Poetry for Breaking the Prairie Sod

Tillage as Art (1990)

By Neal Bowers

In this version of the past,  

life is so simple and pure  

no one has buttons or buckles or pockets. 

At sunup, the men step into

their leotard trousers, shrugging

suspenders over their shoulders;

the woman rises like a clapper

into her bell-shaped dress;

and they all set out to work

in the clean earth where no one gets dirty.

Nobody sweats (not even the horses),

though thirst seems to be a possibility

as the plowman turns over the plush pile prairie,

easy as lifting a rug.

In the grove with the wildflower border,

one of the men chopping trees

looks like a young Abe Lincoln,

The job is that noble.

Meanwhile, over this rustic scene,

art deco clouds drift in,

streamlined, urban, building

in the distance like the future

of everyone’s dreams,

too pure and simple to be true.

Hard Labor (1992)

By Michael Carey

For John Madsen

I.

The purest form of hell

is threshing in Iowa

in July or stacking bales

of straw or wheat

on the wagon

or in the hay mow.

Under the cuffs,

under your collar

chaff blisters

the skin into boils,

your body drenched

in a sweat

that will not

cool or wash

away the dust

from the eaves

or the dirt in the air

you can’t breathe

anyway, because

it’s been smothered

in 110 degrees

and 82 per cent humidity.

II

The further we get,

the prettier the picture,

the softer the line

on the rough edges

of the wagon. Even

pigs fall silent

as men measure

their medicine.

No one moves

their sullen faces,

no one smiles,

not the boy

with the head

of his father,

not the quiet wives

with their needles

and thread and china.

It is the distance

they stare into,

the soothing balm of years.

Step by step, we leave them

to their never-ending chores.

Step by step, we rise

like the painted butterflies

on the wallpaper or are they

leaves blown in on the sudden wind,

the white window left open,

caressing our brains

into different bodies

that see and touch and do,

now, different things,

softer things, strange things

in a world, we love, like them,

and cannot understand.