earthweal open link weekend #131


Greetings all and welcome to open link weekend #131 at earthweal. Share a favorite poem and then visit your fellow linkers and comment.

The link forum will stay active until midnight Sunday EST when Sherry rolls out the next weekly challenge she titles “ReWilding.” You won’t want to miss it!

Happy linking – Brendan


earthweal weekly challenge: LIGHTNING FALLS


Breaking ground on this week’s challenge, I write to accompaniment of thunder.

Summer in Florida means afternoon storms four days or more of the week. Our blazing heat lifts an evaporate shroud into the sky which mixes  with incoming seabreeze fronts from either coast, resulting in  a massing of storms. You can watch them rising 30, 40 sometimes 50 thousand feet on the horizon, the only vertical feature in flat-as-a-dead-mullet Florida.

The storms sometimes dot the map, causing rain here and none there; other times they metastasize into state-sized wallops, with winds knocking trees over and dumping rain in furious salvos.

Central Florida is called the Lightning Capital of America because it has about 83 lightning events per square kilometer every year. Lightning is hot – five times hotter than the sun — an inch-wide bolt heats the surrounding air to about 55,000 degrees, causing the rapid expansion of air which creates thunder. It can go from ground to cloud equally as well. A phenomenon known as gigantic jet lightning can burst from the tops of clouds into the ionosphere and have been observed brushing the lower limit of space.

More than 40 million bolts strike my country every year, but the odds of being struck by on is less than 1 in a million. About 90 percent of those struck survive the ordeal. Just this past week, four people were critically hurt when lightning struck a park near the White House in the United States capitol. The lightning hit near a tree that stands yards away from the fence that surrounds the presidential residence and offices. Three subsequently died.

Over the 25 years my wife and I have lived in this house, we have been visited by lightning many times. A big oak tree just out back was killed by bolt striking its roots. We lost an electrical panel on the air handler under the house due to lightning. We’ve sat in our living room and been flooded with sudden light as a bolt hit nearby, followed instantly by a boom that strolled out in a huge wave. Neighbors lost all their TV and stereo to a strike. A few years back, some kids in town playing baseball were killed hanging out under a tree during a storm. Once we woke to an immense forest of flashes in our bedroom as a storm passed over; passing twenty miles to the east, an F3 tornado descended from that cloud, scattering trailers and killing 23.


Our warming climate is producing more lightning strikes More heat can draw more moisture into the atmosphere, while also encouraging rapid updraft – two key factors for charged particles, which lead to lightning.

Lightning from monsoon rains in the eastern Indian state of Bihar killed 20 in less than 24 hours in late July. Lightning strikes rose by 34%, with more than 18 million strikes occurring in India from April 2020 to March 2021, according to a study by the Climate Resilient Observing System Promotion Council. ‘

Khushboo Bind, killed by lightning on June 25, 2022.


A 2014 study published in Science warned that the number of lightning strikes could increase by 50% in this century in the United States, with each 1 C (1.8 F) of warming translating into a 12% rise in the number of lightning strikes.

The increase in lightning strikes are stressing wildfire season. The interior of Alaska had about 18,000 strikes over two days in early July. More than 2 million acres of Alaska wilderness has burned by the end of July, twice the average of a typical Alaska fire season. More fuel, more lightning strikes, higher temperatures and lower humidity — conditions driven by a fast-changing Arctic climate — are fueling fires that burn hotter and deeper into the ground. Rather than just scorching the trees and burning undergrowth, the wildfires are consuming everything.


In the global Arctic, lightning strikes were once rare; but the Earth’s northernmost region saw 7,278 lightning strikes in 2021, nearly double the total strikes recorded in the previous nine years combined.

After the flash, then the strolling drums of thunder. You can hear it up to 15 miles away. About a third of the population suffer from astrophobia, fear of lightning and thunder. James Joyce was one such sufferer (a holdover, apparently, from his hellfire and damnation Catholic upbringing), he placed ten Thunder-words in Finnegans Wake. At 100 letters each, they are the longest words in English. The first (on page one) announces the Fall of Babel and the thunderclap which heralds the fall of Adam and Eve:


Pronounce it here:


Lightning and thunder have always been accorded top clout in our myths. The lord of Olympus was Zeus and his master weapon and sign of his power was the lightning bolt. It is one of the three great weapons forged by the Cyclopes in Tartarus for Zeus and his two brothers in their fight against the Titans (the other weapons were Poseidon’s Trident and Hades’ Helm of Darkness). In Vedic lore, Indra, god of rain and thunder, wields bolt-shaped weapon called the vajra. In Celtic mythology, Taranis is the god of thunder; in Norse it Thor, wielding a thunder-hammer named Mjolnir which also bestows the god’s blessings.

