Zen on the Lizard
—from the Cornish Lis and Ard, meaning roughly ‘high place’
Air salts the end of the world near serpentine cliffs, stone dark greens spiced with red, once submerged now relentlessly scoured. The Atlantic Ocean’s teal knives hew below, but not without a windy sense of humor—over there, the frog, hugely out of scale, snake-skinned, one eye peeled. The carving, simmering, has it always seamed this way? In 1290, Hereford Mappa Mundi—the only surviving complete medieval map of the known world—depicted the British Isles and within it, Cornwall’s chiseled existence, where I sit in the ink of a surprisingly warm morning in 2019. My arms stretch across a weathered bench on a path drawn between history and landmark. No matter whether I believe in ley lines, only lightness, whispers. My hiking boots grow roots. Tiny belly flowers pepper the cliff grass and me no greater, no less than this.
Judge’s comments:
What is most striking about “Zen on the Lizard” is the speaker’s voice—“teal knives,” “windy sense of humor,” “the ink of a surprisingly warm morning”—the poem presents the views along with the mind of the viewer; this is a person who feels real even in the more mythical moments of when “hiking boots grow roots.” The speaker is both part of the cliffs and apart at the same time. Poetry written with such clear intentionality, but done so seamlessly, where the speaker’s thoughts almost become your own is a hard skill to master. This work is served by the prose structure, the lines long and spacing tight, making the poem a whole on the white page just as the cliffs and the speaker are one. It is a long, bone-deep breath.
Susan Easterly
Susan Easterly is poetry contributing editor for laJoie, a quarterly publication dedicated to promoting appreciation for all beings. She lives in Newberg, Oregon.