Burning Agriculture
Last night I was privileged to be on the panel of an art&faith symposium. I referred to one of my poems and thought I would put it onto the blog in case anyone was interested to read it.
Burning Agriculture
We have had our Fall. We have gone into the modern world with an inburnt knowledge of human limitations and with a sense of mystery which could not have developed in our first state of innocence—as it has not sufficiently developed in the rest of the country.
Flannery O’Connor
Flannery O’Connor
Daddy sends me out to repair what is lost,
To regain the proper nitrogen in the stripped soil,
But so much has been lost, so much has to be found.
“I light a match, and strike a chord of fire
walking
hot on my feet,
but that’s just the sun-hot asphalt around here.”
DROP.
The wooden candle is lost momentarily
among the old tobacco.
And then the brown smoking leaves are ablaze
and smoking.
These old plants immolate themselves,
protesting loudly in cracks and snaps.
I see colors in the flames and in the rising smoke.
I see black and white struggling,
I see blue and gray,
I see older fields burning, and homes and churches …
I see wealthy virgins.
They walk about all cotton-toed,
all cotton-eared.
Like stunted growth
like deaf innocence
I see white wolves walking proud,
money in their pocket
and owning large estates
not yet wearing hoods,
not yet fleeing to the hills.
I see dirty times.
I see a stoic from the north,
Marching a vast army.
He walks like bible times,
He kills all living things.
And smoke rises into a long night.
And the vision passes
and the winter passes
And comes the spring - On with the light!
And comes the summer - On with the heat!
And again, one hot day,
I survey the landscape, looking long over long ago.
And these thoughts escape my lips,
as if I, a brother to Ezekiel, were prophesying:
“The sun rises even on the wicked
And a smoldering flack
will miraculously come to life
in a moments notice”
So I look out into the fields
of tan heads
Blown through wind
splitting headache
as I think out loud
about blooming cotton and corn fields,
tobacco and the South.
To regain the proper nitrogen in the stripped soil,
But so much has been lost, so much has to be found.
“I light a match, and strike a chord of fire
walking
hot on my feet,
but that’s just the sun-hot asphalt around here.”
DROP.
The wooden candle is lost momentarily
among the old tobacco.
And then the brown smoking leaves are ablaze
and smoking.
These old plants immolate themselves,
protesting loudly in cracks and snaps.
I see colors in the flames and in the rising smoke.
I see black and white struggling,
I see blue and gray,
I see older fields burning, and homes and churches …
I see wealthy virgins.
They walk about all cotton-toed,
all cotton-eared.
Like stunted growth
like deaf innocence
I see white wolves walking proud,
money in their pocket
and owning large estates
not yet wearing hoods,
not yet fleeing to the hills.
I see dirty times.
I see a stoic from the north,
Marching a vast army.
He walks like bible times,
He kills all living things.
And smoke rises into a long night.
And the vision passes
and the winter passes
And comes the spring - On with the light!
And comes the summer - On with the heat!
And again, one hot day,
I survey the landscape, looking long over long ago.
And these thoughts escape my lips,
as if I, a brother to Ezekiel, were prophesying:
“The sun rises even on the wicked
And a smoldering flack
will miraculously come to life
in a moments notice”
So I look out into the fields
of tan heads
Blown through wind
splitting headache
as I think out loud
about blooming cotton and corn fields,
tobacco and the South.
Comments
Have you posted this one before?
If not I do beg your pardon as your writing, once again, is stunning.
You really should consider publishing a book of poetry. It's a gift more people would be blessed by if you could share it in book bound pages.