Melissa Studdard is the author of two poetry collections, I Ate the Cosmos for Breakfast,and Dear Selection Committee(forthcoming summer 2021), and the chapbook Like a Bird with a Thousand Wings. Her work has been featured by PBS, NPR,The New York Times, The Guardian, and the Academy of American Poets’ Poem-a-Day series, and has also appeared in periodicals such as POETRY, Kenyon Review, Psychology Today, New Ohio Review, Harvard Review, Missouri Review, and New England Review. Her Awards include: The Penn Review Poetry Prize, the Tom Howard Prizefrom Winning Writers, the Lucille Medwick Memorial Award from the Poetry Society of America, and more.
To Be With Trees
I dreamed of trees with blue veins in a forest full of wilting.
And there, all my southern girl self, full of No thank yous,
full of You first and Go ahead and have the last piece of cake.
I want that that last piece of cake. Dreamed the trees
made me my own torte, and I could have the whole thing.
My sisters, the trees, they said Come now, sit, eat.
They had blue veins in the forest full of wilting, and I cried.
There were no forks. They said my hands were fork enough.
And when I tried to say please, the trees said my eyes
were please, and they said my mouth was thank you,
and the trees cried too. They had beautiful eyes
for crying. A color I had never seen. So I named it
Godlovesyoureyesbecausetheymadethemthisbeautifulcolor.
Now anyone who ever saw the color would think of the trees
and the meaning of the trees, which was to be.
*Published at Tinderbox Poetry Journal and in 100 Poems to Save the Earth Anthology, made into a short film by Pat van Boeckel for Visible Poetry Project, and forthcoming in the book Dear Selection Committee.
TᎣ BᎡ Ꮻth TrᎡᎡᏍ
To Be With Trees
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Translator Mysti S. Milwee ©)
Ꭲ drᎡᎠᎺd Ꭳf trᎡᎡᏍ Ꮻth bᎷᎡ ᎥᎡᎢnᏍ Ꭲn Ꭰ fᎣrᎡᏍt fᎤll Ꭳf ᏫlᏘng.
Ꭰnd tᎮrᎡ, Ꭰll my ᏐᎤtᎮrn Ꭹrl Ꮞlf, fᎤll Ꭳf Ꮓ tᎭnk ᏲᎤᏍ,
fᎤll Ꭳf ᏲᎤ fᎢrᏍt Ꭰnd Ꭺ ᎠᎮᎠd Ꭰnd ᎭᎥᎡ tᎮ ᎳᏍt pᎢᎡcᎡ Ꭳf cᎠkᎡ
Ꭲ Ꮹnt tᎭt tᎭt ᎳᏍt pᎢᎡcᎡ Ꭳf cᎠkᎡ. DrᎡᎠᎺd tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ
ᎹᏕ Ꮊ my Ꭳwn tᎣrᏖ, Ꭰnd Ꭲ cᎣᎤld ᎭᎥᎡ tᎮ wᎰᎴ tᎯng.
My ᏏᏍᏖrᏍ, tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ, tᎮy ᏌᎢd CᎣᎺ Ꮓw, Ꮟt, ᎡᎠt.
TᎮy Ꭽd bᎷᎡ ᎥᎡᎢnᏍ Ꭲn tᎮ fᎣrᎡᏍt fᎤll Ꭳf ᏫlᏘng, Ꭰnd Ꭲ crᎢᎡd.
TᎮrᎡ ᏪrᎡ Ꮓ fᎣrkᏍ. TᎮy ᏌᎢd my ᎭndᏍ ᏪrᎡ fᎣrk ᎡᏃᎤgh.
Ꭰnd wᎮn Ꭲ trᎢᎡd tᎣ Ꮜy pᎴᎠᏎ, tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ ᏌᎢd my ᎡᏰᏍ
ᏪrᎡ pᎴᎠᏎ, Ꭰnd tᎮy ᏌᎢd my ᎼᎤth ᏩᏍ tᎭnk ᏲᎤ,
Ꭰnd tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ crᎢᎡd tᎣᎣ. TᎮy Ꭽd bᎡᎠᎤᏘfᎤl ᎡᏰᏍ
fᎣr crᏱng. Ꭰ cᎣᎶr Ꭲ Ꭽd ᏁᎥᎡr ᏎᎡn. Ꮠ Ꭲ ᎾᎺd Ꭲt
ᎪdᎶᎥᎡᏍᏲᎤrᎡᏰᏍbᎡcᎠᎤᏎtᎮyᎹᏕtᎮmtᎯᏍbᎡᎠᎤᏘfᎤlcᎣᎶr.
Ꮓw ᎠnᏲᏁ wᎰ ᎡᎥᎡr Ꮜw tᎮ cᎣᎶr ᏬᎤld tᎯnk Ꭳf tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ
Ꭰnd tᎮ ᎺᎠᏂng Ꭳf tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ, wᎯch ᏩᏍ tᎣ bᎡ.
Family Tree
My mother was a lake
full of water lilies,
my father was a bridge
between the bardo
and heaven. He tossed me
to his shoulders
for the parade of grandparents
at night: Orion
and Cassiopeia, Gemini and Auriga.
Once we saw a cousin
shoot from the ground beside
a circle of pines. Geyser,
Mother said, tossing a silver
carp into the air. When
I was old enough, I asked them
the story of my birth,
and they each handed me a singing
sparrow the color of my hair.
