The Green God Fell to His Knees

"There lies within
A hidden glen
An altar made of stone.
Creeping vine
And moss entwine
To hide this ancient throne.
Tangled thorn
Grows thick to scorn
Those who seek to enter.
For though they strive
No man alive
Shall ever reach its center.
Known as Pan,
To some Green Man,
This glen is his sacred place.
He dons his hood
Of wildwood
To hide his leafy face.
The roving clans
That raped the lands,
Cut down his beloved trees.
And so, alas
As time did pass
The Green God fell to his knees. ..."
- Kristina Peters Moone, The Green Man


"The force that through the green fuse drives the flower
Drives my green age; that blasts the roots of trees
Is my destroyer.
And I am dumb to tell the crooked rose
My youth is bent by the same wintry fever.
The force that drives the water through the rocks
Drives my red blood; that dries the mouthing streams
Turns mine to wax.
And I am dumb to mouth unto my veins
How at the mountain spring the same mouth sucks."
-   Dylan Thomas, The Force That Through the Green Fuse Drives the Flower

The Green Man

Lore, Legends, Tales, Celebrations, Springtime Symbols, Folk Stories and Plays
From the hypertext research notebooks of Mike Garofalo

This cabbage, these carrots, these potatoes,
these onions ... will soon become me.
Such a tasty fact!
- Mike Garofalo, Cuttings

Portrait of the Emperor Rudolph II as Autumn.By Arcimboldo, 1591, Held at the Museo Civico, Brescia. 

Slouching Towards Incoherence

 

Slouching Into Incoherence

By Mike Garofalo

Incoherent poems of word salads
mis-mashed onions and beets mixed
with an obscure metaphorical dressing of
vinegar and bile, croutons of confusion,
tomatoes of nonsense thrown in.
I can’t figure Robert Creely out:
or from CA: Philip Whalen or Larry Ferlinghetti either}
[or from NY: John Ashbery or e.e. cummings either]

Brief excursions on bouncing backroads
of wordy mud puddles of randomness

closed the brittle door on hinges of sounds

read out, read out louder,
rant, whisper, shout out,
the spoken word; ritual tails
wagging like memories lost

flocks of vocabulary typhoons
smashing, yelling, broken cocoons
bursting butterflies of spinning sounds

Read out, read out louder
in a dank smoky coffee house
Hip precursor of Hippie clout

However,
Both Sides: Then and Now.
Hip Zen or Square Zen.
Clear as Sky or Clear as Mud,
Coherent as winter Logic or Obscure as summer Fog;
Throughout the Golden Gate...

Jumping off the ground,
falling up Meanings; or,
standing up Clarity...
Hanging around San Francisco City:

"Coits Tower still screws the sky"
Gregory Corso freed St. Michael from Alcatraz
Moscone and Milk: justice denied
Rexroth translated Chinese verses
Maya Angelou Let the Caged Bird Sing
Jefferson Starship wandered into the White Rabbit's hole
Thomas Cleary translated Taoist prose
Alan Watt’s old houseboat was sold
LSD glasses clearly unclear besmirched
Robert Hass pruned apple trees in Olema
Deng Ming Dao's Scholar-Warrior arose
The Summer of Love amplified Hippie Fun
Edward Espe Brown baked bread in Zen Robes
PhD's from UCB and Stanford ruled the roost
Wendy Johnson gardened the Green Gulch grounds
Tony Bennett left his heart in San Francisco
Isaac Bonewit's magic arose from Neo-Druid lore
Mike McClure centered Beast Language INCANTATIONS
Silicon Valley kids coded new languages with Fortran lines
Amy Tan put SanFran Chinatown folks on the map
Allen Ginsberg’s Berkeley Sunflowers chanted
Steve Job's last words were "Wow"
Jerry Garcia lifted up the Grateful Dead
Philip Whalen helped the dying and bowed
Robert Creely gave a brief, succinct, convoluted scowl
David Brautigan went lingcod fishing in the Bay
Lawrence Ferlinghetti turned the lights on at City Lights
Eric Hoffer loaded boats and warned of True Believers
Zen Master Suzuki taught what Not to Think
UCB students sat-in & shouted out
Hitchhiking poets cried like clowns

Eyes of my Ears: Mystified
Beat poets died. City Lights sighed.

Befuddled by
some poet's words
repeating rereads
increased the blur.
No pearl in the oyster.

