poem: I wonder if ever a buffalo

poem + some thoughts

I wonder if ever a buffalo


in all the great stretching prairie of North America
rolling out in all directions
like a sheet soft-billowing downwards in freeze frame
with only sparse copses of trees and brush
hugging huddled nested along those slackening rivers and rivulets
I wonder if ever a buffalo
pulling low munching on brief tussocks chuffing
did ever wander off thorn-led out of sight from the herd
far enough out of earshot and hoof feel
to be well and truly lost

and would a scent pull him back
fresh toothed blue grass, Indian paintbrush 
lifted on the winds that rush home before nightfall
or could they carry at their backs
that dim reverberation of endless hooves
uprooting like a dragging thunderhead towards tomorrow’s pasturelands
or did something in him know where they were headed
a message dispatched on a seasonal memory
of the touch of chill
the first time his mother nudged him into the Dakotas
what cry does a lone buffalo make
if ever he should become
well and truly
lost

—ZW

Bison Lying Down—Barye (1800s)

I’m curious—what does this poem bring to mind for you?

memories? images? emotions?

I love this quote from TS Eliot: Genuine poetry can communicate before it’s understood. I leave it to you to decide whether or not my poem is “genuine poetry”. The evening when I set my hand to writing it, I had no image or idea in mind beyond the first line.

The fearful exploration inherent in writing poetry is one of its chief virtues, even if no one else wants to read it. Or, even if it is only written for yourself… And surely it goes beyond poetry and extends to any honest writing—whether in a journal, in a story, or in a song…

First we see, then we tell… “We speak of what we know.” And somehow, when we write honestly, we can uncover things we didn’t know were there…

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Other poems I’ve shared so far:

attempted contemplation at the breakfast table | MORNING

cup / path / song / house | MORNING

God and the guest room | EVENING

instead of / why not | MORNING

morning translation | MORNING

San Antonio, Dec 2 | MORNING

taking her for granted | LOVE

the darkest night of the year | EVENING

the first page | MORNING

tidal | LOVE

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thanks for being here. I write weekly sharing poetry, songs, musings, thoughts on creative life, and hopefully some encouragement… the poems are from my first collection of poetry called Snowmelt to Roots, and you can get them at my shop, on Amazon or on B&N.

feel free to nudge me along my course.

cheers,

Z