio River Foundation, who does the same work on a larger scale for the Ohio River watershed.

Trees give me hope. They have so much to teach us about collaboration, if only we would listen.

"If humans are to help reverse global warming, we will need to step into the flow of the carbon cycle in new ways, stopping our excessive exhale of carbon dioxide and encouraging the winded ecosystems of the planet to take a good long inhale as they heal. It will mean learning to help the helpers, those microbes, plants, and animals that do the daily alchemy of turning carbon into life." p. 13 ALL WE CAN SAVE (with borrowed phrases in bold)

"The winded ecosystems of the planet..." Don't you love that? 

Dandelions

 

THE DANDELIONS ARE WAKING UP

The dandelions are waking up
They’re stirring in their sleep
They stretch their spiky arms up high
And dream of green and gold and sky.

The dandelions are waking up
They’re waiting for more sun
So they can bloom and spread and seed
Not knowing some think they’re a weed.

The dandelions are waking up
A hopeful little flower
Reminding me that like the grass
Our work done best, is done en masse.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

The theme of collaboration is powerful vein that runs through most every chapter of ALL WE CAN SAVE. From the introduction:

"...building community is a requisite foundation for building a better world."

Dandelions annoy many, but they delight me and give me hope. They are a definite sign of spring, and they are persistent and resilient and prolific. They spread joy en masse. Just think what we could do to repair the climate if we used dandelions as our role models!

Oh, and just coincidentally, today is National Dandelion Day!

A Small Patch

 

A SMALL PATCH

it’s a small yard
with a small garden
and a small patch
of milkweed

it’s a small thing
for a small creature
this small patch
of milkweed

many small acts
make a big difference
plant your own small patch
of milkweed

for the monarchs
for the miracle migrators
plant them a small patch
of milkweed


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022





In her essay, "What is Emergent Strategy?" in ALL WE CAN SAVE, (the most underlined two pages so far in my copy of the book) Adrienne Maree Brown quotes Nick Obolensky to define emergence: "Emergence is the way complex systems and patterns arise out of a multiplicity of relatively simple interactions." In her words, "...the whole is a mirror of the parts. Existence is fractal--the health of the cell is the health of the species and the planet." And later, "...species survive only if they learn to be in community."

Small actions matter.

Mutualism

 

In the chapter "Reciprocity" by Janine Benyus in ALL WE CAN SAVE, she tells the fascinating story of an ecologist in the early 1900s who was the first to demonstrate that "...plants were cooperators as well as competitors." This view lost favor, coinciding, "to the year, with the release of the Truman Doctrine and the onset of the Cold War. For decades, communism was a third rail best avoided, even when talking about plants." I love this statement by Benyus: 

"But here is what I love about the scientific method. Though culture seeps into science and sometimes holds its finger on the scale, it cannot stop the relentless search for measurable truth. Un-American or not, the math has to work." 

The symbiotic relationships between animals (mutualism, commensalism, parasitism) are widely known (and taught in 5th grade Life Science in Ohio). Scientists are beginning to understand the mutualistic relationships between plants, and they are finding a truth we need to remember as a human species:

"The more stressful the environment, the more likely you are to see plants working together to ensure mutual survival."

Let's use mutualism as our model moving forward -- for both our species and our planet.

Science Is

 

SCIENCE IS

Science gives us data
Science provides the proof
Information is the house
Science is the roof.

Science looks at details
Science depends on facts
Experiments are signposts
Science is the path.

Science is objective
Science can’t be swayed
Observations are keen eyes
Science is the gaze.


© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

The thing that gives me the most hope right now is science. I started following @thegarbagequeen on TikTok and am buoyed up by her #goodclimatenews in the midst of all the work that is still needs to be done. Knowing that we are making progress helps: improved air quality in Beijing, sustainable tires, forest restoration in Indonesia, composting laws in California, and ten nations in the western Indian Ocean working together to create a "great blue wall" in order to conserve our oceans. 

