Maine’s environment and all that it contains: beautiful lakes and streams, gorgeous sunrises, an abundance of wildlife, tall pine trees, and more, have long inspired writers to put pen to paper (or hands to keyboards) to share their thoughts and emotions as they relate to this special place. Here is a collection of stories and poems from NRCM members and supporters. Enjoy!
Maine
When I enter the cove, time stands still
The arms of the sea are always there,
embracing me like
a compassionate mother
The quite tides that wash the beach
cleanse my body
and clear my befuddled mind
Pebbles on the shore
display a pattern of life
one with an ever-changing direction and color
I can see myself reflected
in the current of the sea
the curve of the rocks
and shape of the cove
The eyes of a teacher watch over me
through the ivory barnacles
frosted sea glass
and delicate periwinkles
scattered across the beach
The ocean whispers its secrets to me
and I enter a unique state of mind
somewhere between complete peace
and pure happiness
when it’s time for me to leave
A shell finds its way into my pocket
There it stays
protecting me
guiding me
reminding me
I have a home.
Poem by 14-year-old NRCM member Matilda P. of Philadelphia, PA and Mount Desert Island.
Originally published on 10/28/2013
THE STATE OF MAINE
Come land-air-or sea
It’ll lead you on
To a place
Where dreams are born
A magic world
A vacationland
Where life is good
And people understand
There’s magic in the air
There’s bounty in the sea and land
There’s beauty in The State Of Maine
The snow white north
The hills and mountains by our doors
The county fields
The lakes and streams
The endless shores
The northern woods
Where the deer and the moose
And the bobcat roam
The crystal waters
Where the trout and the salmon
Make it home
The golden sand
Miles of beachs along the coast
The rocky land
Bays full of sails and lobsta boats
There’s no place I’d rather be
Then The State Of Maine
There’s no other place for me
Then the State Of Maine
Come land- air- or sea
It’ll lead you on
To a land
Where dreamers are born
A magic world
A vacation land
Where life is good
And people understand
There’s magic in the air
There’s bounty in the sea and land
There’s beauty in The State Of Maine
There’s no place I’d rather be
Then The State Of Maine
There’s no other place for me
Then The State Of Maine
Poem by Eric Cobb of Winthrop, Maine
Originally posted on 7/7/2013
Salamander Night
For Jim Perkins
April skies go gray
then clear,
only to tatter gray again.
Frost and melt tumble
through each day
until snow goes mushy.
Mud time slides,
and meltwater trills
like laughter.
There comes a day
when the month grows old
and a wind from the south
smells of rain.
When at dusk the mist builds close
over patchy snow,
and big drops streak
through falling dark.
Time to gather boots and slickers,
get a flashlight ready to go.
Because there is haste
in every vernal pool.
No time to waste where the woodfrogs call
and spring peeper notes ring clear.
Shiny salamanders black as night,
splashed with spots
yellow as sun, have come
from under last year’s leaves.
Found their way to the trysting pools
where a writhing dance
whirls on. To join the flow
of grapple and squirm
this most important
swim of the year.
Light beams dodge
from pool to pool
while the swarming orgy spins
without regard for our astonished eyes,
or sense that magic glides
in misty dark,
glorious with the pull of moon
fattening toward May.
And winter rolls away,
pressed by wind
billowing with promises made
this first warm rain
in spring.
by Garrett Conover of Willimantic, Maine
Originally posted 6/10/2013
Late March Maine
Winter:
I’ll be leaving now
Warmer than healthy
overdone
the guest so welcome
at the start
withdraws
can’t resist that one
more insult
quip
turns from the door
laconic
what will you do
with this mess the
filthy shoulders
snowshoe tracks the
vole’s roofless tunnel
birdseed rotting
beneath the feeder
perhaps I’ll just come back
starts to take off wraps
enduring joke
an April fool
windchill zero
brave laughter
Poem by Richard Flanagan of Fairfield, Maine
Originally posted 12/26/2012
Sailors Song
Sailing along
Along the coast of Maine
And I can see the beauty
Above every wave
I’m taking in the salt air
And I can hear the ghost
Of each and every sailor
Who has sailed the coast
Sailing along
Along my favorite shore
Imagining the ships
That have sailed before
I’m taken with the glory
Of the mariners past
And each and every sailor
Who has worked the mast
“I’m Sailing I’m Sailing
Over The Waves
I’m Sailing I’m Sailing
Down East Along The Coast Of Maine”
Sailing along
Along the ocean deep
Where ships have been swallowed
Their treasures there to keep
And lives have been lost
May they rest in peace
Tell each and every sailor
Thats where their chanced to sleep
” I’m Sailing I’m Sailing
Over The Waves
I’m Saling I’m Sailing
Down East Along The Coast Of Maine”
Poem by Eric Cobb of Winthrop, Maine
Originally posted on 5/2/2011
This Great Land
This Great Land
Home of my father
This Great Land
Powerful and true
Where the eagle soars
Above the rocky shore
In the wild outdoors
Of This Great Land
This Great Land
Home to my family
This Great Land
So dear to me
Where the mountains glow
From the autumn leaves and snow
And the wild rivers flow
Across This Great Land
This Great Land
Home for my children
This Great Land
So rich and kind
Where the pines grow high
To the clear blue sky
As days gone by
On This Great Land
This Great Land
Does not need us
This Great Land
Can stand alone
And if we give
Then we shall live
That much greater
On This Great Land
by Eric Cobb of Winthrop, Maine
Originally posted 12/26/2010
ALEWIVES
I am afraid of fish.