*Published in Skin Deep Anthology and forthcoming in the book Dear Selection Committee
FᎠᎻly TrᎡᎡ
Family Tree
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Translator Mysti S. Milwee ©)
My ᎼtᎮr ᏩᏍ Ꭰ ᎳkᎡ
fᎤll Ꭳf ᏩᏖr ᎵᎵᎡᏍ,
my fᎠtᎮr ᏩᏍ Ꭰ brᎢdᎨ
bᎡtᏪᎡn tᎮ bᎠrᏙ
Ꭰnd ᎮᎠᎥᎡn. Ꭾ tᎣᏍᏎd Ꮊ
tᎣ ᎯᏍ ᏍᎰᎤlᏕrᏍ
fᎣr tᎮ pᎠrᎠᏕ Ꭳf grᎠndpᎠrᎡntᏍ
Ꭰt Ꮒght: ᎣrᎢᎣn
Ꭰnd CᎠᏍᏏᎣpᎡᎢᎠ, ᎨᎻᏂ Ꭰnd ᎠᎤrᎢᎦ.
ᎣncᎡ Ꮺ Ꮜw Ꭰ cᎣᎤᏏn
ᏍᎰᎣt frᎣm tᎮ grᎣᎤnd bᎡᏏᏕ
Ꭰ cᎢrcᎴ Ꭳf pᎢᏁᏍ. ᎨyᏎr,
ᎼtᎮr ᏌᎢd, tᎣᏍᏏng Ꭰ ᏏᎸᎡr
cᎠrp ᎢntᎣ tᎮ ᎠᎢr. WᎮn
Ꭲ ᏩᏍ Ꭳld ᎡᏃᎤgh, Ꭲ ᎠᏍkᎡd tᎮm
tᎮ ᏍtᎣry Ꭳf my bᎢrth,
Ꭰnd tᎮy ᎡᎠch ᎭnᏕd Ꮊ Ꭰ ᏏnᎩng
ᏍpᎠrrᎣw tᎮ cᎣᎶr Ꭳf my ᎭᎢr.
If Falling is a Leaf
urging the earth
into autumn
the branch is a lover who remembers
orange unlocked at the gates of fire
orange so bold it seduces green
orange unbuttoning the sun
and wearing it to summer’s funeral
because in loss
we are most vibrant
because urgent regions
of the leaf’s mind
ignite only when it opens
to its own demise
all foliage
is reincarnated into desire
and we’re slayed
by light coming in
through a kitchen window
as though we hadn’t already seen it
for decades through the same pane
so we sneak to the coatroom
of our own party to make love
in everyone else’s fur
feral but divine
our behavior is not wholly holy
but the trees
oh my God
they wear their hearts on their leaves
Ꭲf FᎠlᎵng ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᎴᎠf
If Falling is a Leaf
(Translated into Cherokee Syllabary by Translator Mysti S. Milwee ©)
ᎤrᎩng tᎮ ᎡᎠrth
ᎢntᎣ ᎠᎤtᎤmn
tᎮ brᎠnch ᎢᏍ Ꭰ ᎶᎥᎡr wᎰ rᎡᎺmbᎡrᏍ
ᎣrᎠnᎨ ᎤnᎶckᎡd Ꭰt tᎮ ᎦᏖᏍ Ꭳf fᎢrᎡ
ᎣrᎠnᎨ Ꮠ bᎣld Ꭲt ᏎᏚcᎡᏍ grᎡᎡn
ᎣrᎠnᎨ ᎤnbᎤttᎣᏂng tᎮ Ꮡn
Ꭰnd ᏪᎠrᎢng Ꭲt tᎣ ᏑmᎺr’Ꮝ fᎤᏁrᎠl
bᎡcᎠᎤᏎ Ꭲn ᎶᏍᏍ
Ꮺ ᎠrᎡ ᎼᏍt ᎥᎢbrᎠnt
bᎡcᎠᎤᏎ ᎤrᎨnt rᎡᎩᎣnᏍ
Ꭳf tᎮ ᎴᎠf’Ꮝ Ꮋnd
ᎢgᏂᏖ Ꭳnly wᎮn Ꭲt ᎣpᎡnᏍ
tᎣ ᎢtᏍ Ꭳwn ᏕᎻᏎ
Ꭰll fᎣᎵᎠᎨ
ᎢᏍ rᎡᎢncᎠrᎾᏖd ᎢntᎣ ᏕᏏrᎡ
Ꭰnd Ꮺ’rᎡ ᏍᎳᏰd
by Ꮅght cᎣᎻng Ꭲn
thrᎣᎤgh Ꭰ kᎢtcᎮn ᏫnᏙw
ᎠᏍ tᎰᎤgh Ꮺ Ꭽdn’t ᎠlrᎡᎠdy ᏎᎡn Ꭲt
fᎣr ᏕcᎠᏕᏍ thrᎣᎤgh tᎮ ᏌᎺ pᎠᏁ
Ꮠ Ꮺ ᏍᏁᎠk tᎣ tᎮ cᎣᎠtrᎣᎣm
Ꭳf ᎣᎤr Ꭳwn pᎠrty tᎣ ᎹkᎡ ᎶᎥᎡ
Ꭲn ᎡᎥᎡrᏲᏁ ᎡlᏎ’Ꮝ fᎤr
fᎡrᎠl bᎤt ᏗᎥᎢᏁ
ᎣᎤr bᎡᎭᎥᎢᎣr ᎢᏍ Ꮓt wᎰlly Ꮀly
bᎤt tᎮ trᎡᎡᏍ
Ꭳh my Ꭺd
tᎮy ᏪᎠr tᎮᎢr ᎮᎠrtᏍ Ꭳn tᎮᎢr ᎴᎠᎥᎡᏍ
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