25 Steps and Beyond:
The Collected Works of Mike Garofalo

Message from the Vessel in a Dream: A Review

Message from the Vessel in a Dream. By Christopher Luna. First Flowstone Press Edition, 2018, 130 pages. Printed Matter Vancouver VSCL.

Amazon Review by Mike Garofalo:

This is a fine collection of poems authored by Christopher Luna. His poems are mostly in free verse, hip, Beat style, and contemporary. His justified anger about contemporary injustices and oppression are told in his verses. Mr. Luna’s command of creative Beat Style poetic techniques is impressive. He uses prose narratives, quotations, asides, conversational block poems, italic formatted comments on poets and poetry, references to books and articles, abstract and philosophical ruminations at times, and he provides fresh insights. Most of his carefully crafted poems fit on one page. He is frank and open about sexuality, friendships, drugs, parties, contemporary issues, and alternative lifestyles. His sophisticated bluntness and direct manner are invigorating. His poems are mostly about people, not places or nature. I found his Collage Poems technique (Fecund Labyrinth, pp.61-111) very interesting; and his interest in the Investigative Poetry techniques from Ed Sanders to be stimulating.

I find his poetic messages robust, earthy, life loving, and free, for example: “when awake/ each moment/ is a glorious/ potentially transformative/ high energy, construct/that opens slowly, deliberately/ like the lotus petals/ of a woman’s vulva/ as we stand in awe/ scribbling furiously/ hoping to get it all down/ needing to get it right, dammit.” p.37

I have also purchased two of his edited anthologies: Ghost Town Poetry, Open Mic: Volumes 2 and 3; reviewed elsewhere. Also, Good Reads!

I prefer his other good collage art works rather than the astronaut one used on the cover of this engaging book. But, never judge a book by its cover.

The book provides a detailed autobiography and information about other "Rebel Angel" post-modern poets who have influenced him: Allen Ginsberg, Niki Giovanni, Amiri Baraka, Anne Waldman, Ed Sanders, and Diane di Prima." Mr. Luna is an active leader of poetry Open Mic sessions, a literary coach, an editor, a collage artist, film critic, researcher, jazz musician, and social activist in the City of Vancouver, Washington State. He is an “Outsider,” with an MFA from the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics from Naropa University in 1999. He was the Poet Laureate in Vancouver from 2013-2017.

A book deep enough for rereading!

Ghost Town Poetry: Cover to Cover Books, 2004-2010: An Anthology of Poems from the Ghost Town Open Mic Series. Edited by Christopher J. Juna and Toni Partington. 2011, 134 pages. VSCL.

Ghost Town Poetry: Volume Two, 2004-2014. Edited by Christopher Luna and Toni Partington. Cover to Cover Books, Printed Matter Vancouver, WA, 2014, 98 pages. FVRL.

Ghost Town Poetry Open Mic: Volume Three, 2004-2024. Edited by Christopher Luna, Toni Lumbrazo Luna, and Morgan Paige. Printed Matter, Vancouver WA, 2024. 149 pages. Purchased at Birdhouse Books in Vancouver, WA. VSCL. 

Amazon Review by Mike Garofalo:

I was first made aware of this interesting collection when I read a copy of the book borrowed from the Fort Vancouver Regional Library. I found the books artwork, the good poems, and the collage by Christopher Luna to be appealing.

The introduction by Mr. Luna was highly informative and would be useful for anyone trying to establish a local Open Mic poetry reading series in a community. Clark County has over a half million residents, so the nearby fan base of poetry lovers is considerable in the Vancouver, Washington State area where I live. Many interesting people shared their experience, reflections, and poetic compositions.

The poems are challenging, contemporary, hip, inclusive, liberal, woke, and lively. Hearing them read by the authors to the Vancouver Open Mic crowd must have been delightful and thought-provoking.

Although I have lived in Vancouver since 2017, I have never attended an Open Mic session and have not yet met Mr. Luna. I intend to attend my first Open Mic session in Vancouver in April of 2025.

This anthology was edited by Christopher Luna and Toni Partington in 2014.

After reading this book, I purchased “message from the vessel in a dream” authored by Mr. Luna. A very worthwhile purchase for me; reviewed elsewhere. Also, at the local Birdhouse Books bookstore, I purchased a new copy of “Ghost Town Poetry Open Mic: Volume Three, 2004-2024, edited by Chris Luna, Toni Lumbrazo Luna, and Morgan Paige, $20.00.

