Birch, maple, sycamore, oak and beech—
these I planted in a five-pointed star.
When I die, bury me there at their center, deep, unwashed,
alone and nude. Say no prayers.
In the summers, leave them to rustle their hopes over me,
in the falls, let them click and clack their magic.
Let me, as I lay there, hear their big hearts thrumming,
feel their hard bark stretching and taste their hungry roots delving.
People will picnic near us, unknowing and unafraid, not knowing why, but still…
After a few years sacrifice first the birch, then the maple
but wait longer to harvest the rest.
Wait until my bones have moldered
and the roots have taken hold and ground me down to dust.
Wait until the trees are massive, with royal thick trunks seeking the heavens
and tall green crowns gracing the ground.
Wait until it is a spot renowned for its beauty, its peace, its tranquility;
wait until it is forgot, and lost, grown over, where people come no more.
Then cut us down. Chop us up and stack us neat to dry.
Build a fire pit and burn us there.
Let them—they who hear us—come to talk with us and laugh and play.
We, for our part, will spark and sputter and risk our embers to rise.
We will crackle and thrum, we will roar for them, we will whisper
sweet tendrils of scented smoke deep into their hearts and minds
We will do everything in our power to stay for them—until we cannot—
and then when we go, we will go ever so sadly, gladly, both,
hand-in-hand with the wind.
Except, and this is the law, nothing can be made or destroyed.
They’ll know that by then, you’ll see.
A pentacle is an amulet used in magical evocations. I used it because the concept of turning oneself into wood and being burned seemed a very mysterious and Celtic-like motif of transmutation, and the pentacle is a very Celtic symbol.
Of course I was not really interested in the foolishness of actual ritual magic, but in using it as a metaphor for the real magic of touching hearts, of reaching out to people and with humility, sacrifice and love, affecting their lives. In a certain sense, that is what a poem is, a magical spell, an incantation to create meaning, launched to a life of its own.
I am grateful to an Iranian friend for the Persian metaphor of a tree that shows its humility by bowing closer to the ground the older it gets.
Thank you for reading In a pentacle. I sincerely hope you have enjoyed it and I humbly appreciate your visiting the Book of Pain. As always, I look forward to your comments.
© 2012 by John Etheridge; all rights reserved. This poem and accompanying notes are licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 Unported License. This applies to all original work found on this site, unless noted otherwise. The attribution claimed under the license is: © 2012 by John Etheridge, https://bookofpain.wordpress.com.