Brave Are Those Who Do Not Fell Trees

A coward is not the one who remains standing when bombs are falling. A weakling harms that which cannot run. With their entire network of being, the trees cannot run from bombs and firing squads. The roots remain rooted. The trunks remain standing, chest forward. The branches do not shrink from their widespread arms—let me hug you, you whose heart is veined by greed and hate. You may bring your war to trees, but it is your courage that dies. Recall the ginkgo tree that survived the atomic bombing in 1945? It survived radiation, lightning, and even typhoons. It did not die yesterday and did not die today. It just wants a kind place to be. Who is brave enough to give it? Who is tall enough to say, “From the cruelty that befell me, I shall give you peace.” Not the one who breezes cruelty in the clouds as a peaceful intervention. Not the one who can outrun the roots. Not the one who keeps harming sister and brother leaves. The trees know relentless uprooting and bombing too. Their pride is to root for the return of their owners. Muted as you might think, they are the librarians on land. They archive stories of many generations. When you despair, they teach you how to resist hate with saplings. When you tire, they lend a lesson of persistence in drought. Seek counsel with baobabs, olives, gingkos, and acacias. Too many wars, too many fallen trees, and so much courage wasted. For what? Will a spoon of olive oil reason the heart? Will a ginkgo bar cleanse the intent to retaliate? Will the acacia thorns acupuncture on the chronic fears? Will the baobab juice prompt wisdom? Will any tree product manage the appetite for weapons? Give yourself up to trees. Give yourself a hug from a tree. Lay your weapons down, and the roots will help you bury that cowardice. Lay your war down, and the trees will save you from the cracking lands.

Gloria D. Gonsalves

Three Questions for Gloria D. Gonsalves

What inspired your choice of medium(s), genre(s), and/or form(s)?

My ancestral background influences most of my poetry forms, unless I write from a prompt. I was born and raised in Tanzania. Storytelling plays a crucial role in conveying wisdom and moral lessons. Naturally, prose and free verse are forms to which I feel more drawn. 

I am self-taught and have been writing poetry for over fifteen years, and I am still learning. This intent to be a lifelong student steers me away from popular business and marketing ideas. I am productive and content when writing.

In the past, writing stories and poems carried equal importance. Since becoming a parent, I have found poetry writing to be more achievable than story writing. I can quickly draft an entire poem without the demands of plotting and character development beyond a page. Producing a tangible creative thing called a poem is necessary for morale. I tell myself, “A bad story can be summarized into a good poem.” 

Can you walk us through your creative process for the work?

I prefer to wait for a poem, i.e., a sentence or word knocking urgently in my mind. If I write it down, the process of hosting a poem begins. Whatever the poem needs, I must be hospitable. Regrettably, there are poems still sitting in my living room waiting. Why they do not leave, I do not know. I try not to catch a poem by its tail when exiting because it knows better. A poem has to willingly stand on my front door and offer a gift of words. For this poem, the title Brave are those who do not fell trees was so vivid that I had to receive it.

I also believe in the ability and skill to listen and hear when a poem wishes for manifestation. This sacredness of receiving is why I am reluctant to be labelled as a specialist in a particular subject or form. Experiences come in a myriad forms, and it is a pity if caged by one subject or form only. A poem has needs and I must be ready with hosting tools. Ultimately, a poem must guide me.

Occasionally, I look for a poem by invoking a specific subject or form in mind. This is also true when writing from prompts. I also have the habit of calling upon dead poets who mastered a particular topic or form as my spirit mentors.

What is the significance of the work to you?

This poem came to me in March 2024. Online word censoring was happening if supporting Palestine. My mechanism for protesting and grieving was to write poetry. Unfortunately, I also learned that gatekeeping was happening. Bearing witness as a non-Palestinian was questionable. Being pro-Palestine had consequences, too.

I am attached to trees because I run to them when my world is exhausting or falling apart. To watch their destruction, knowing they cannot outrun weapons, was painful. Trees can stand as a metaphor for humans unable to flee war and genocide. Perhaps it was my conscious effort to show support by ensuring the poem is not censored. Being silent could mean an ally or a conspirator. I chose to tread carefully, so the trees could be spared.

Gloria D. Gonsalves is an author, poet, illustrator, and occasional columnist. Her writing has appeared in various literary magazines, journals, and anthologies in Africa, Europe, and the USA. Besides writing, she is also the founder of WoChiPoDa.com, an initiative to instill the love of poetry in children. Born and raised in Tanzania and later migrated to Ireland, she lives in Germany.

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