Skip to main content

Fungi - Poem

Fungi transformed in our imaginations after the Wood wide web was discovered and described by the forest ecologist Suzanne Simard. And later powerfully evoked by writers like Peter Wohlleben and Robert Macfarlane. We now know that they connect forests, live in the ocean's depths and thrive in nuclear waste where nothing else can live. Their structures and lives confound our understanding. Their presence on the planet is almost all pervasive, that the dominion of any other life on here turns illusory as we study fungi more deeply. This poem is written from astonishment, terror, enchantment and a range of other feelings fungi can conjure.

Fungi


Let me throw you a riddle.
Us, I, all of me.
Bedrock, sky, all in between.
Big, bigger than any dinosaur.
Deep, deep as ocean floor.

Life and life's reverse,
death and death's converse,
comprehension's curse,
webwork, network,
sub-soil universe.
Underland's ancient internet,
Underground's riddle-verse.

Mildew, mushroom and mold -
mere dots above spaces we hold.
We are alchemists of matter,
for miles in ev'ry meter.
Post-men of roots, grammar of trees,
linkers of forests, vanquishers of species.

Brackets, leaf-spots, patterners of things,
food, poison and fairy rings.
Revivers of land - burnt and razed,
dwellers of death-soil - nuclear waste.

We are creators and confounders,
recyclers and destroyers.

Would you dare try
to fathom fungi?
Unravel our extent,
Untangle our webs,
Understand our depths,
Unriddle our ways?
You'd rather perish
moulder, rot, decay,
spread our spores,
feed our hyphae,
and have all your matter -
dis-mattered - and dispensed away.

-M.Yuvan



Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Wilderness is also the Wayside - Poem

I remember reading somewhere that not a square kilometer exists in the world now where human trace isn't present. But as this was taking place, life too adapted to live in the habitats of our making. It has learnt to permeate it in so many ways, even into our bleak urban-scapes. Richard Powers said that "if you allow for kinship then the question of 'you' becomes permeable". In this fragmented age, how do we reimagine 'ourselves' in relationship with the soil, sky, leaves and birds? What connect and purpose could life around us offer in these times - spiritually? Could they be agents of our own inner transformation? Perhaps some of this could start with being profoundly observant in our daily lives.  Rachel Carson spoke of wonder as a 'radical state of mind'. Maybe wonder and watchfulness are powerful tools of community change. How do lives sharing our immediate spaces and surroundings braid our own? How do they invade or interweave our contexts? ...

Palaash Blossoms and Rosy Starlings

Palaash Blossom and Rosy Starlings If not every day, then during every transiting month, the human being who pleasures in taking long walks and communing with the landscape, has something or the other to anticipate excitedly. March is almost upon us and the Palaash trees everywhere are full of buds, making their branches sag. Very soon, when one looks up one morning, they would have suddenly bloomed altogether, overnight. And the tree would then bear not a sole leaf. Not a tinge of dark green would be seen on its crown, for it would have replaced every single one of them with its tongue like kesari-orange flowers curling towards the sky. From a distance, with some imagination on my part, the tree could well be a titan’s arm reaching up with his palm spread wide, his crooked fingers dripping with magma, having broken through the crust. The roads and walkways below are carpeted. The canopies of the smaller trees around are topped. Its flowers bob all along the shores of a pond...

Gurudongmar Lake

  A white void, vast as a mountain’s foot, lies amoebiacally here. Its thick blunt limbs fill gaping valleys. I feel strange tickling sensations under the soles of my feet. I stand at the edge of a steep fold of land and gaze at Gurudongmar lake, a couple of hundred feet diagonally below. It is unfreezing itself as morning grows; as if by volition. The stray thought of slipping over this rocky slope makes me breathe hard. My carotids knock on my throat. Pinballs of thought guzzle oxygen. And here at about 17,800 feet, it is scant. My team leader gives me an oxygen aerosol-can and keeps an eye. Not many months ago we were on a jeep winding around sharp Himalayan roads on the way to Sela-pass. We were at little under 14,000 feet, near the border of Arunachal Pradesh and Chinese-Tibet. After initial nausea, I had an onset of strange altitude sickness. Breathlessness, copious salivation and I sank into a state of semi-consciousness. I saw whiteness, flashes of closely grazing Yaks, c...