This is a series of flash interviews with people I admire, people who are doing something—anything, a lot of things—for the Earth. These folks walk the walk, each of them in their own way, using their unique skillset. They dedicate their energy, their time, and their hearts to a crucial cause: the preservation of this precious planet we call home.
Glenis Redmond has a way with words, and words have their way with her.
She writes about many things, including “the weighted history of the red clay South.” Often she’s spinning poems about the fragility of nature, its beauty, and how her ancestors have historically been barred from enjoying that beauty. She signs her e-mails with “Yours in Verse…”
Originally studying to become a clinical psychologist, Glenis veered into the world of poetry as a young working mother in the 1990s. She has created, hosted, and won poetry slam competitions, garnering national awards along the way, and taught writing workshops in classrooms all over the country. She describes herself as a performance poet and a griot—a storyteller in the African tradition. She is the first Poet Laureate of the City of Greenville, South Carolina and a Teaching Artist at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts. In 2022, she was inducted into the South Carolina Academy of Authors, the state’s literary hall of fame. Earlier this year, she received South Carolina’s highest civilian honor, The Order of the Palmetto, which is bestowed by the Governor to recognize a person’s lifetime of achievement and service.
Despite living with chronic illness and now cancer, Glenis is a joyous person. She tends a robust flower garden and shares her delight in nature with the next generation. Several years ago, she launched a project of visiting every state park in her home state, accompanied by her grandson Julian. Their travels have taken them from the Lowcountry to the mountains and inspired two books of poetry: Over Yonder: A Poet’s Exploration of South Carolina State Parks and The Song of Everything: A Poet’s Exploration of South Carolina State Parks II.
Here’s what Glenis shared with me about her lifelong connection with the natural world, and the solace it provides for her. And … a special treat … she shares some poems with us!
Glenis, please tell us about some of your early experiences in nature.
From as early as I can remember, I was a nature girl. My maternal grandmother, Katie Latimore—born in 1901 and who lived to 109—first nurtured that part of me. When my father was stationed in Thailand, we lived with her in Laurens, South Carolina right next to her. She always had vegetable and flower gardens. I distinctly remember hollyhocks, hydrangeas, and hibiscus. Her calla lilies were the tallest of the tall.
In her yard also stood two pecan trees, and she taught me how to gather the nuts. That lesson left a profound impression on me, planting a deep reverence for the natural world. Later, it became a poem:
WAY BACK WHEN
For Katie Latimore
Way back when there was a tree
I did not know the names of things yet
but you taught me pecan tree.
Way back then I saw your hands
and how much they looked like
mahogany bark—
how they were wise
with the know-how
of gathering.
I was four, so I did not question
how you knew. I just felt how
time lasted longer in your lessons.
In our joint yards you taught me
how to separate the good nuts from the bad:
those with weight
were keepers.
Those hollow ones
or with holes
meant a worm
had already stolen the meat.
Way back then,
you were talking pecans,
but I see too now you were
talking people—
keep those with substance,
leave the ruined ones where they lay.
Your survival guide
was in your steps.
Odd how you don’t know
a thing until you know it.
Like way back in 1985,
walking to the dorm from class
in Due West at Erskine College,
I walked under the protective shade
of the pecan trees.
I had academic things on my mind:
how to balance a chemical equation,
how to compute a chi-square.
But somewhere on that walk
I found my eyes became yours—
my hands turned toward you too.
I found the ground
laden with pecan nuggets.
Back to my room I went,
grabbed a bag,
and began gathering.
No one knew, let alone me,
how your arm reached out—
the strongest root guiding,
holding me up.
When we moved away from South Carolina, that reverence my grandmother placed within me went with me. In Tacoma, Washington, where my father served in the Air Force, I spent hours wandering our front and back yards. I was captivated by polliwogs, tadpoles, and bullfrogs in the creek out back, by pussy willows and cattails, and by wildflowers that seemed to call my name. I chased butterflies, bees, and dragonflies. I knew birds by sight—swallows, sparrows, swifts—and flowers like snapdragons, stargazers, and sunflowers. I was a tree-climber, much to my mother’s dismay, always up high, reading the clouds.
