Monday, October 29, 2012

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Driving around the state this summer and fall, we have eyed the withering corn, feeling a tinge of the gut-wrenching  despair we imagine  in the farmers, who planted in such industry and optimism in the spring. After many years away, I am back in my terrain of origin, fields of rustling corn spreading in every direction, sedimentary layers of landscape falling away from sight. This poem brought it all together for me.

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by Bruce Weigl

I didn't know I was grateful
            for such late-autumn
                        bent-up cornfields

yellow in the after-harvest
             sun before the
                        cold plow turns it all over

into never.
            I didn't know
                        I would enter this music

that translates the world
             back into dirt fields
                         that have always called to me

as if I were a thing
              come from the dirt,
                          like a tuber,

or like a needful boy. End
             Lonely days, I believe. End the exiled
                           and unraveling strangeness.




From The Unraveling Strangeness by Bruce Weigl, published by Grove/Atlantic. Copyright © 2003 by Bruce Weigl. All rights reserved.

Mary, for the Poplar Grove Muse

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