In the Tarot deck of divination cards, The Tower is perhaps more disturbing than the Death card, for it portends a sudden strike of fate, like that of a bolt of lightning causing a tower to fall, resulting in chaos and destruction. The Tower of Babel fell this way, it’s height of human aspiration humbled by the power of God and the resulting confusion of languages For his pride and ambition, Lucifer is cast down from Heaven in a dazzling fall akin to lightning, and Adam and Eve are cast out of Eden in a sudden dazzling fall for disobeying God and eating of the Tree of Knowledge.

Fire came from the gods in a lightning strike. Prometheus snuck into the great fire-pit where the lightning bolt hammers of Zeus were forged and stole a spark of the fire and hid it in a fennel stalk and took the gift back to mankind — a theft for which he would pay eternally.

Actually, we’re the ones who are paying eternally, as humankind’s mastery over the elements began with the theft of fire. Karl Kerenyi writes in Prometheus: Archetypal Image of Human Existence,

The crime was inevitable because without fire mankind would have perished — this was the design of Zeus, as we are expressly told in Desmotes (232) — and this inevitable act was a crime, because power over fire — as over all things that “grow” and are not produced by man — was the prerogative of the ruler of the world. (79)

The theft of that fire eventually granted us the Anthropocene, a world of withering weathers cooked up a vat of human innovations. The lightning which comes now in fuller fury we can, in part, call our own.

Are we up to the task? The United States has experienced an average of 7.7 billion-dollar disasters annually over the past four decades. But in the past five years, that average has jumped to nearly 18 events each year. 2020 and 2021 saw the highest number of such disasters on record, with 22 and 20, respectively. The catastrophes that span the country and the calendar, ranging from a cold snap that crippled parts of Texas and hailstorms in Ohio. Spring has been an especially active time, the numbers show. But many of the most destructive and costly disasters of recent years also have come during summer — including massive Western wildfires, a crippling heat dome in the Pacific Northwest and devastating hurricanes such as Harvey, Maria and Ida. Just in the past two weeks, there have been three separate thousand-year rain events, in Missouri, Kentucky and Illinois.


When you consider the rising intensity of these catastrophes against our civilization’s ability to contend with them — worst of all, when dealing with climate change — Goethe’s poem “Limits of Humanity” suggests that humility is our only honest posture.

When the primeval
Heavenly Father,
With hand indifferent
Out of dark-rolling clouds
Scatters hot lightnings
Over the earth,
Kiss I the lowest
Hem of His garment,
Kneeling before Him
In child-like trust.

For with the gods may
No mortal himself
At any time measure.
Should he be lifted
Up, til he touches
The stars with his forehead,
Nowhere to rest finds
The insecure feet,
And he is plaything
Of clouds and of winds.

Stands he with strong-knit
Marrowy bone
On the deep-seated
Enduring Earth,
No father he reaches
than but with the oak
Or the slenderer vine
Himself to compare.

What doth distinguish
Immortals from mortals?
In that many billows
Before those roll ever,
A stream flowing by:
Upheaveth a billow,
Collapses a billow,
And we are no more.

A little ring
Encloses our life,
And numerous races
Are strung through the cycles
On to existence’s
Infinite chain.

(Poems of Goethe, translated William Gibson, 1883)

I have a radar app installed on my iPhone. It used to come in handy when I was commuting daily to my job in Orlando. I pay for it now mostly for the extra reconnaissance it provides during hurricane season when rain bands whip in. I’m not sure why I keep it set to give me alerts for lightning strikes within 30 miles. The damn thing lights up my phone dozens of times every afternoon and into the night.

For this week’s challenge, let’s interrupt our usual programming with flashes and booms of this extraordinary power. Lightning falls: what are we going to make of that?

