A River Changed

Raking leaves, pressing sunflowers, & processing the archives

Dear Reader,

This afternoon was mild & glowy as the sun began its early descent behind the mountains. I fought off the urge to go on a walk in the warm air of autumn and instead anchored myself to the garden. There were potted herbs to mulch, leaves to rake, and plants to pull; I was already in my farm clothes so I grabbed my tools and went to work! It was simple work, really, just making piles of leaves in the front yard and transferring them to the potted plants on the back deck. This fall I planted several perennial herbs to join my current cadre of potted allies in the hopes that their roots would grow strong enough to shoot up in abundance come springtime. Where I live in Asheville is considered zone 7b for plant hardiness, and as I’m learning to make a life in this place, I am also learning what it means to cultivate life in this place. the best time to plant is in fall I read over and over in articles, magazines, and in the marketing at my favorite garden stores.

harvesting maximilian sunflowers to press and save for winter crafts

Eli and I moved rental homes this March and instead of disappointing myself with a flopped garden, I gave myself this growing season to experiment, notice, fuck around and see what might grow. I had my suspicions that our back deck might not get full sun, even at the peak of summer, and so I let myself mess around with simple herbs and second-starts from the farm. My hypotheses were accurate and I found that herbs revelled in my part-to-full-sun deck. So herbs it is! In the coming seasons I am looking forward to growing more herbs, harvesting more herbs, and making more teas and blends and magic with said herbs! Herbalism is an art I have circled around for nearly a decade now, and I am grateful for the slow accumulation of knowledge, allies, and instructors who drop breadcrumbs for me to follow and help illuminate gaps in understanding.

It was this feeling of illumination and understanding that came to me this afternoon while raking the leaves. I was thinking about what it physically was that I was scooping up— the sycamores and the sourwoods, the neighborhood oaks and the poplars whose buds and shoots and leaves I stalked all spring. I was thinking about how green it once was here, and how quietly it exited before our own eyes. Here I was, quiet literally holding the crumbs of summer in my hands as autumn now begins to give way to winter. How mysteriously predictable, these changing of seasons.

And while it feels so distant now to to these rusted and crusted tree leaves, I was feeling tethered back to early August when everything was still thumping with that green intensity that I strive to give a name to.

This August, I returned home from Gunnison, CO with my Masters in Fine Arts. In a logical spiral of sorts, over the last two years I found myself pursuing a degree in poetry and aiming to bear witness to my world through wordplay and spellcasting. For my thesis fulfillment, I wrote a book-length manuscript of poems titled A River Changed. Poems, written about the external landscapes of mountains, and rivers, and oceans, and storms that gave image to the deep internal landscapes of time and its passing, of healing, of softening, of being changed. There is no titular poem to mirror the collection, rather, the reader comes to a cyclical return only at the very last line. I am proud of these poems and am working on dispersing them out into journals and lit mags and have an action plan to one day soon publish the collection in its entirety. This collection of poems is not just a part of me, but it is me. I am a river changed.

And while the letters shaped out on white pages do make the poems in this collection, to me, poetry is so much greater than the choices made of words and lines. Everything is poetry— that I do believe. Or maybe, rather, everything holds the potentiality of poetry. For poetry isn’t a passive media to be consumed, but it is a /slant/ in which the perceived world opens up something bigger; think like a gate, or a portal, or even how slats in blinds reveal a new way of seeing.

And so while I fulfilled my thesis requirement on paper, I personally felt an urge that there was more to be done— more poetry that couldn’t simply be said. For me, and this project, I needed to have a party. Needed. Because, it is me, after all! Ha! But the need was a need of articulation, of inviting others in to what these pages of poems hold.

My thesis title came to me while standing in Flat Creek as it widened up after Helene. The image used in my invite was a photo of the creek that I snapped during my first visit back after the storm. The words came to me in the kind of way only poetry does— the words came through me; they were within, and then they became known. A River Changed.

For administrative details that are irrelevant to you, I submitted my thesis manuscript for review back in June. That weekend I celebrated with Eli on a long hike down the East Fork of the Pigeon River. In my archival notes, I wrote: “celebrated a completed thesis with a big hike and a sweet dip in a changed river.” From the storm rocks had moved, trees had felled, and banks had given way to weather; I was seeing the words in my thesis through the eyes of a river changed. This is poetry.

And so, was this:

As I’m sure you can pick up from the underexposed frames and darkly dank sky, the thesis party, which was set in the heart of the season, was rained out. A dramatic effect that at first threatened my own party-planning-ego (& tainted nearly every disposable-camera shot), but, ultimately gave way to a gathering of friends and family in a barn older than anyone in attendance. I had my sweet 2-year-old bestie there, and my 82 year old gardening pal too; my dearest of dear friends from life in Beverly drove down from DC for the party, and the room with three-basin sinks that weekly stations our wash/pack room on the farm became sardined with old friends, new coworkers, my parents and more. I wanted to bring together the ones that I love and share with them the magic of poetry. Mom made cocktails and a charcuterie board longer than Lyddy (said 2 year old), Rain baked a fresh loaf of sourdough, Quail mowed down all the grass, Mary brought her homemade lamb burgers that she made from her friend’s lambs in Hendersonville, Tonja and Wayne came early and set up, my parents & grandparents flew out from Southern California, Hannah whipped up the finest of seasonal dishes, Alena baked the most elegant cake, and so many others brought gifts too meaningful to put into words. This was all poetry. The cake, the food, the plants that made the food, the meat that was a living animal, the fields that are a breathing entity, the bread that’s filled with billions of cultures, the craft that is my mom as hostess, the love that molds my family, the friendships that remain.

This was my thesis; this was a river changed.

When the rain lifted slightly I called everybody out to the tomato field to share with them a poem. I read my poem “The Hard Work of Healing” which begins exactly where we were….

“In the tomato field we find ourselves” […],

I declared as testimony to my fruiting comrades and dearest family and friends.

my great-aunt Theresa and I in front of the tomato field harvesting zinnias in the rain before the party

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In the tomato field we find ourselves
cursing the breeze, god, the sun,
god, the rain, god— do they not know us?
Serious humans, with our serious business, 
grafted monsters from what our mothers left behind. 
We are but fragile— the fine fur of our bones 
celadon dust green and sensitive to this
labored endeavor breaking soil back into soil,
growing out the enduring heat of day.

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I wrote this poem about farming; I wrote this poem about living. The opening line came to me while harvesting tomatoes one meltingly-hot afternoon in the summer of 2024, and I hummed its tune again and again and again until I could hear the rest of the words. Often times in my body poetry comes down from within, but this poem came up out from the field.

I was bashful and nervous, humbled to have so many present and bearing witness that cloudy and wet night once upon in August.

And now, it’s outgrown the field and has been harvested and dispersed far out like its namesake fruit; now, this poem lives in another realm that I’m still a visitor to. Back in September, Wildroof Journal published this poem marking a milestone for me, and dispersing it into a much larger web that connects across place, space, and time. Now, you too, can find yourself in the tomato field.

XO,

Kenz

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I know these posts are often-longwinded, so I just want to send an extra besito if you’ve stuck around to follow the thread.

…what starts with mulch turns back to poetry…

If you’re feeling brave, and you’ve found yourself now at the end, would you mind sending me a quick reply to let me know you’re here for this? Stats can only draw a 2D image, and it’s important to me to know these stories are more than just words broadcasted out into the void. These archives are in part for me, but they’re intentionally written for you; I hope you enjoy.

Yours in Poetry,

Mackenzie

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