Grok on Shinny, Gladiola und so weiter
What draws you first to this poem titled Shinny? Is it the title itself, the mention of Robert Frost’s Birches, or perhaps the author’s playful disclaimer that the two poems actually have “little to do with” each other?
The speaker begins by saying, “I was a boy myself once so don’t need / much told me about trees.” What might that opening suggest about who is speaking and what kind of knowledge they claim? How does that confidence shape the way we read the rest of the poem?
As the lines unfold, the boy climbs higher—“shinny up high then clamber / to where branches thin”—until “height hurts” and a “pit suddenly yawn[s] in his guts.” What sensations or emotions do these images evoke for you? Why might the poet choose such a precarious, almost frightening height for this scene?
Notice the repeated word “know” early on: the speaker knows how to hide, to filch “illicit fruit,” to climb. What makes this fruit “illicit,” and why does it need to be taken “before it falls to the ground and takes root”? Could the fruit stand for something beyond literal apples or pears?
The poem then shifts to what the tree feels or wants. “Something about a tree doesn’t really mind / the theft of its fruit.” “A tree is resigned / to a boy swaying in his tenuous / crotch.” And later: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed.” What do you make of this personification? Why give the tree such a generous, almost welcoming attitude toward the boy’s actions?
The final two lines form a kind of mirror: “Something about a tree wants to be climbed. / Something about a boy wants to climb it.” How does that symmetry change the relationship between climber and tree? Does it feel mutual, inevitable, innocent, mischievous—or something else entirely?
The author calls this a “secretive adolescent rite we all practice but never admit to,” and points to another poem, Gladiola, for a “clearer statement” of the events. If we accept the hint that this rite involves privacy, solitude, and perhaps bodily discovery in a hidden natural place, how might that reframe the metaphors of fruit, height, swaying, and the “tenuous crotch” of the branches?
What happens when we hold Frost’s Birches in one hand—where the boy swings down from the trees, imagining escaping life’s burdens—and this poem in the other? Why might the author insist they have little connection, even while inviting the comparison?
Take your time with these questions. Which one pulls at you the most right now, and what insight—or new puzzle—does it open up about the poem for you? I’m eager to hear where your thoughts lead.
What a natural next step—since the author of Shinny explicitly points us toward Gladiola as the place where the “events in question” receive a clearer statement.
Have you had a chance to locate and read the full text of Gladiola yet? (It appears on the same site: alteritas.net/pastis/inventory/gladiola/ — a reflective piece that begins “It took years,” revisiting childhood climbing, a backyard sycamore, and then drifts into sensory memories of flowers, “sleepy plants,” and “sweaty boys with grass itch” who “tease to make play possum.”)
What strikes you first when you encounter those lines? Does the tone feel nostalgic, wistful, perhaps a little elegiac—looking back at a boyhood yard that now feels “shrunken”?
Notice how climbing returns here too: the speaker recalls reaching the “third crotch of the willow,” shinning up for a catalpa pod, and now wondering if he can still “clamber up” the limber sycamore. How does this motif of ascent echo (or contrast with) the precarious height in Shinny, where the boy sways “dizzy at his chosen precipice”?
Then the poem turns toward scent and touch: sniffing sweet gardenia, bruising its petals “brown with soft touches.” What sensations does that evoke for you? Is it innocent botanical curiosity, or does the bruising, the soft repeated contact, carry a different kind of intimacy?
The most puzzling (and perhaps revealing) question comes near the end: “But where were the sleepy plants / sweaty boys with grass itch tease / to make play possum, their lobes curling up like doodlebugs…?”
Who—or what—are these “sleepy plants” that the sweaty boys tease into playing possum? Why might boys in the grass, itchy and playful, be coaxing something to curl up and feign sleep? And why “lobes”—a word that can refer to ears, leaves, or other soft, pendant parts?
If we hold the author’s hint in mind—that Gladiola clarifies the “secretive adolescent rite” from Shinny (the solitary tree-climbing ritual many practice but few admit)—how might these images of teasing, curling, and hidden motion reframe the earlier poem’s “illicit fruit,” the “tenuous crotch” of branches, and the tree’s apparent willingness to be climbed?
What happens when we imagine the boy not just taking fruit or enjoying height, but discovering something private about his own body in that hidden canopy—something the tree “doesn’t really mind” and perhaps even “wants”?
Does the gardenia (with its strong, heady perfume) or the absent “sleepy plants” start to feel like stand-ins for something more bodily and responsive? Why choose a flower name like Gladiola—tall, sword-like, erect—for the title of a poem that circles back to boyhood exploration in a now-distant yard?
Which image or phrase in Gladiola tugs at you the strongest right now, and how does it shift (or deepen) your reading of the secretive rite in Shinny?
Take your time—poems like these reward slow circling. I’m curious where your reflections carry you next.
What a fruitful turn—now that we’ve lingered with Shinny and Gladiola, the invitation to explore the author’s broader work feels almost inevitable. The collection gathered under “Pastis @ Bandol” (hosted at alteritas.net) reveals itself as a rich, sprawling inventory, credited to George Lang, containing well over a hundred poems.
Imagine stepping into a well-stocked pantry of memories, observations, translations, and meditations—titles ranging from the intimate and bodily to the historical, the culinary, the linguistic, and the quietly philosophical. Here are just a few that catch the eye from this extensive list:
- Privacy
- Coupling
- Second Vasectomy
- Incubus and Succubus
- Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh
- Sad to Be a Child
- Poem in Lieu of Suicide
- Fiberglass Birchbarks
- Global Warning (a playful yet pointed reflection on poetry itself as an invasive species)
- Tomatillo, Gooseberry, and Persimmon Salad
- Genesis 11-25
- Rara avis
- L’Éternité
- And many more, including translations (like pieces after Montale, Pasolini, or Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz) and place-named reveries (Québec, North Hatley 1978, Chinon – קִינוֹן).
What patterns or moods begin to emerge for you simply from scanning these titles? Do you notice clusters around the body and its vulnerabilities (shaving, vasectomy, coupling, incubus/succubus), around childhood or lost innocence (Sad to Be a Child, perhaps echoing the boyhood rites in Shinny and Gladiola), around food and sensory memory (salads, pastis, petits pois), or around language itself (Merci, Rimbaud, pour ces quelques consonnes; Language Lesson)?
How might the presence of titles like Privacy or Close Shave sit alongside the secretive, tree-hidden explorations we’ve already discussed? Could the same sensibility that personifies a tree as willing to be climbed also whisper through poems about private rituals, bodily memory, or the quiet comedy of human intimacy?
And what about the translations and allusions—to Rimbaud, Yeats, Montale, ancient texts? Does this suggest a poet who delights in weaving his own experiences into conversation with other voices across time and languages?
If one or two titles from this broader constellation tug at your curiosity most strongly right now—perhaps Privacy, Incubus, Beauty is the Memory of the Flesh, or something entirely different—which one calls to you, and what questions does it raise about how it might connect (or contrast) with the adolescent rite at the heart of Shinny and Gladiola?
There’s no hurry; these poems seem to reward patient wandering. Where would you like to step next in this garden of words? I’m here to walk alongside as your reflections unfold.