FORAGING FOR WOOD ON THE MOUNTAIN BY JACK GILBERT

The wild up here is not creatures, wooded, 
tangled wild. It is absence wild. 
Barren, empty, stone wild. Worn-away wild. 
Only the smell of weeds and hot air. 
But a place where differences are clear. 
Between the mind’s severity and its harshness. 
Between honesty and the failure of belief. 
A man said no person is educated who knows 
only one language, for he cannot distinguish 
between his thought and the English version. 
Up here he is translated to a place where it is 
possible to discriminate between age and sorrow.

 (C) Jack Gilbert

• Have you ever climbed above the treeline? If so, what did you experience? What feels different in the “empty, stone wild”?

• Do you also speak the language of mountain? If so, what does she say? How does she speak to you?

• Begin a poem with the words, “The wild up here is not…”