cover of "Isle Royale Album," composed by Elizabeth Bergstrom, 2022 Teen Artist-in-Residence, Isle Royale National Park
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
Rock
Rex Petra or Regiis Saxum
(A Song of Isle Royale)
There is a
deep
deep
heart of dark stone
hidden in the lake,
wild waves breaking on its hard core,
unnoticeable,
except it juts out in forested miles of island rocks,
far in the great expanse of water.
An isle
of heartstone,
of deep stone,
of king’s stone,
of hard rock that we call
beautiful.
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
Prelude
On the Way to Isle Royale on the Ferry Ranger Ⅲ
(A Song of Adventure)
Quiet.
Rumbling behind my eyes,
water rushes in harried bubbles bursting,
explosive,
white bubbles white wall blue rails
frothing past.
A child of raindrops
meets its people a nation strong,
a storm in the making, the original, the raging older brother,
created as the seams of the Earth split and formed anew.
We ride above ignoring your rocking warnings;
we are prepared.
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
First Movement: Water
Do You Hear It?
(A Song of Lake Superior)
Listen.
Even the thunder is drowned by Its roar.
The wind and sky scoop great chunks of Its depths
and throws them against the shoreline.
Its frightening joy scrapes rocks to dust
and violently quenches the Earth’s thirst;
in great heaves It vomits our boats from its stomach,
in great leaps It strikes the closest cliffs.
It thunders
and cackles
and whispers
so listen.
Whitecaps
(A song of the Surface of Lake Superior)
Way out beyond the bay
in the truest Superior
the waves
have grown long beards of white bubbles
They lean forward
and lose balance
and fall into their brothers with a crash,
then get back up again
so the others have someone to fall on,
until the wind pulls each wave
to the shore
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
Water
(A Song of Rain)
A swish creates a clatter of droplet voices.
Splashing surface becomes rain until rain becomes surface again —
why choose?
Water becomes all forms and none; every piece is one part of the whole.
…
Sometimes I envy their oneness.
It would be nice to become a peaceful part of a bigger wave,
while being free to splish a little, play a little, even drop on my outstretched hand
(more often on my nose).
They brew thunder and become darkness
before falling down to fill up our wells again.
Tame but always wild.
Sure I envy. Who wouldn’t?
Where does water go?
It gets everywhere, in every crevice and piece of air.
Water has explored the darkest oceans, the smoothest rivers, the deepest valleys.
Water has traveled everywhere we have — we carry it within us.
Water brings life and flows throughout everything,
in peace and in tides,
a wild tool of Mother Earth.
perhaps we could learn a thing or two…
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
Second Movement: Life
Fly Poem
(A Song of Muscidae)
The way a fly moves it’s almost like it’s a stop-motion animation,
it’s so jerky,
too fast for reality but too many pauses for
truth.
It washes its hands, unaware
of the irony
It lands on the picnic bench, unconcerned
by my presence
No one can ever touch a fly.
Can it predict the future
or are we living in its past?
And as always,
it leaves before I know it's gone.
Mosquito Song
(A song of the little ones all around)
Listen to the whispered voices of the mosquitos quietly
singing
a song of existing only for a moment,
wanting
to pass on life to new generations through the blood of their
enemies,
and friends,
and acquaintances,
whose bodies react to our unintended gift with itching…
but perhaps we can learn to appreciate
the struggle
a mother mosquito has to exist
before we slap them
and punish them as thieves and felons.
It isn’t their fault that they annoy us
and we try to avoid them
(for good reason)
but
instead of deciding to exterminate your mosquito population,
listen to their song
first.
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
King Lichen
(A Song of the Forest)
Lichen sprouts and shifts and spreads,
draping on trees like a shaggy mane,
and like anyone all dressed up,
they wear it proudly
but quietly.
Lichen dresses the dead trees to look alive
as they stand asleep,
held up by the weight of their roots and of the years.
Lichen eases their passing until they return to their Mother
and Lichen continues.
One could imagine
(as one does on a rainy day)
that Lichen is actually the King of the forest —
one being
presiding everywhere,
watching over the trees,
the first one to come after a fire destroys,
the pathfinder for new plants to grow,
even on the rocks and on the used-up places.
How unusual
for something to go first
willingly.
King Lichen watches over the forest
and everyone within it.
ELIZABETH BERGSTROM
Postlude
Still Growing
(A Song of Perseverance)
Inspired by a tiny channel in a rock in the shoreline constantly flowing with water, with a stubborn growth of moss within it
Moss is growing in a small crack in a rock on Lake Superior’s shore,
common and yet…
The rocks are surrounded by water and
the Lake licks the moss,
not caring if it wears away its roots
piece by piece.
I imagine while the storms howl
that rock is completely covered in cold water.
Barely any lichen grows;
a few brave grasses grow in clumps.
But the moss sits on wet stone
existing on the edge,
without a care,
still growing.
