East River Park Oak Tree

(after Marianne Moore’s “The Camperdown Elm”)

by Marcella Durand

Dear Mayor Bill de Blasio,

I choose as my tree
an oak that stands
somewhat alone
in a triangular lawn-like space
facing the East River
in East River Park,
which is slated
to be demolished
this coming September
per your opaque and confusing
plans to, at some point,
protect the Lower East Side
from flooding
during superstorms.

The oak is large,
surprisingly large,
meaning that it must 
also be old, but probably not older 
than the park’s original
construction in the 1930s,
so, if it were allowed
to continue to grow,
in 100 more years
it would be enormous,
a real presence,
a landmark, a tree
to treasure and remember
an enlightened city administration
that made the decision,
against money and power,
against real-estate interests 
and colonialist mentality
to cherish and protect it.

I stood by this oak
for a long time a few
weeks ago during what
seemed the worst days
of the pandemic. 
I noticed on its bark
many ants and spiders—
you would never notice
them until you had,
like me, stood and
watched the tree
for more than the
few minutes the 
consultants for the East Side
Coastal Resiliency Project
have spent in the park
in order to determine
that it has no wildlife
to speak of. I have
often found that,
when it comes to 
nature, you have
to wait and let
it come to you,
like how Thoreau
looked into a dark room
and waited patiently
until his pupil expanded
enough that he could
see into the darkness.

I lay down in the grass 
under the oak and gazed
up to the tips
of its branches.
A bright red bird flew
in and among them:
I thought at first
it was an oriole
but found out later
it was a scarlet
tanager. What an
amazing color
to see so high up
amid the green
from so far down
on the ground. 
A large tan bird
then flew in circles
over the tree
and I wondered idly
(because I was getting sleepy,
as I tend to do when lying
in grass under a tree)
why a seagull was
flying in circles
over a tall oak tree
and why a smaller 
bird seemed to be
chasing it away.
Then, my mind
clicked back into place
and I realized
it was no seagull, but
a red-tailed hawk
and that the smaller
bird—maybe a crow
or a starling—
was chasing it 
out of its territory.

The oak has traces
of graffiti on its trunk
and yesterday a young
man pulled up next to it
on his bike and settled 
in to read, leaning against
the trunk with a book
that he often put down
to gaze around him—
at the river, at the light
on the river, at people
sitting, playing, talking,
or, like him, gazing at
at the silvery blue
of the river in afternoon light.

I’m sure he found
the shade as pleasant
as I did—the oak 
tree provides enough
shade for so many 
of us to socially
distance ourselves
comfortably, while
yet protecting us from
full sun (something 
your plan lacks: mature
trees therefore also
lacking shade or shadows
thrown by leaves flickering
in the breeze that comes
in from the ocean, 

and therefore, also
lacking birds, therefore
insects, ant colonies, 
therefore spiders,
therefore hawk, therefore
scarlet tanager, blue jay,
northern mockingbird,
migrating warbler, therefore
robin families every spring,
young robins with speckled
chests following parent
robins with red chests
pulling worm after worm out
from soil deemed disposable
by city consultants; instead,
sterile landfill is to be piled
eight feet high over
soil with earthworms and 
grubs curled into little
balls my son finds
when he helps plant
daffodil bulbs in the fall.

• 

• 

• 

So much lack
in your plan: lack
of community input,
lack of “stakeholder
engagement” (stakeholders
being all of us neighbors here 
now), lack of a wall
that could be between
these trees and the 
six-lane highway that
creates so much pollution
and noise all day and
all night and all day
and all night, lack of a choice
between park and highway,
lack of a vision to create
flood protection over
the highway instead of
a park, and such a lack
of love for old trees—

the grass underneath
this oak is so pleasant, 
pleasant enough to 
dream of a city
that might value
such trees and
value the quality 
of all life, a city 
that might appreciate
our community living
on a small peninsula
off the island of 
Manhattan, a hook,
a slight protuberance
into the river, far away
from the subway and
with fewer schools and
hardly any parks or gardens
any larger than a city block,
a community comprised
of many different people
doing many different
things sometimes getting
along, sometimes not, but
negotiating together
toward a civic
existence that might
include fresh air, light,
and a place to play, think,
read, breathe in this
a neighborhood
otherwise crushed
between a giant
bridge and a giant
highway, to dream
of a city that might
see no good reason
to cut down an oak tree ever. 

Sincerely,

–Marcella Durand of the Lower East Side, sent this poem to Mayor deBlasio and other city officials. She writes, “I was so frustrated with writing letters and comments with no response, then read about Marianne Moore’s poem, and thought, well, why not poetry?”

Read “Marianne Moore and the Crowning Curio: How a Poem Saved One of the World’s Rarest and Most Majestic Trees.” The Camperdown Elm.