At
Kensington Metropark the other day, I discovered an island hubbub, a rookery
full of Great Egrets, Great Blue Herons, and Cormorants. Below them Canada
Geese 
squawked. Closer to shore, red winged blackbirds clung to reeds and half-seriously
threatened me, I assume because of nearby nests. Two male geese squared off as if to
fight—much hissing and honking in goose profanity, I'm sure. Later, two male redwings got into the longest physical
squabble (maybe ten seconds) I’ve ever seen between two birds. At home, the
wiser gold finches, doves, cardinals, and sparrows make only symbolic gestures
of combat.
My
big birding day at Kensington got me thinking even more about spring and nature,
and that reminded me of e.e. cummings’ poem, “O sweet spontaneous,” in which he offers mockery and
contempt for philosophy, science, and religion. Whatever those three endeavors
might be, what they are not—and never
will be—is spontaneous. They are
considered, rehearsed, systematic invasions and perversions of nature, which is
so magical and supra-rational that spring, season of rebirth and renewal, is the
“rhythmic/lover” of death.
Nature
is spontaneous in the sense that it simply is;
it cannot be understood empirically. Philosophers and
scientists are “prurient” and “naughty” voyeurs, while religionists try to
knock nature around, “buffeting” it as they attempt to pull gods from its womb.
Is that not a rather violent image of birthing, perhaps suggestive of abortion?
In the ongoing American hostility and debate about evolutionism vs. creationism, what might
e.e. cummings say? And what might he say about religion in the schools? Would
he tell us to avoid teaching philosophy, science and religion altogether?
As
a poem, “O sweet spontaneous” is surely vulnerable to charges of
oversimplification and sentimentality (that is, excessive or unearned emotional content). Does it cross that line into touchy-feely, art-fart mush? Or
does it try to demonstrate through simplicity its own argument that nature and
the cosmos cannot be known in Academy-sanctioned curricula?
Does
the poem ask us to plop the kid in a field to witness the elk and experience
snakebite? Shall we cancel science classes nationwide? What would a school run
by cummings look like?
What
would cummings do about climate change? Or cancer?
Would
he argue that pantheism, animism, atheism and their ilk are also “prurient,”
“naughty,” and “squeezing” and “buffeting”? Do they too have “scraggy knees”? Or is it only mainstream schools
of thought that are villains and morons? Kill the Presbyterian, let the hippie roam.
See
how easy it is to take cummings to task? And aren’t his anti-traditional
punctuation, capitalization, and diction rather juvenile, facile, disingenuous
rebellions?
Or
are they the most honest, urgent, cogent way to challenge authority? Maybe they
demand that we experience the world
as cummings does, unfettered by semicolons.
Whatever
the case, when I’m having a good experience in nature, what I’m feeling feels
unknowable—fwom de pwitty wittle finchee (change now to a baritone voice) to
the big mean hawk that eats him (“the incomparable/couch of death”?). What I’m experiencing might be such a
vigorous firing of neurons, or such a jiggling of stardust as it wiggles with what I
am, that no mere empirical Discipline can
touch it.
Surely the solution is to invite politicians to write up an exam that tests a student’s
life-essential knowledge at age 15. For if politicians don’t know what must be
learned, who does?
In the photos from early May, a Great Egret kept retrieving sticks for his nest. (For obvious reasons, I'm making him a hard-working male). I don't know how it could have been clearer that a natural force was driving him to go fetch and to come back, again and again. And maybe that force is larger and more complex than anyone can explain. Hence, the repetition of "I am dumb." 