I am afraid to look at them,
to watch them struggling upstream
in the spring where the ladder begins.
Within yards of its commencement
the first dead ones begin to float down,
their eyes as blank as buttons,
their bodies floating on the surface
of the stream like leaves.
Everywhere I look there are miraculously more–
some fish already half-way to the top,
others just daring to begin.
With surging strength they fight the current
of the maze, hug its concrete, wriggle upwards
with a motion that appears stationary in the ripples
until, suddenly, they round the next bend
and slip into an eddy.
I should have come hungry to witness this,
arrived sweaty and sleepless
as I imagine them to be.
Ospreys hover overhead.
Crowds tremble on the banks,
wondering why no one thought to bring a net
–to help, or to feast?
In the pond above the ladder,
the survivors are swimming in slow circles,
catching their breath.
–Mariana Stockly Tupper of Yarmouth, Maine
(Inspired by the annual migration at Damariscotta Mills.)
Originally posted 8/30/2010
THORNE HEAD
The Wolf Moon rises.
High Street ends in a cul-de-sac;
But the path goes on,
Past the car-forbidding gate,
Through the snow-vestured forest.
Dogs roam here in day,
At their masters beck and call,
Where I with no dog
Follow paw tracks on the pond,
Black Flies frozen in the ice.
Music in the air
Drifts gently down through the boughs.
Who shimmied up there,
To hang a tinkling wind chime
With floriform mooncatcher?
Before I was born,
The bloodhounds strained on their leads
By oil lantern light,
Pursuing through these dark woods
A sailor home from the sea.
Crouched in a damp cave,
Shivering he took refuge,
Guilt staining his hands:
A constable’s body lay
Cold and broken in the morgue.
Dim snow upholsters
The rust-frozen folding chair
You left by a tree
Where I sat once, while ravens
Spoke with seagulls overhead.
Blessed by spruce and pine,
I ramble here to worship
In Spirit and in Truth:
Great Horned Owl in a crow’s nest,
Moonlight on the Kennebec.
by Lee Evans of Bath, Maine
Originally posted 8/23/2010
Caring for Maine
Save our dear land, and keep it clean.
No trash should hide a berry bush;
no litter bug, when mushrooms push
– their parasols in dark and damp,
should keep a toad from resting there.
The State of Maine! A colored mine
of gem, and juniper and
roots of pine,
and proper function of the pond.
And He would made the water blue
did not pollute it. Did you?
By Helen K. Richardson of North Bridgton, Maine and Framingham, Massachusetts
Originally posted 4/26/2010
” A Masterpiece”See the moon above us dancing with the stars. Watch the glorious sunrise spread across the sky. Wander far and wide in the spacious woods of Maine. Come along, my friend, and walk the trails with me. See the footprints of those who’ve been here before. By Debora “Deb” A. Levensailor of Harpswell, Maine |
I Saw
I saw a see-saw by the sea.
On the fulcrum of a large
Maine rock lay a plank
from the depths
of the sea.
It see-sawed gently in the wind.
Hard to tell if the ghosts of former wrecks were
rollicking back and
forth as see-saws go
or was it
simply trying to rock
off its hold and slide
back into the sea.
