This is called "Farmers," again, sort
of utilizing that landscape that I grew up around in.
I should mention it was a half-ass farm.
It was sort of a broke down farm.
"Farmers."
Force feeding swans-- let me tell you--
was hard.
And up every morning 4:30 counting the lambs out
to pasture, each one tapped on the forehead with a stick
to be sure it's there.
Uncle Reaper half the time so drunk he'd
pull his milkstool under the horse--
more work explaining the difference.
Gramma and Cousin Shroud putting up
8,000 jars of beets, Auntie Bones wrapping her wooden spoon
against my ear--
"More bushels, bumbler!"
I tell you--
I understand how come the dancing bear tore off his skirt
and headed back to the Yukon, how
come all of a sudden jewels in avalanche
down the spine of my sleep.
But still, still when it rains, I remember all of us--
farmers, simple sweatmongers of the dirt
whose turnips depend on it.
I remember how we called it down,
how down we desired it to fall--
the rain.
I think sometimes you don't really
know what a poem is about until you're done with it.
Now, of course, we didn't really have
swans on that farm or bears or anything like that.
But I think what this poem was about
was I think it was a reaction to a lot of people say
that my generation had this idiotic idea,
OK, let's go back to the farm and grow our own bean sprouts
and live off the Earth and all that.
And not knowing, of course, this very naive notion, not knowing,
of course, what a crummy, pain-in-the-ass, chancy,
incredibly difficult job farming is.
So it's sort of a satire on that maybe.