At 98 pages, this is the smallest chapbook of the three Open Mic anthologies. A very good bargain for a paperback on Amazon.

Book Reviews by Mike Garofalo

The Man Who Planted Trees

 

The Man Who Planted Trees. By Jean Giono. Illustrated by Michael McCurdy. Chelsea Green, 2007, 72 pages. 

From a Facebook Post on March 18, 2025. One reviewer suggested that this is an artificially AI generated post to sell the book. You be the judge:

I found "The Man Who Planted Trees" three days after the diagnosis. Terminal, they said. Six months, maybe less. I hurled books across my hospital room, cursing the universe for its cruelty, until a thin volume slipped from the pile, landing open-faced on the sterile floor. A nurse picked it up, glanced at the first page, and against protocol, left it on my bedside table instead of reshelving it.

"You might need this one," she whispered.

She was right. But not for the reasons either of us could have imagined.

Let me tell you about resurrection.

Not the biblical kind—though what Jean Giono created in his slender 4,000-word masterpiece borders on the miraculous—but the kind that begins with dirt under fingernails and an obstinate refusal to accept desolation as the final word.

Most readers encounter "The Man Who Planted Trees" as ecological parable or gentle inspiration. They admire its message of environmental stewardship, nod appreciatively at its humanistic optimism, perhaps feel momentarily better about our species' potential. Then they return it to the shelf and continue their lives fundamentally unchanged.

I couldn't return it to the shelf. Because Elzéard Bouffier wouldn't let me go.

The story's premise is deceptively simple: In 1913, a young hiker traverses the barren, wind-scoured highlands of Provence, a landscape so bleak it drives inhabitants to madness or exodus. There he encounters a silent shepherd methodically planting oak trees—one hundred perfect acorns daily, year after year, asking nothing in return. The narrator returns after both world wars to discover this solitary man's quiet, relentless labor has miraculously transformed thousands of acres of wasteland into a vibrant, water-rich forest ecosystem where communities once again thrive.

A simple summary that betrays nothing of the story's devastating power.

I began reading in that antiseptic hospital room, my body already betraying me at thirty-six, the scan results still burning in my mind. By page three, something shifted. Giono's sparse prose—devoid of sentimentality yet pulsing with life—bypassed my intellectual defenses and struck directly at something primal within me.

His description of that initial landscape—"everything was barren and colorless, a desert without even the drama of traditional deserts"—mirrored my interior state with such precision that I gasped audibly. The nurse looked up, concerned, but I waved her away, already descending deeper into Giono's world.

When the narrator first meets Bouffier, the shepherd is described with haunting simplicity: "His beard was black, and his shoulders slightly hunched, but his figure was tall and straight, more suggestive of an athlete than an old man." Something in this portrait of contained power, of vitality harnessed for purpose rather than display, seized me. I read the entire story without moving, the hospital machinery beeping in counterpoint to my racing heart.

That night, I dreamed of acorns—hundreds of them, cool and smooth in my palms.

What makes "The Man Who Planted Trees" truly dangerous isn't its ecological message but its fundamental challenge to our understanding of time, purpose, and what constitutes a meaningful life.

Bouffier plants trees he will never sit beneath. He creates forests without recognition or reward. He persists through two world wars, through personal tragedy, through complete societal collapse and reconstruction, doing exactly one thing: planting perfectly selected seeds in precisely the right places, then letting nature and time do what they will.

This radical patience—this refusal of instant gratification, external validation, or even measurable short-term progress—represents a direct assault on everything our culture holds sacred. Bouffier's calm, methodical labor exposes the poverty of our addictions to immediacy, recognition, and tangible results.

And yet, the miracle happens. The wasteland transforms. Life returns. Not through dramatic intervention or technological salvation, but through one man's stubborn, daily choice to believe in a future he personally will barely glimpse.

By day three in the hospital, something unprecedented occurred. I found myself examining my own wasteland with different eyes. What if my diagnosis wasn't an ending but a clarification? What if the time I had—whether six months or six years—could be measured not in duration but in seeds planted?

I began making calls. Family members I'd avoided for decades. Former colleagues I'd betrayed climbing corporate ladders. My estranged son, now eighteen, who'd stopped taking my calls five years earlier.