Hard to tell as the wind
mesmerized this interloper
and only the wind
and the phantom of this cool
sea breeze held the truth.
by Durinda Chace of Cape Elizabeth, Maine (written at Fort Williams)
Originally posted 12/6/2009
“Sunday is quiet in this small town on a summer morning because very few trucks rush past the house. The cacophony of civilized human life is at a standstill. I feel the quiet of the morning from the porch as I sit under the birch trees, see the trees across the street in front of me, the trees in the swamp behind me. I do not hear the trucks. The sound of birds in the trees around the house is unhurried, maintaining the quiet of the morning. The sound birds do not compete aggressively with each other with their songs. The sun light falls through the birch trees rising creating shadow and light patterns on my skin. The quiet, the relief from the noise of civilization, I feel on this summer morning surrounded by trees and birds. I am at rest in nature now, contemplating nature or creation, the quiet and rhythms of the natural world bringing rest to my mind, my body and soul. I live in the reality of Maine.”
by Tom Fallon of Rumford, Maine
Originally posted 10/13/2008
She Sees Beauty
In bare oak branches against a winter sky.
In shapes of thawing snow drifts.
In first cardinal announcing his claim.
In paired osprey on last year’s nest.
Needs housekeeping, she says.
In shapes of summer clouds.
In colors of lichens on a fallen log.
In sandy ripples after ebbing tide.
In harvest moon, full and bright. . .
I see her seeing beauty.
by David Stuntz of Brunswick, Maine, March, 2007
originally posted 5/27/2008
Poem (song) made in Maine, mostly in Brooklin and Sedgwick
Oh the sea is full of fish, my boys,
And the fish are made of meat:
If the tourists fail
Or your wife’s in jail
You can still catch something to eat.
Oh the sea is full of fish, my boys,
And it’s full of lobsters too:
If the condos stop
Or you ding your prop
You can still get something to do.
By Richard Lynn, East Hampton, New York
Originally posted 3/30/2008
Poem for Moosehead Lake
The loons are calling my name today,
off to Prong Pond for a sighting I pray.
The full moon it’ll be so maybe I’ll see,
a bull moose struttin’ and ruttin’ for me.
With Benjamin in tow on Lazy Tom Bog,
please let that be a bear in the distant fog.
With a mountain guide named Marc holding my hand,
I’m off to Thoreau’s favorite Native land,
And up we go to Kineo Mountain,
let’s hope the eagle soars for then we’ll be counting,
the many wild things and creatures we’ll see,
could this be the place to set me free.
by Christine Mary Bibeault of Pascoag, Rhode Island
originally posted 3/10/2008
I wrote this piece just after I experienced from my kayak a surprise attack on a loon chick as its mother was giving flight take-off lessons. Happily, the mother rushed to the rescue and after perching awhile on a branch above me the eagle left the lake, and I got this picture!
The Eagle
From out of the north over the lake
He comes.
Widespread wings in flight, white head looking low,
He spies his prey.
Loon chick wings whirling on the waves, learning lessons of flight.
Suddenly swooping , dropping down, talons poised,
He strikes.
Water churns, loons scream.
Young fledgling founders, tumbling underwater.
Loon mother displays, rising upon the waves,
Lifting outstretched wings
In warning.
Daunted lord of the skies abandons the lake,
Proudly perching high above on barren branch,
Watching,
Waiting,
Wanting,
Bold and beautiful beast of the blue.
Poem by Nancy Prince of Wilton, Maine
originally featured 11/26/2007
Every walk has its own rhythm and every landscape its own heartbeat. This is especially true on the walk below, in an eerie, edgy setting near a Maine city yet far away. The place will eventually get you dancing on a mile of boardwalk – to bog music
Drumming
The Saco Heath
The Saco Heath
pitch pine above and
peat bog beneath
Red leaf falling on
a wet brown log
dragonfly sitting in
the belly of a frog
Flower fluff flying in
a pink autumn breeze
dark moose moving
in a cluster of trees
Thumping down the boardwalk
curving round a stump
skipping over holes and
tripping on a bump
Wild rhododendron
kisses Labrador tea
we must wear blaze
orange for visibility
The Saco Heath
The Saco Heath
pitch pine above and
peat bog beneath
by Linda Kirk, Scarborough, Maine
Copyright Linda Kirk, 2007
originally featured 11/12/2007
Why I Love My Grandparents’ Maine House
The sand tickling my toes
Going out to breakfast almost every Sunday morning
Tubing with my cousins every single day
Taking a boat ride around the whole lake
Making sand castles on our mini beach
Walking every day to the grocery store
Bring the dogs along while we walk
Staying out in the bunk house every night
When it is time to go to sleep
Waking up to everyone’s faces
Jumping off the dock into the water
Jumping on the water trampoline into mid air
Going out for ice cream when we get the time
Going to Sea Dogs games almost every time we are at the house
Seeing everyone’s faces, and knowing I am safe
Watching the Fourth of July fireworks altogether
Seeing the big hill, then I know we are there
Poem by Nicole Blanchette of Medfield, Massachusetts. Submitted by her grandfather, Robert Griffiths
originally featured 10/8/2007
Bald Mountain: Sacred Space
1
A summit is a sacred space,
but what about this, this single, perfect
red maple leaf edged with gold
splayed in the muddy trail?