The Thing Is

 

The Thing Is

to face a challenge, face it even
when you have no stomach for it
and you’re sure you don’t have enough
strength, stamina, or skills to conquer it,
you need more than a bird in a storm
or a sunflower in a siege.
Your hope must be a verb
a muscular verb
a rugged superhero verb
with enough strength to
spin the blades in a wind farm
find alternatives for concrete
plant billions of trees
write policies grounded in justice and equity.
Hope is the verb
the creative verb
the innovative verb
with enough durability to
lead us to a sustainable future.

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

This poem was inspired by a bumper sticker I saw: "Hope is a verb." That's what I want for this National Poetry Month project -- a strong hope founded in truth about the things we can do and that are being done to help turn around climate change. It's easy enough to become paralyzed by fear for our future. Let's remember that we all have the power to act.

I used The Thing Is by Ellen Bass as my mentor text for this poem.

Ekphrastic Dodoitsus

 

After so many courses

laid with rhythmic precision

I can’t stand it anymore.

Time for a jazz riff.

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

In the pickle factory,

he left the frogs on the belt.

Quality control loophole:

squeamish inspector.

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

When you’re blessed with a surfeit
of citrus deliciousness
what matters not the least is
uniformity.

© Mary Lee Hahn, 2022

A Letter to My Future Self

 

Exquisite Corpse Poem

 This month, poetry met parlor game as the Poetry Sisters collaborated to create an Exquisite Corpse poem. Unlike the “rules,” we did not use an agreed-upon structure and we constructed the poem one line at a time rather than one word at a time. Liz started us off, sending Tanita her line. Based on Liz’s line, Tanita wrote a line and then send just her line to Kelly. From Kelly, a line went to Sara. Andi was next, then Laura, Tricia, and finally me. Here’s what we wrote:

This month, odd one out, running short on days and sleep,
This month, past meets pride, roots ripped from native soil still somehow grow.
The once-bright future dims. Shadows grow
But there, near canyon  rim, in  broken light
the yearling hawk shrieked in futile fury
and the steel-edged clouds looked away
trees bow and bend on a blustery day
that rattles old oak leaves down the street.

In creating our final drafts from this rich loam of raw material, we agreed that it was fair game to use as much or little of the original as we saw fit. Here’s the best of my many drafts.

Max and Harriet Visit Chichén-Itzá

 

The Mathematics of Consumerism

 

Poems Are Magical

 

Tea is a Word

 

December

DECEMBER

The trees are all bare.

I can see the whole sky.

The high clouds sit still

while the low ones scoot by

in a rustling wind

that tickles porch chimes

as the wink of a moon watches

silent and wise.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Autumn Cento

 

Autumn Cento 

Little grey dreams
holding up the hawk:
a blur in the periphery.
I’ve little time left.
Everything’s been said.
My heart is so giant this evening
following old
migratory patterns that would have been better left alone.
Someone raised a camera to capture us both in a moment;
the only gift I have to give.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

SOURCES:

1. Little Grey Dreams by Angelina Weld Grimké
2. In Gratitude by Abigail Carroll
3. The Hummingbird by Blas Falconer
4. Elegy for Estrogen by V. Penelope Pelizzon
5.  Rabbits and Fire by Albert Rios
6.  First by Carrie Fountain
7-8.  anti-immigration by Evie Shockley
9.  The Vine by Laura Kasischke
10. Offering by Albert Garcia

Ode to Autumn

 

Ode to Autumn

In September
Autumn hides in heat waves
drops hickory and acorn hints
measures equinoxial nights and days.

In October
Autumn is primarily pigment
green gives way to red-orange-yellow
flaring, flaming, blazing, fading.

In November
Autumn reveals the bones of trees
draws our eyes to steely skies
to murmurations and hawks on lines.

In December
Autumn is largely forgotten
lost in the long-dark star-filled nights
leading to the solstice birth of spring.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Ode to Thanksgiving

 

Ode to Thanksgiving

You are a shameless celebration of colonialism and

the genocide of indigenous people,
a blatant celebration of excess,
a disgracefully blackened Friday celebration of commercialism.

And yet
you are also mom’s cranberry jello salad, plus
gratitude as full and round as the Beaver Moon,
the final leaf-raking,
and a cold after-dinner walk beside the river.