Many rejected my overtures. Some responded with suspicious caution. A few engaged more openly. I didn't explain the diagnosis—this wasn't about extracting forgiveness or pity. It was about planting whatever seeds I could in the time remaining.

I started volunteering at a youth center near my apartment, teaching chess to kids with life circumstances far more challenging than my privileged trajectory. I allocated my savings to establish a small foundation focused on reforesting a degraded watershed in my grandfather's rural hometown.

The doctors were baffled by my sudden shift from rage to focused engagement. My oncologist suggested the medication might be affecting my cognition. I smiled and told her I'd simply found a better way to measure what remained of my life.

One acorn at a time.

The true power of Giono's story isn't its gentle hopefulness but its ruthless rejection of excuses. Bouffier begins his work as an old man, already sixty-five when the narrator first meets him. He has suffered devastating personal loss. The landscape itself actively resists regeneration. The broader society remains oblivious to his efforts for decades.

None of this matters to him. None of it interrupts the steady rhythm of his planting.

When I returned to the hospital for treatment six weeks after that first reading, I brought my own dog-eared copy of the book. As chemicals designed to kill rapidly dividing cells dripped into my veins, I read aloud to two other patients receiving treatment. One wept silently by the end. The other asked to borrow it when I finished.

We formed an unlikely book group in that chemo ward—discussing Bouffier's methods, his solitude, his monastic patience. The oncology nurses began calling us "the forest people," not understanding our private reference but sensing the strange energy our discussions generated amid the clinical despair.

Seven months later—already longer than my initial prognosis—a second scan showed something unexpected. Not remission, not yet, but a significant slowing of the disease's progression. My oncologist called it "unusual but not unprecedented." I had a different explanation.

I'd begun to dream regularly of Bouffier—not as Giono described him but as a presence beside me, teaching me to distinguish promising acorns from those that would never germinate. In these dreams, we worked together in comfortable silence, filling pockets with seeds, walking barren ridgelines, kneeling in dust and stone.

During my waking hours, I continued my own planting—reconciliations where possible, new connections where not, small contributions to strangers' lives, seeds of possibility in whatever soil would receive them.

Inexplicably, improbably, I was still alive.

What "The Man Who Planted Trees" offers isn't gentle inspiration but a radical alternative to despair. Giono doesn't just tell a pretty story about environmentalism—he demonstrates that meaning exists precisely in the face of apparent futility, that purpose transcends outcome, that transformative power often lies in the humblest, most repetitive actions.

The story's most devastating passage describes Bouffier's work during World War I: "The war of 1914 had taken away all his sons, all three of them... He resumed his planting." This breathtaking understatement contains volumes—both the immensity of Bouffier's personal tragedy and the immensity of his refusal to surrender to it.

Three years after my diagnosis, against all medical predictions, I remain. The disease and I have reached a standoff of sorts—it advances more slowly than expected; I live more fully than I ever did in health. I've since learned that Giono wrote this story for an American magazine that requested "the most extraordinary character I've encountered." He invented Bouffier entirely, later explaining: "My goal was to make trees likeable, or more specifically, to make planting trees likeable."

But here's what Giono himself may not have fully understood: he didn't create a character; he created a template for living meaningfully in the face of apparent hopelessness. He didn't make trees likeable; he made perseverance without guarantee of personal reward not just likeable but essential.

Last week, I visited the youth center where I still teach chess. One of my first students—now heading to college on scholarship—asked why I never seem afraid despite my illness. I showed him my worn copy of Giono's book.

"The man in this story," I explained, "plants trees knowing three things for certain: many will fail to grow, he won't live to see most that do succeed, and he has no guarantee the world won't destroy his work through war or greed or simple indifference."

"Then why bother?" the young man asked.

"Because the planting itself matters," I said. "Because transformation always begins in apparent futility. Because life, ultimately, is measured not in what we harvest but in what we plant."

I don't know if he understood. But later that day, I saw him reading the book in a corner, his expression intense with discovery.

Another acorn planted.

If you value comfort over transformation, avoid "The Man Who Planted Trees." This isn't inspirational literature; it's a literary detonation device disguised as a simple tale. Once you truly absorb Bouffier's example, you lose all excuses for inaction. You forfeit the luxury of despair. You find yourself, against all reason, planting seeds in whatever barren landscape you've been given—with no guarantee except that the planting itself may be the most profound expression of being fully alive.

And somewhere in your dreams, a forest is already rising.

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