Happy bababadalgharaghtakamminarronnkonnbronntonnerronntuonnthunn-trovarrhounawnskawntoohoohoordenenthurnukings!

– Brendan



Ranier Maria Rilke

Suddenly, from all the green around you,
something-you don’t know what-has disappeared;
you feel it creeping closer to the window,
in total silence. From the nearby wood

you hear the urgent whistling of a plover,
reminding you of someone’s Saint Jerome:
so much solitude and passion come
from that one voice, whose fierce request the downpour

will grant. The walls, with their ancient portraits, glide
away from us, cautiously, as though
they weren’t supposed to hear what we are saying.

And reflected on the faded tapestries now;
the chill, uncertain sunlight of those long
childhood hours when you were so afraid.

— tranl. Stephen Mitchell



William Shakespeare

Another part of the heath. Storm still.


Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!
You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout
Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks!
You sulphurous and thought-executing fires,
Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts,
Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder,
Smite flat the thick rotundity o’ the world!
Crack nature’s moulds, an germens spill at once,
That make ingrateful man!


O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry
house is better than this rain-water out o’ door.
Good nuncle, in, and ask thy daughters’ blessing:
here’s a night pities neither wise man nor fool.


Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!
Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:
I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;
I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children,
You owe me no subscription: then let fall
Your horrible pleasure: here I stand, your slave,
A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:
But yet I call you servile ministers,
That have with two pernicious daughters join’d
Your high engender’d battles ‘gainst a head
So old and white as this. O! O! ’tis foul!



Emily Dickinson

There came a Wind like a Bugle—
It quivered through the Grass
And a Green Chill upon the Heat
So ominous did pass
We barred the Windows and the Doors

As from an Emerald Ghost—
The Doom’s electric Moccasin
That very instant passed—
On a strange Mob of panting Trees
And Fences fled away

And Rivers where the Houses ran
Those looked that lived-that Day—
The Bell within the steeple wild
The flying tidings told—
How much can come
And much can go,
And yet abide the World!




Elizabeth Bishop

Dawn an unsympathetic yellow.
Cra-aack! — dry and light.
The house was really struck.
Crack! A tinny sound, like a dropped tumbler.
Tobias jumped in the window, got in bed —
silent, his eyes bleached white, his fur on end.
Personal and spiteful as a neighbor’s child,
thunder began to bang and bump the roof.
One pink flash;
then hail, the biggest size of artificial pearls.
Dead-white, wax-white, cold —
diplomats’ wives favors
from an old moon party —
they lay in melting windrows
on the red ground until well after sunrise.
We got up to find the wiring fused,
no lights, a smell of saltpetre,
and the telephone dead.

The cat stayed in the warm sheets,
The Lent trees had shed all their petals:
wet, stuck, purple, among the dead-eye pearls.

— from Questions of Travel, 1955



May Swenson

I hope they never get a rope on you, weather,
I hope they never put a bit in your mouth.
I hope they never pack your snorts
into an engine or make you wear wheels.

I hope the astronauts will always have to wait
till you get off the prairie
because your kick is lethal,
your temper worse than the megaton.

I hope your harsh mane will grow forever,
and blow where it will,
that your slick hide will always shiver
and flick down your bright sweat.

Research us terror, weather,
with your teeth on our ships,
your hoofs on our houses,
your tail swatting our planes down like flies.

Before they make a grenade of our planet
I hope you’ll come like a comet,
oh mustang – fire-eyes, upreared bell —
bust the corral and stomp us to death.

—from Nature: Poems Old and New, 1994




Robinson Jeffers

The deer were bounding like blown leaves
Under the smoke in front the roaring wave of the brush-fire;
I thought of the smaller lives that were caught.
Beauty is not always lovely; the fire was beautiful, the terror
Of the deer was beautiful; and when I returned
Down the back slopes after the fire had gone by, an eagle
Was perched on the jag of a burnt pine,
Insolent and gorged, cloaked in the folded storms of his shoulders
He had come from far off for the good hunting
With fire for his beater to drive the game; the sky was merciless
Blue, and the hills merciless black,
The sombre-feathered great bird sleepily merciless between them.
I thought, painfully, but the whole mind,
The destruction that brings an eagle from heaven is better than men.


earthweal weekly challenge: BEGINNINGS


Think back to your first impressions of the world when you were very young. Do they look like Eden?

