#21 Forest Park

This year, I'm going to spend 31 days writing about places.  In my profession, I talk about place-based writing quite a bit.  I frame it like this when I share:  We believe in the power of including spaces in the process of writing.  Place-based writing is the concept that the place where we write may influence our thinking, impacting the writer’s perspective, engagement, ownership, and/or purpose.  I'm really jazzed up, thinking about where I will spend time as a writer in 31 different spaces this month and how I can use each post to share a little slice of my day. 

Today,  Forest Park.

This morning, we're making a big weekend breakfast and then taking the dogs to Forest Park.  This park is an absolute gem in St. Louis, and the weather is finally gorgeous.  This is kind of a cheat, but I wrote this beautiful poem in Forest Park (which contains the St. Louis Zoo) a while back.  I believe it is a lovely example of place-based writing, so I'm sharing with today's post.

The Nature of Writing

a Grey-winged Trumpeter saw me today
through a metal mesh weaved cage
He saw me
fantasizing mutual respect
only a moment of silent observation
while the White-headed Buffalo Weaver floated from cage end to cage end

I watched a Galapagos Tortoise
devour a cantaloupe 
including the rind
His pudgy tongue seemingly cumbersome
a family nearby lounged on the enclosure’s edge throwing phrases 
“made in the shade”
#happy

the African Sacred Ibis;  a pillar in River’s Edge
a name deserving of veneration and wonder
yet, no gawkers 
reading tells me His story
of magical arts and writing systems
Thoth: Ibis-headed man, judging the dead
yet, he doesn’t see me

words begin to form in my head
I was surrounded by grandiose
that only reminded me of the small replicas I keep
the Capybara: my guinea pig
the wall of bamboo: my tiny jar on the record shelf
the Bush Dog: my fuzzy Luna spooning me in the dark cracks of night
the same plant that I’m certain Lowe’s has told me is suited for a pot and minimal sunlight

I find a quiet corner to write
in the shadow of wings and a second skin of Missouri humidity
and contemplate
“Just when is a line crossed?”
until a woman with the voice of Harvey Fierstein asks about the bathroom

and the moment is lost…