I load my own shells and have a suitcase of pressed cardboard. Naturally I'm poor and picturesque. My father is dead and doesn't care if his vault leaks, that his casket is cheap, his son a poet and a liar. All the honest farmers in my family's past are watching me through the barn slats, from the corncrib and hogpen. Ghosts demand more than wives & teachers. I'll make a "V" of my two books and plow a furrow in the garden. And I want to judge the poetry table at the County Fair. A new form, poems stacked in pyramids like prize potatoes. This county agent of poetry will tell poets, "More potash & nitrogen, the rows are crooked and the field limp, depleted." | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ERL-KING by JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE GREENES FUNERALLS: SONNET 3 by RICHARD BARNFIELD THE CONTRAST; THE STORMY SIDE by LEVI BISHOP EVENING MUSIC by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ON MR. FREDERICK PORTER'S ROOM OF PICTURES, 1930 by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN ODE TO HEALTH by FRANCES (MOORE) BROOKE ABER STATIONS: STATIO QUINTA by THOMAS EDWARD BROWN |