The Planting
I am absolutely astounded at myself in reference to this piece of literature that I have just written. I was contemplating in my mind the poem “What is a Dream?” that I have been working on for over a month. I had been researching, on line, different approaches to dreams by different poets: Shakespeare, Yeats, Dickinson, Frost, Etc. I came across an American poet named Gary Snyder. I was reading his poems and was struck by their different structure in that they didn’t rhyme. I have read other works that were to me disjointed and to me non sensible such as Ezra Pound. I am amazed that Pound is even famous being his work is so harsh and to me disquieting.
I had been working in my garden this day and planting shrubs and moving others. I believe this to be hereditary because my mother could make a fence post take root and it seems I have a green thumb also as did my brother, Gene. I enjoy putting my hands in rich soil and making things grow, enriching the soil and being a steward to my domain. I have often pondered the duality of my soul because I am a fearsome warrior but also a farmer and husband to the earth.
It just came to me to write about my connection to the earth and soil and to all living things. I proceeded to the computer and in thirty minutes had the draft you see below. It doesn’t rhyme but is beautiful in its own context, a simple narrative of a sublime experience.
I am so satisfied with myself that I could shout out loud. I pondered using giggle but I am too homophobic to consider using that word. I am truly pleased with this piece and astounded at its spontaneity, it came so easily.
I may make a second attempt at making it rhyme in that it’s the way I like to read them in sort of a sing-song lyrical. I read Shakespeare and am continually amazed by the genius of his works. Shakespeare’s words are old English but flow with such rhythmic continuity that I am amazed, enthralled, impressed, I can’t find a word for the way it affects me.
The following poem is probably the third edition of this poem since I continually revisit them and edit them. Enjoy
High upon Sonoran Plain
Where mesquite and cactus reign
One Brave River, a trickle flows
Alas! A Burning wind doth blow
Pristine garden, walled all about
Tranquil refuge from that without
Verdant greens amongst desert pose
Hibiscus, myrtle and climbing rose
Grackle, sparrow and mountain jay
Doth frolic in the birdbath play
Fluttering wings, while doves careen
Wing Wings startle, love birds preen
Bantam cock struts and crows
Sebright hens in feathery boas show
Feline cats do sneak without
My labs alertly sniff about
White hair, sun bronzed skin
Gnarled, weathered and reedy thin
The old man views this tranquil realm
Studiously planning his next quotidian whim
He slowly kneels as if to pray
Brushing aside the leaves that lay
He scrutinizes this earthen vase
As a sculpture would his marble case
Is there something esoteric here?
Some cliver secret to see or hear
Is there treasure to be found?
Perhaps God'd infinite mystery bound
With sword blade he thrusts
Deep stabs, cleaving terrain crust
Twisting, piercing Adam's bust
Smelling that pungent earthen musk
Bone like roots, vein like twine
Patina-id stones while mica shines
Visceral disembodiment, blooded leaves
The pastoral surgeon quickly cleaves
A wiggler contorts, severed in twain
Blissfully ignorant of its nerveless pain
Calloused hands in earthly bowels
Grub mashe! How gross! How foul!
Dark soil, touched and caressed
The potter shapes an earthly nest
Defining the hole with meticulous ease
This receptacle of life if you please
The good steward proceeds with haste
To nurse that which he laid waste
To bind and heal the gaping wound
Ere it fester and decay to soon
A soothing balm of woodsy mulch
A spattering of miscellaneous stuff
Nourishment dropped by barnyard birds
Gross nodules of off white turds
He gazes upon the altar he's made
To the God of this primordial glade
Where man did first plant seed
To make his bread and brew his mead
He offers up the life least it fade
That tender sweet seedling blade
Plucked from its plastic womb
Fragile, weak and shabbily groomed
He places it gently in it's earthen bed
As a Mother holding her child's sweet head
Caressing and coddling its tiny girth
Clothing it in a comforter of earth
Patting firmly whilst smoothing folds
Tucking, prodding, supporting the whole
He moistens the earth to quench its thirst
Proudly admiring this beautiful first
Mother Earth is to whom it must sing
To whose bosom breast it must cling
The old man is but its nanny fair
Husbandly hoovering with attentive care
He stands and steps aside
To remove his shadow under which it hides
To radiate it with the morning sun
So freely given so amply done
Turning to the light as the seedling must
Paying homage to that which sustains us
The old man too lifts up his face
Acknowledging God'd infinite Grace
This earth too will soon be his bed
A worn out old body laid dead
His soul shall soar to worlds unknown
For he is blessed his stewardship shown