©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Ode to the Last Black Swallowtail Caterpillars in the Withering Jungle of Fennel

 

Ode to the Last Black Swallowtail Caterpillars in the Withering Jungle of Fennel

You are young
in the golden season of death.

Within your chrysalises
you will wait out the cold season of dormancy.

The sky will welcome you
in the bright season of flight.


©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Rethinking Persevere is a Word

After reading this book, I thought again about what PERSEVERE could mean.

Rethinking Persevere is a Word

Persevere is a long word:

four hundred years long,

the distance of the Middle Passage,

the length of a ship’s hold, packed with bodies chained together.

And although persevere 

contains none of the letters that spell luck,

privilege shines through from beginning to end.

The privilege of tracing a blood line

for generation after unbroken generation 

in an ancestral story of ascension

rather than a lineage that dead-ends

in the shackles of slavery,

in lives with trauma encoded in the DNA,

in the knowledge that one’s existence

is not predicated on bootstraps

or an innocuous insistence to try again 

or the blithe assertion to summon grit

but instead dependent on ancestors who persevered

surviving horrors unimaginably severe

family members inhumanely severed from each other

per their owners’ whim.

Persevere is a light word for some,

a chirpy motivational poster word.

For others it is a heavy word,

a how-dare-you-assume word,

a claim-my-humanity,

praise-the-ancestors,

lift-while-we-climb* word.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

*Angela Davis

What Are the Chances?

 

view from the summit of Aldis Hill, St. Albans, VT

What Are the Chances?

Twenty percent chance of rain hung low and purple

over the shoulders of mountains splashed with the last 

of this year’s wash of autumn color.

On Aldis Hill, we took the Main Loop trail

hiking steadily up 

through stands of white-bark birches

and flutter-of-orange maples

in a silence broken only 

by a downy woodpecker’s hollow drumming.

At the summit, we stepped out from under trees

and twenty percent chance of rain had become a mosaic:

puffy white cumulus on a background of bright blue.

Across the valley, shafts of sunlight shone spotlights

on patches of red-orange-yellow trees.

Later, at Hathaway Point, we looked across Lake Champlain

and saw one hundred percent chance of rain headed our way:

one dark cloud with streaks of rain meeting the lake.

We could hear the rain on the lake

then in the trees

before we dashed for the porch at the ranger’s station.

When one hundred percent chance

was reduced to drips, 

a honking V of geese

at least fifty strong

filled the sky

pointing

the way

south.

©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Persevere is a Word

 

Pass the NOUN Please!

 

Retirement

 

.

This poem is a decima. The rhyme scheme is ABBAACCDDC, and there are 8 syllables each line.

A Trio of Tankas

Here is a trio of tankas. I’ll share them without images, because I’m hoping the words themselves are enough to paint a picture in your imagination. The orb weaver and the buck live in Central Ohio; Rae’s house is in the dry high plains of Eastern Colorado.

Tanka for Rae’s House

Beyond the window:
extravagantly green lawn,
bountiful garden.
In the unwatered pasture
dry grass crunches underfoot.

.

Tanka for the Eight Point Buck

sun low behind trees
morning air carries fall chill
eight point buck sees me
freezes so majestically
you forget he’s in the street

.

Tanka for the Orb Weaver

Above our front door
hangs a ferocious hunter
alarmingly large
seeming to stand in thin air.
She owns the porch. I concede.

all three ©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Seven more tanka can be found here.

Summer's End

SUMMER’S END (a sonnet for AJ)

Still dark and hush except for crickets’ song,
I step onto the porch and breathe fall air --
peculiar blend of dust and spice. I long
for crisp when summer heat and humid pair

to drape a thick and soggy robe of haze
on lushly verdant meadows, crops, and trees.
All summer nature grows in humid days
and thick hot nights without a smidge of breeze.

But then September comes and with it hope
for bright blue skies and just a hint of red
in maple leaves. Fall harvest ends all growth,
puts summer’s weary, aching bones to bed.

Orion’s in the eastern sky again.
Fall is here. I’m feeling no chagrin.


©Mary Lee Hahn, 2021

Ghazal for Your Cats