Time to Tender an Apology to Joyce Kilmer

"Trees"

Think that I shall never see
A poem lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest
Against the sweet earth's flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray

A tree that may in summer wear
A nest of robins in her hair

Upon whose bosom snow has lain
Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me,
But only God can make a tree.

My college writing instructor, you know the type: erudite, supercillious, with a voice dripping with just a trace of a sneer. The kind of man you meet in so many professions; an insecure individual who likes to build himself up by tearing others down. A pedantic, hollow man; eloquent yet empty.

This fountainhead of knowledge devoted part of a lesson to Joyce Kilmer's beloved poem, "Trees." Not to laud the virtues of the poem, of course. That would make for a boring lecture. To this molder and shaper of undergraduate minds, the poem was an object of derision. According to Professor Supercillious, "Trees" was just an example of an incompetent poet stringing together some mixed metaphors.

I can still hear him reciting it, his suave voice brimming with sarcasm.

"The tree's hungry mouth is prest
Against the Earth's sweet flowing breast."

He'd give us a sardonic little grin and sneer, "lovely image, isn't it? Now watch this. Next the tree is going to somehow manage to turn a flip that a Chinese acrobat might envy. It can manage to...

'Raise its eyes and look at God all day
And lifts her leafy arms to pray.'

"What a neat trick," he flippantly observed. "Maybe," he suggested, "the tree has managed to turn a somersault. But no. Its mouth is still sucking the sweet milk of earth while it lifts its leafy arms to pray and yet it can stand and look at God all day. It's just a very limber tree, that's all. It's a contortionist tree."

"Next the poet gives us the ridiculous image of a tree wearing robins in her hair. What hair? The armpits maybe of the 'leafy arms' she lifts in prayer? Nothing else would seem to make any sense given what we've read of the tree's anatomy thus far." Our instructor shrugged, as though totally confused, then continued.

"Then there's the question of the tree's 'intimate' relationship with rain. 'Intimate.' What an interesting word choice." The instructor smirked, then after a pause said, "maybe we'd better not go there. "Let's address the bosom question instead."

"Joyce Kilmer, being the incomparable craftsman that he is, next gives us the image of the tree with snow on its bosom. Now where in the devil is this part of his tree's anatomy located, anyway? Somewhere, I guess, between 'its leafy arms raised up to pray' , its hairy armpits and its ground-suckling mouth. This goes beyond simple acrobatics and suggests a tree limber enough to out-contort a Hindu yoga practictioner."

We all laughed. If I remember right, our erudite instructor ended the lecture with something like.....

"His poems are read by fools like we,
But only Kilmer can screw up a tree."

Actually, he used a different word than "screw," but that's not the point. The point is...we laughed. The lecture made me feel as smug as a junior high boy who has just learned a new "dirty" joke, or has heard a secret that he shouldn't have. It made me chuckle when I'd visit my grandparents. It made me feel somehow superior to them when I'd look up and see Kilmer's poem hanging on their living room wall.

It was painted on a round varnished wood plaque. The poem's text was written just below the tree, as if it was sitting in the shade. It rested there like a young man enjoying a mid-day respite from plowing perhaps, or from weeding the garden.

My grandparents knew more about work than they did about literature. My grandfather was a plumber. He made his living by channelling water through or unclogging crap from pipes. You can make a successful argument that a good plumber is an artist in his own right. Having demonstrated my ineptitude at it, I know that I have more respect now for those who practice the profession than I did when I was a college student who looked down at manual labor.

My grandmother was a beautician. She blew out a knee and a hip after years of standing behind an operator's chair, trying to transform frumpy Loretta Lockhorns into glamorous Marilyn Monroes. One can successfully argue that cosmetology is as much an art form as any profession. It certainly takes an artist's vision, dedication and skill.

Perhaps Joyce Kilmer's poem on their wall gave them some moments of pleasure after a hard day's work. Perhaps they only had time to glance at a line or two as they walked past it, in which case the mixed metaphors that my instructor found so laughable would never have ocurred to them. The attraction of the poem, no doubt, for hardworking folks such as my grandparents, was that for a few moments, at least, Joyce Kilmer's images could transport them away from the stress and the aching muscles of their lives and slip them into an idyllic woodland scene. Certainly the poem probably brought them more pleasure than their grandkids did. My parents struggled to get by in the early years of their marraige, and needed two full-time incomes to pull themselves out of debt. Most of the debt was my fault, thanks to expenses incurred due to my premature birth. My sister and I were dumped on my mother's parents during summer vacation and whenever there were holidays during the school year.

With both of my grandparents working, as well as owning a small resort of fourteen cabins and a lodge to keep up, they didn't have much time to give to us. Ray & Gen's Cabins" had over the years been allowed to dilapidate past respectability into a rural bowery best symbolized by the everpresent bottle of Jim Beam that my grandfather kept on his worktable in the laundry building. The spartan cabins were occupied by this time mostly by alcoholic single males. My sister and I were not allowed to wander out of the area that comprised 'the cabins," and we both resented having to be there. Me especially. I kept envisioning my friends in the neighborhood getting together for a ballgame or enjoying the freedom to play in the creek or roam in the woods behind our homes.

The woods. Perhaps that's the reason "Trees" is so popular. The poem tugs at the heart, not at the intellect. We've all enjoyed the peace and beauty of the forest. More people can identify with the sentiments expressed in "Trees" than with "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." Not that such a comparison makes "Trees" a better poem. If one were to carry an argument like that to its illogical conclusion, Britney Spear's "Oops, I Did It Again" has more merit than "The Wasteland." No, that's absurd. T.S. Eliot has and will continue to stand the test of time as have you, Mr. Kilmer, whereas the "Pop-tart" will go through her fifteen minutes of fame quicker than a much more talented singer, Janis Joplin, could slug down a fifth of "Southern Comfort."

Still, Joyce Kilmer's "Trees" has given a lot of pleasure to a lot of people. In that respect Joyce Kilmer is and continues to be a well-loved poet despite what critics like Professor Supercillious do to demean his reputation. In all honesty, there's no telling what his literary career would have been had he not been killed in action in France toward the end of World War I. It was an unnecessary death. He had five children and was thirty years old. He wouldn't have had to go. He bought into the rhetoric, though, that it was "the War to End All Wars," and he felt compelled to enlist to do his part to make it so.

Mr. Kilmer, it's time to tender you an apology. Your poem, "Trees," has stood for generations like a majestic oak. Its honesty and imagery are simple enough for anyone to understand. Sure there are more erudite, more accomplished, and more learned poets out there to read, but Mr. Kilmer, your poem has reached out to touch an audience that normally doesn't give a damn about poetry. Perhaps there's a lesson in this. Until we, as writers, learn to touch the hearts of our readers as you have yours with your "Trees," we'll be lucky to pull more than a couple dozen people into a poetry reading. People want poetry that they can understand, that they can derive comfort and solace from; not verse laden to the density of lead with obscure literary and historical allusions. As for me, if I could write one poem that has moved as many people as your "Trees" poem has, I'd consider myself a success as a writer, as you have been proven over time to be.

Now I'd be proud to have that plaque on my wall.