One psychological theory has it that our early childhood memories are embedded with earlier ages of the species.  Those first lights shine back on the grand savannahs where homo erectus walked from the treeline some 2 million years ago. Leaving that homeland must have borne an echo of departure from Eden. Sandor Ferenczi argued in Thalassa that the cataclysm of birth echoes the trauma of the first fish emerging from the sea about 500 million years ago; if so, our early are ripe with an early, growing Earth.

Given the despair of these times, with so much falling apart so fast, no wonder we feel Eden drifting farthermost away. We are haunted both by the eviction of this historical moment and the extinction is portends. As I wrote last week, grief and hope are as imbalanced and wobbly as summer and winter for many of us now. Since that post, the torrid alternation of heat-waves and furious storms have continued in the US, with the Northwest and western Canada suffering record heat, wildfires raging in California and record rainfall events in Missouri and a few days later in Kentucky. The widespread intensity of this summer (extreme heat also in Japan and Korea, north Africa and Turkey, Siberia, southwest France; flooding in Pakistan, Iran and the United Arab Emirates) Startling events become a duration, like the sursurrus of drenching rains which smoothed over the geography of rural Kentucky.

“Expulsion from the Garden of Eden,” Thomas Cole, 1828

In such ends, are there new beginnings?

If time is circular — an immense throb of beginnings and ends repeated endlessly — then we might look for evidence of Eden seeding in the destruction of our Earth. There is also a confusion of times in a round world, where Oklahoma in the U.S. unmercifully roasts where you might be enjoying a placid winter morning in South Africa; even in one location like my own in Florida, daybreak casts the image of one world far different and menacing mid-afternoon. Globally we may feel the impending doom of a rapidly-changing climate, but our angst will probably seem halcyon to someone living 50 years from now; and downright strange to someone living far North or South 200 years from now, in the placid and temperate zones of what was once Antarctica and the Arctic.

As the I Ching says, to and fro goes the way.

But let’s try. Recall, as you can, your early hours and days on this Earth. Where did light first break for you? What did the great world look and feel like when you were outside? What games do you recall playing, what places did you explore? And how do those early memories resonate for you now?

Was there an Eden once? When did the Fall come, and how did it happen?

It’s important to point out that the Judeo-Christian myth of Eden and the Fall has many similar motifs in other cultures. According to some ancient sources, the four main rivers of the ancient Near East—the Tigris, Euphrates, Halys, and Araxes — flowed out of a garden. Scholars today debate the origin of the word Eden. Some believe it comes from a Sumerian word meaning “plain”’ Others say it is from the Persian word heden, meaning “garden.”

Yet in other cultures, our place in creation is not defined by a Fall. Robin Wall Kimmerer writes in Braiding Sweetgrass (2013):

On one side of the world were people whose relationship with the living world was shaped by Skywoman, who created a garden for the well-being of all. On the other side was another woman with a garden and a tree. But for tasting its fruit, she was banished from the garden and the gates clanged shut behind her. That mother of men was made to wander in the wilderness and earn her bread by the sweat of her brow, not by filling her mouth with the sweet juicy fruits that bend the branches low. In order to eat, she was instructed to subdue the wilderness into which she was cast.

Same species, same earth, different stories. Like Creation stories everywhere, cosmologies are a source of identity and orientation to the world. They tell us who we are. We are inevitably shaped by them no matter how distant they may be from our consciousness. One story leads to the generous embrace of the living world, the other to banishment. One woman is our ancestral gardener, a cocreator of the good green world that would be the home of her descendants. The other was an exile, just passing through an alien world on a rough road to her real home in heaven.  (6-7)

Exile brought Western settlers to North America, and they carried with them a haunted sense of the Fall which made them extractors and developers, stealing everything they could from the wilderness their God told them to master. (In the United States, those descendents now tell woman their body belongs to the will of the religious state, a garden women are finding themselves  banned from.)

Divisions of culture and nature also create a false wall where inside is human plenty and outside is the raw material for that comfort. Suburbias are unholy Edens, a gated paradise adorned with walls and security systems and rich green lawns and viciously overworked irrigation systems.