2
Sky gods have always clashed with mountain gods,
clouds shrouding snowy peaks,
thunderbolts striking the heights,
charged ions forking through bedrock, splintering trees,
wind flagging the gnomic pines.
Deep rumblings within earth’s bowels, orogeny,
forced faulted stone into the upper air,
a wall to stop the rain, a place
to rest an ark. We climb,
thinking this rock is something stable,
thinking all it takes is the right clothing
to withstand the elements.
3
Tibetan shamanists revere certain mountains
as the bodies of powerful goddesses,
anatomy become geography: throat
a waterfall, navel a cave, head a high lake.
There are secret ways to approach her,
practices that lead to enlightenment.
The object is not to summit but
to circle the peak ten times.
Our low hills worn pebbles in comparison,
yet even here we imagine how
under a tapestried bedspread
two voluptuous women stretch their legs
into the harbor, shift nearer in their sleep.
4
Across the mountain’s flank, every twig,
every branch, every tree
rimed with frost, illusion
carried in fingers of ice. It won’t last.
Nothing will last, the wind insists.
But isn’t that what beauty is?
About this poem: This poem is part of a small collection of 11 poems, Bald and Ragged Mountains: the Poetry of Place, that I wrote for Coastal Mountains Land Trust in celebration of the two mountains that we are working to protect in the Camden Hills.
by Kristen Lindquist, Camden, Maine
originally featured 3/5/2007
The Branch Pile
During the winter I am up long before the sun. Each morning I push back the window quilt over the bay window to look for early birds. Just before sunrise the first ones arrive to what they hope is a well-stocked feeding station. If I’ve been paying attention there’s plenty of seed and suet waiting for them. I
The chickadees are always grateful for a freshly filled feeder. Before I leave the feeding station they start landing in branches beside the feeder. Thanks for seed…seed…seed! Two and three winters ago I had a chickadee that tapped on the window if the feeders were empty. He didn’t stop tapping until I went out. Tossing a cup of seed out the window wasn’t good enough. He wanted the feeders filled. And being the well-trained feeder of birds that I am, I obliged. The bluejays aren’t as polite. NOW! NOW! NOW! And what do I get as a thanks for filling the feeder? They throw seed to the ground while looking for the perfect sunflower seed.
We had the branches trimmed from the old and dying maple tree in front of the house. Soon, we’ll lose the rest of the tree. The tree service came on a snowy day. They piled the smaller branches neatly on the lawn and let the larger branches fall where they may. The wet snow continued to fall until the temperature dropped. Before we could move the branches to the brush pile at the edge of the woods the snow firmly froze them to the ground. The pile of branches has become a safe haven for the birds. Juncos and finches would rather search for seed I toss into the branches than go to a large pile of seed on the open ground. Once they’ve had their fill these small birds will perch on a branch and sleep in the sun. They’re safe from the hawks that hunt near the feeders. A few fly away when a hawk is nearby but most sit completely still until it leaves.
There’s more in the branch pile than birds. Look closely; you’ll see tunnels made by mice. An ermine came to visit a few times. He’d dart through the trees across the road, stop at the top of the snow bank, dash across the road and run into the branch pile. It hasn’t been here in the last week. I think the barred owl is responsible for his disappearance.
When the snow melts in the spring we’ll move the branch pile out back to its intended place. Until then, we’ll enjoy the all of its visitors and goings on.
Copyright Robin Follette 2007 (reprints welcome by permission)
Essay by Robin Follette, Talmadge, Maine
originally featured 2/12/2007
Water Wheel
the naked pond
shivers in the cold
ducks
rest and fish;
uninvited;
migratingly bold
the seasons cascade change
upon the waters
autumn thresholds winter
winter, spring
which then hosts the return
of birds with summering wing
who’ll raise their young
in the wet nursery of the pond
migrating south come autumn
exploring what lies beyond
another cycle
a spiral without end.
the pond will freeze
thaw
deplete,
renew and mend.
when the world was created
God intended
all things living
would be reincarnated
thus, all that ever was, remains
in recycled forms
ponds
that are also clouds,
tears,
oceans,
rains.
by C. Anne Lozier of Buxton, Maine
originally featured 1/1/2007
Sea Lights Along A Summer Shore
A sunset station, and below me whirls
Against the foreland face a flood-tide wealth
Of weed and wood. A dock-post’s lantern hurls
A javelin on foam crests splintered. Stealth
And patience shape a heron’s double catch
In waters spilling at an inlet’s throat,
Like dippers, which the constellations hatch
And sprinkle star specks where bay-bounties float.
