Notes on the Poem
The core image of this poem grew out of a 6-week stay at a chateau in Ventenac, France in the Languedoc region. We were there on a work exchange—we came to help cook and care for the students who came to the chateau on a series of poetry retreats. When we weren’t working, we got to enjoy the beautiful house and vineyards. And we got to write a bit ourselves.
I spent several mornings on the balcony that overlooked the vineyards and the valley. An enormous wisteria had grown over the balcony and it dropped its blossoms while we were there. By the end of our stay, I was ankle-deep in wisteria blossoms and the smell was so thick you could almost chew on it. Across the valley, at the farthest edge of sight, you could barely make out the ghostly outline of the Pyrenees. Many of these images made it into the poem.
The poem is rooted in the twin images of the wisteria from the chateau and the Tree of Life from Psalm 1. It stands at the gateway of the project as Psalm 1 stands at the start of the Psalter. It was the first poem I wrote after deciding to undertake the project of writing a poem for every Psalm, and, as such, I was nervous about beginning. I hoped I would find water the deeper I went. I hoped I would be able to go deep enough to make something of value and find enough water to finish something so ambitious. This poem was the result of the tangle of images, fears, and hopes.
Poem—The Infinite Tree
There is a balcony under wisteria;
Up the hillside, across the vineyards,
Past the windmills in Languedoc.
You can see the Pyrenees on a clear day
Across the bright expanse of memory
As one might see heaven
In a vision.
“No one waters the wisteria,” She scoffs,
“That thing has roots in the canal by now.”
I am in a strange land, but the smell is thick
As the petals drop like ripe fruit
That I have never tasted.
The darkling is behind me
And before me, but is not here.
You could be lost here and never know it.
You could hear the whisper of psalms
Until you were ready to begin
What there was to begin.
I came to the valley to dream
And to listen.
The word of God growls and rages.
I writhe and wait.
I moan and meditate and suffer.
I pray the seed’s prayer at night, alone,
Waiting for the infinite tree
To drop its petals into my mouth.
I pray
That I will find water the deeper I go.
[Photo by Majid Gheidarlou on Unsplash]
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An idea can be a fragile thing and 150 poems and translations is a big idea. I meant this project to be ambitious though and, if it is ever complete, it will be the work of years.
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Psalm 1 Poem