Writing this Notebook while waiting for Dorian to arrive, I’m thinking of our charmed tree that has survived unscathed during decades of attacks by those storm-goddesses Irma, Elena, Frances and others, while the twigs and limbs of our supposedly sturdy oaks seem to blow off like dandelion fluff.
We may have the most strangely located royal palm in Florida, nestled 2 feet from the front of our house (see photo). A palm tree, everyone knows, needs lots of space. Now that ours has grown so tall—over 50 feet—we could stand on our roof, stick out an arm, lean against it, and look around at the crooked limbs of the oak trees. The palm has somehow brushed its way through oak branches (several of which blew off last year during Hurricane Irma), and is finally receiving almost full sunlight, said to be what these royal trees also need. But this persistent palm (keeping its perfect posture) has pushed its way majestically through decades of shadow, like the queen of Sheba, now spreading its regal branches over its bowlegged neighbors. Not only that, its bright emerald leaves show that it’s avoided the “lethal bronzing” disease infecting so many royal palms in Florida.
Of course we didn’t plant it there, right below Jeanne’s studio windows. Our theory is that a few years before we arrived the seed was delivered by a bat or a bird (we like the bat idea). After we arrived we soon began planting stalks of azaleas, from cuttings, around the house, cleaning out all the weeds and vines. We did notice a slim stem, about a foot long with upward-pointing feathery leaves, right by the house. Some sort of native Florida flower, we thought, and so left it there, behind the young azalea stalks.
After that, we paid zero attention to it. But in 1972 we left home to live in Switzerland, and when we came home we were surprised to see a little palm tree peeking at us from behind the azaleas, literally growing over one of the roots of the huge oak 8 feet away. “Very brave,” we said, and so didn’t pull it up. We had no idea it was a royal palm. It took us decades to figure that out, as the smooth gray trunk began to show its circular year-lines.
Some poems come back to haunt you. We were northerners, and loved our new house because it was shaded by 9 old oak trees (“Your house is so dark,” guests often say). I thought palm trees looked silly and insubstantial: all that growing, producing no shade. What’s the point? We’d arrived in Florida in 1966 pretty close to being broke, so besides teaching at Florida Presbyterian College, I accepted an appointment as Visiting Poet to Florida’s middle schools, traveling around the state. At one school a row of tall palms could be seen from the classroom, and I suggested we all write a poem about them. I was tired, connecting the piles of poems I’d been reading—and the slim chance of a single one being good enough to read twice—to the trees’ efforts at glamour. So I underestimated the strengths and exotic beauties of the palm tree, and probably underestimated the students’ poems as well. The poem's conclusion is below, but I didn’t read it to them.
Royal Palm
. . . But we have to do it because
in the midst of that tangible boredom—
from that stack of pathetic papers—
there is always one you come across
just before turning to drink
with thoughts of murder or suicide—
there is always one who writes
My wings are invisible but brilliant
They carry me to the dark forest
Where the unicorns kneel in prayer . . .
So You go on after a while
But still, all that effort so little to show
like that royal palm outside our window going up & up
and up with a small green poof at the top
—Both quotes from “Teaching Poetry at a Country School in Florida,” by Peter Meinke, in Liquid Paper: New & Selected Poems, University of Pittsburgh Press 1991.
This article appears in Sep 5-12, 2019.