Back at the end of the 19th century, there were those here in the U.S. who sought to conserve some fraction of the frontier which had been fenced and portioned off. They sought government protection of public lands and made national parks out of lonely islands of the old wild — Yosemite and the Grand Canyon in the U.S., Banff National Park in Canada, Plitvis Lakes in Croatia, Torres del Plaine in Chile and Kruger National Park in South Africa.

As good intentioned as these national parks are, they reinforce the sense that wild nature is out there and far away, hiding the living wild that is part and parcel of our daily lived reality.

Indeed, nature in the Anthropocene is no less everpresent, and though resembles far less the Edens of memory, it is still something to be loved. We may have to reimagine our relation to the wild, as Jedediah Purdy writes in After Nature:

American environmentalists imagine wild nature as diametrically opposed to lowland of society, technology, and politics — a view that enables nature’s devotees to divide their loyalties in a too-convenient copout. When in the lowlands of everyday life, they are not entirely of it, because they hold apart the most essential portion of themselves. In wild nature, they cultivate a (supposedly) higher part of the self, but to assume that this, the best of them, cannot thrive where they spend most of their time and energy. The best and highest, what they live for, is elsewhere for most of their lives. This divided attitude … is an excuse to neglect and disrespect the places where environmentalist actually live and the people they live among. This attitude ironically also fails to take seriously the “higher” values of nature, because it reserves those values for rare occasions in faraway places, rather than working to bring them into everyday life. (283-4)

Which means if we are looking for beginnings, it is well for us to begin in our own back yards, that place of personal experience and enactment.

For this week’s challenge, write of Beginnings — wherever they may be found.





Emily Dickinson

Some keep the Sabbath, going to church;
I keep it staying at home,
With a bobolink for a chorister,
And an orchard for a dome.

Some keep the Sabbath in surplice;
I just wear my wings,
And instead of tolling the bell for church,
Our little sexton sings.

God preaches — a noted clergyman, —
And the sermon is never long:
So instead of going to heaven at last,
I’m going all along!



Aimee Nezhukumatathil

Give me a church
made entirely of salt.
Let the walls hiss
and smoke when
I return to shore.

I ask for the grace
of a new freckle
on my cheek, the lift
of blue and my mother’s
soapy skin to greet me.

Hide me in a room
with no windows.
Never let me see
the dolphins leaping
into commas

for this water-prayer
rising like a host
of sky lanterns into
the inky evening.
Let them hang

in the sky until
they vanish at the edge
of the constellations —
the heroes and animals
too busy and bright to notice.

From Oceanic, 2018




Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

— from House of Light, 1990




TS Eliot


What we call the beginning is often the end
And to make and end is to make a beginning.
The end is where we start from. And every phrase
And sentence that is right (where every word is at home,
Taking its place to support the others,
The word neither diffident nor ostentatious,
An easy commerce of the old and the new,
The common word exact without vulgarity,
The formal word precise but not pedantic,
The complete consort dancing together)
Every phrase and every sentence is an end and a beginning,
Every poem an epitaph. And any action
Is a step to the block, to the fire, down the sea’s throat
Or to an illegible stone: and that is where we start.
We die with the dying:
See, they depart, and we go with them.
We are born with the dead:
See, they return, and bring us with them.
The moment of the rose and the moment of the yew-tree
Are of equal duration. A people without history
Is not redeemed from time, for history is a pattern
Of timeless moments. So, while the light fails
On a winter’s afternoon, in a secluded chapel
History is now and England.

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling

We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.
Through the unknown, unremembered gate
When the last of earth left to discover
Is that which was the beginning;
At the source of the longest river
The voice of the hidden waterfall
And the children in the apple-tree

Not known, because not looked for
But heard, half-heard, in the stillness
Between two waves of the sea.
Quick now, here, now, always–
A condition of complete simplicity
(Costing not less than everything)
And all shall be well and
All manner of thing shall be well
When the tongues of flames are in-folded
Into the crowned knot of fire
And the fire and the rose are one.

— “The Little Gidding” is the last of Eliot’s Four Quartets and was originally published in 1943

Meanwhile in Antarctica, the slow march to summer begins.