Lost Brother

Lost Brother

I knew that tree was my lost brother
when I heard he was cut down
at four thousand eight hundred sixty-two years;
I know we had the same mother.
His death pained me. I made up a story.
I realized, when I saw his photograph,
he was an evergreen, a bristlecone like me,
who had lived from an early age
with a certain amount of dieback,
at impossible locations, at elevations
over ten thousand feet in extreme weather.
His company: other conifers,
the rosy finch, the rock wren, the raven and clouds,
blue and silver insects that fed mostly off each other.
Some years bighorn sheep visited in summer—
he was entertained by red bats, black-tailed jackrabbits,
horned lizards, the creatures old and young he sheltered.
Beside him in the shade, pink mountain pennyroyal—
to his south, white angelica.
I am prepared to live as long as he did
(it would please our mother),
live with clouds and those I love
suffering with God.
Sooner or later, some bag of wind will cut me down.

—Stanley Moss
This is a poem about a man (the poet) who heard that a really old tree was cut down. He relates himself to the tree, calling it his lost brother because they had the same mother. The mother that the poet speaks of is 'Mother Earth'. The poet tries to envision the tree's life in order to come to terms with its death. The poet's reference to living as long as the tree is not literal. Presumably, he means that he will live in heaven. 'Suffering with God' is an odd sentence. Perhaps it is because the poet thinks that life is a better place than death in heaven. I like the last line the most because of the phrase 'bag of wind'. It could be a deliberately vague reference to anything that could kill him (this relates to trees because a strong wind will blow a tree down) Additionally, a 'windbag' is a derogatory term for someone who talks a lot about nothing meaningful. It sort of means 'pompous idiot'. Since the poet is presumably a literary, intelligent person, it's sort of funny that he thinks such people will kill him. It could be sort of a veiled insult.

(FYI: I really really really hate poetry. It's just a bunch of words thrown together in an ungrammatical order that can be construed to mean whatever you want it to. A kindgergartner could throw together a string of random words and call it poetry, and if you didn't know who had written it, you would believe that it was real. Poetry is a way of saying what you mean in the weirdest, vaguest, most incomprehensible way possible. It does not appeal to me. I hate being forced to 'understand' something that has been willfully encoded in unsentences and unparagraphs and ungrammar. It's more like decrypting a secret spy-message than reading and appreciating great thoughts and ideas. Therefore, I have an incredibly difficult time writing about poems because I hate them, I don't care about them and the ones on our list are either extra-super-random (or so deep that it is brain-defyingly beyond my ability to comprehend) or too obvious to write much about or just plain weird.)

(Sorry about the rant. I just do not like poetry at all. There is occasionally a phrase or a poem I will enjoy, but 99.9% of the time, I hate poetry.)