Nature gave me wonder, joy, and freedom.
How did those early experiences shape your relationship with the natural world?
I didn’t have the language then, but I was an HSP—a Highly Sensitive Person. Our house’s turmoil overwhelmed me; I absorbed other people’s fears and arguments. Outside, I felt restored. The air, the sky, the trees, the flowers, and the birds seemed to conspire to tend to my high-antenna, vibrational self.
Nature became—and remains—my sanctuary.
How do you connect with nature now … through your work or leisure or both?
Nature is still my touchstone. I consult it regularly. My home is full of houseplants, and outside, my garden wraps around three sides of my townhouse—a small sanctuary of butterfly bushes, gladiolas, daylilies, canna lilies, roses, evening primrose, lamb’s ear, and morning glories. I stroll it daily.
When I travel for work, my family teases that I miss my plants as much as I miss them—and there’s truth in that.
Full Circle with My Grandson
After my Multiple Myeloma diagnosis in 2019, I began visiting South Carolina State Parks as part of my healing. I took my grandson, Julian, so he could find relief for his sensory challenges. It felt full circle—taking him into nature the way my grandmother took me.
We’ve now visited all but two of the state’s 47 parks and plan to finish with a big bang—becoming Ultimate Outsiders. Along the way, I wrote books about our trek. While writing, I learned how the parks were segregated, and how my parents could not go to Paris Mountain State Park for their 1954 senior class trip; they were sent instead to Pleasant Ridge Negro State Park. That history runs through my work.
Here are two poems from my book The Song of Everything: A Poet’s Exploration of South Carolina State Parks.
EVEN IN NATURE
The color lines were drawn back then.
Schools too. It’s held in the name:
Fountain Inn Colored High School. My parents’
alma mater. Bull Dogs’ last class: 1954.
Mama recalls, “We went to Paris Mountain
for our Senior Class trip.” I research.
Correct her. “You went to Pleasant Ridge.”
HOW YESTERDAY HOLDS TODAY
at Paris Mountain State Park
Blue sky above and the trail below.
We two go, not just for us.
At Lake Placid, we sit. I wonder
about elders and ancestors who could not
grace these grounds before. Laws: Whites only.
My grandson’s hand in mine, a circle.
As they hover, the past is present.
What are your biggest fears for the future of our planet?
The biggest fear for our planet is that we are not going to get it together in time—with global warming, global hate, and deepening disconnectedness.
As an American of African descent, I was born into a lineage severed through the heinous act of slavery. My work as a poet has been about re-mem-ber-ing—an act of reconciliation. Everywhere I turn needs mending. As a poet, I choose storytelling.
Today I see deepening disconnection fueled by hate, greed, and the pursuit of power. If we are to survive, we must heal ourselves and each other, knitting this planet together by head, heart, and spirit.
And right now, African American history is being scrubbed from museums and institutions—an erasure happening in plain sight. I have spent my life telling our stories; so many remain untold. I am disheartened by this act and all the other heinous acts happening across the world at this very moment.
As an HSP, I cannot turn away from it. My heart. My mind. My soul is there.
What is your biggest hope for the future of our planet?
Do good work in whatever field you are. Spread love. LOVE yourself and love each other. Love the earth. Be kind. Remember. Everybody’s stories matter.
I learned early beneath pecan trees that those with substance endure.
My hope is that we—people and planet—choose to be keepers.
To bear fruit.
To tell stories.
To love this earth and each other whole.
NOTE: You can learn more about Glenis and the many ways she engages with our world at her website.
Thank you, Glenis, for being a Champion of Nature!
Rx #40 is a special gem among many of the others! So is Glenis Redmond a gem. Love her poetry too. Thank you (both).
Glenis Redmond is a treasure. Thank you for sharing her with us, and for the reminder of how much storytelling matters, especially now. We are fortunate to have Glenis' presence and her voice in this world. Many blessings to you both!