To the horizon’s orange wed the glints
Of mainmast lamps, and from wake-heaves their guise
Decreases to a smoother plain with hints
Of lichen lights and flicks of fireflies.
by Franklin Marshall, Simsbury, Connecticut
originally featured 7/31/2006
In the First Place
As a creative person, I value creation. Which leads me to Maine, the nature in Maine, and its relationship to myself as a created human being. From my youth, I have been fortunate to intuit the significance of the natural world and its relationship to myself and been able to write about it. I have learned that the sounds of the natural world are my familiars as the sound of automobiles, television and outboard motors is not. I have learned that the colors of nature are more real than the colors of man-made clothing. And, over time, fed by the silence in nature that is rejected by most of the human social world, I have grown closer to my nature, my creative source. So I am concerned about the natural environment in Maine. The following poem is written from an experience as a younger man that occurred in a Maine pond where a human being could think. It is double-spaced to emphasize the different nature of time needed to go in-depth to our original, first place. The first place, nature, is my home, our home.
In the first place
I walk, slow, a dirt road, in the sun light –
I hear sand under my feet –
I see a field, wildflowers, in the sun light –
I hear a bee’s soft rasp in the air –
The sun is hot on my face –
A breeze touches my body with heat –
Sand, under my feet, soft –
I walk, slow, off the road into tall grasses –
The grasses move, rustle –
I walk in the shadows of green leafed trees –
A breeze touches my body with cool air –
The grass rustles –
I walk, slow, into the dirt road in the sun light –
I hear sand under my feet –
The field, wildflowers, in the sun light –
I hear sand, soft –
I walk, slow, the dirt road –
The sun is hot –
I hear a bee’s soft rasp –
A breeze touches my face –
I walk, slow –
I hear, sand –
Tom Fallon, Rumford, Maine
Originally featured 6/9/2006
Natural Friendships
“Conservation sometimes comes at you from strange directions. Once, driving from the West Branch across the Shirley Road in my friend Andrew’s somewhat worn, somewhat uninspected Subaru wagon shortly after 2 a.m. Andrew treated me to what I call the John Muir mile. Scottish conservationist Muir would routinely walk with friends in the Sierra and take more than an hour to cover a mile of linear distance. His fascination with everything natural in his path slowed progress to a crawl. To his old friends this seemed a normal part of the Muir experience, to his new acquaintances the walk seemed like an exercise in patience.
“Andrew practiced a modern version of the Muir mile in a typical Andrew manner. Just as you thought you were making progress toward your final destination to lay your head down and contemplate tomorrow’s activity, the car would rapidly decelerate next to a wetland or under the feathery crown of thuja occidentalis (Northern White Cedar) to marvel at the size of the tree or further muck through the wetland looking for the a diminutive gray tree frog.
“As the seasons passed I became accustomed to the likelihood that at any time progress would be halted for a glimpse of a snapping turtle nesting site or a tree with an active nuthatch cavity. We once stood along the shore of Fourth Machias Lake watching a red-breasted nuthatch enter and exit its home in a poplar for nearly an hour. Can you imagine anyone sitting for more than an hour watching a single bird species fly in and out of a nesting cavity? But that was an outing with Andrew.
“These natural history ‘lessons’ were not limited to the woods of Maine. Moving water equally captured our imaginations and progress at times was equally slow. Our enthusiasm for the Maine woods and its waterways had no boundaries because we were beginning to understand the connection between humans, rivers and land. We once sat on a pile of cedar logs above the confluence of the Big Black River and the St. John River discussing for several hours the dynamics of logging practices and their impact on the rivers, streams and brooks.
“Two months ago I stood alone at the same spot and looked over an area that had grown back in my 10-year absence from the St. John River. I thought long and hard about forestry and ecology, but those thoughts drifted away with the northwesterly winds. What remained was a canoeist pondering his own impact on the woods and waters of Maine wishing his paddling partner was there to discuss the next step.”
by Jonathan Milne, Waterville, ME
originally featured 1/30/2006
Banner photo by Garrett Noddin of Gardiner, Maine
