Richard and others have been telling me that this poem isn't finished for some time, and I knew it, even if a few people embraced it as it was. So this morning at 3:45 I got up and added the narrative it needed to make it complete. I'm sure it isn't finished, even now, but perhaps you can suggest what needs to be done.
Harvest
in memory of my father, Mish Kellman
The air has lost its savor.
Once, the fields and lots of Irvine
shone with star-bright blossoms,
the sweet air heavy with twilight
heralding the trees’ full load.
Then, I would be drawn to stand out
in the silent grove, dizzy with perfume,
and gaze up into dark green depths
where secrets swelled. I’d peek
into the petticoats of leaves and reach
a hand to palm the nascent fruit,
mindful of proprietary farmers and their dogs.
In a month, as in a nebula light years away,
galaxies are born in bursts of brightness
no one can see, the perfect planetary globes
of lemons, grapefruits, and oranges would light
our moonless evenings, smooth-skinned and bright—
the Meyer lemon, rounder than the ordinary kind;
squat mandarin; pink grapefruit
blushing in the half light of the leaves
among the twisting rows of guardian eucalyptus.
At home in Philadelphia, with only
one small square of rock-hard dirt,
you made things grow beneath a narrow
sky fretted with wires, wondering
all the while at what you
managed to bring forth.
In California where the wide skies
stretch for acres, sown with clouds,
you planted everything: the seeds
of each new fruit—pomegranate,
star fruit, hand of Buddha,
dirt beneath your nails, along
the half-moon cuticles. Every week,
you wandered narrow aisles
of nursery and farmer’s market,
holding up each perfect berry,
burying your face in golden
bells of angel’s trumpet, nurturing
each sign of life. But though I tried,
I couldn’t do the same.
On nights like these, only
knot-hard stars will ripen
where the trees once stood.
No wonder that I haunt the farmer’s
markets Friday afternoons, taking in
the glistening peppers, pendulous tomatoes
like grandees, pebbled avocados,
that even I, a stranger to the soil,
now long to plant a seed.
5 comments:
Robbi, I like this poem very much, but it feels like two poems to me. The first two stanzas appear could be the nucleus of one poem, and the last three when the poem shifts point of view could be another poem. Granted, I admit I have some unrelated prejudice here because long ago I wrote a tribute to my grandfather with many gardening, fruit, and planting images--and I can't help but think of that poem when I look at this one. Your poem is lovely on its own, of course--but I thought I had to mention this, since it may be coloring my ability to read your poem with the objective, critical eye it deserves.
As your friend I want to be helpful to you in reviewing your work, but I may not be able to be of much use this time.
Thanks Robin for your comments and candor. I have heard this from others as well, that it's two different poems. Perhaps the fact that I changed the "you" to "he" would help a little? I have continued to tinker with it, and will consider whether it is indeed two different poems.
There's always the third possibility that it's not two poems, as Robin and others see, but something a bit different: one long poem in parts and that tissue is missing as yet... Perhaps there are one or two more "sections" to go and maybe some rearrangement when those appear.
Two quick littles: the last lines of the first two stanzas both feel a little too clotted to me; using petticoats and then feeling the bottoms is a little off to me.
I know that perverse sexuality is there; I will think about it. And I'll work on it.
I don't really know what to say about a revision of the poem, except that your impulse to speak of harvest seems naturally accompanied by your understanding of your father and his love of growing things.
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