Long Agrarian Poems
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In a nearby place I frequent,
a quiet country road -
paddy fields stretching either side.
the road broken and pitted with potholes.
I rode there time and again,
often drove that road,
enjoying the peace and the countryside’s scene..
Jungle mynas often walked
striding along the roadside
while a cha - bora restaurant stood nearby,
run by a lone woman.
There, my wife and I would sit together,
relaxing over cups of tea and eating bora
watching the quiet countryside pass by.
But as time went on
private schools and houses began to rise
upon the paddy fields,
violating the laws -
but no one came.
Instead more and more buildings
continued to spring up –
motor workshops,shops,petrol pumps, restaurants-
along the edges of the paddy fields
by the roadside
The paddy fields began to vanish;
the wandering mynas were nowhere to be seen.
So, the little cha bora restaurant-
The countryside’s agrarian character
and its peaceful rhythm have vanished.
Sometimes I think the way we view the world is a little antiquarian
for instance we have words to label everyone…from Capricorn to Sagittarian…
Take Deborah and I…we don’t eat meat…we are proudly vegetarian
though occasionally we will eat fish…which makes us pescatarian.
and since we’ve been known to eat a burger…we are most assuredly hypocritarian.
however we do not care what you eat…because we’re not authoritarian.
And though we believe in eating food that is predominantly agrarian
we know it doesn’t matter what you eat…if you are humanitarian.
It doesn’t matter if you are straight or gay…black, white or Hungarian.
If you’re Democrat, Republican, Independent or Libertarian.
It doesn’t matter…if you’re Catholic, Muslim or Sectarian
If you’re a doctor, or a lawyer…a dentist…a Veterinarian…
It doesn’t matter the type of music you like…rap, pop or opera that’s Wagnerian
or how you like your donut cream…whipped…butter…or Bavarian.
I think it’s time to apologize and end this poem
for I have shamefully become aware…
I can’t remember where I was going with it…
and, I imagine you…no longer care.
But let me end with these two hopes…
that you are not a strict grammarian…
and that we all may someday live…
in a world…
egalitarian.
Two hundred forty two
(12.1 score) years ago
countless stripling soldiers
strapping farming homeboys
healthy agrarian lads
raised among generations
in summer re:
offspring original settlers heirs
family acreage encompassed
wide uninterrupted forested swaths
across sprawling vistas
sparsely populated enclaves,
now heavily industrialized
lovely bones occupying
unmarked never known graves
buried amidst avast
cleft rapacious urbanization
long forgotten innocent youths
hailing within then bucolic
Montgomery, Delaware and Chester county
forsook their young precious lives
voluntarily promising sons
risking life and limb
more often former versus latter
sacrificing stripling flesh
encompassing urbanized tracts
quite familiar to yours truly
suddenly made aware
unbeknownst till yesterday
informative literary handiwork
titled "A Glimpse of Freedom"
engagingly written by Douglas Shupinski
details innocently naive country bumpkins
sacrificing potential sweat of brow,
albeit grueling labor
fostering holistic existence
transforming boyz to men
hardened green soldiers
into battle weary fighters
regarding, kickstarting, envisioning
inchoate cause named freedom
emancipating fledgling America
against British throne
awareness percolates,
perturbs, permeates psyche
synchronizing, manifesting, galvanizing
how past historical events
within close proximity,
where I mostly resided
since birth, now experience
absorption, communion, edification...
with dead souls
nearly deathly quiet
only most perceptive can detect!
8/12/16
Can't reverse any clock or the hands of time
Once in a blue moon, stars or planets align
Doing my best to be a stand-up guy
I'd be damned to lie
I'd rather take a chance and climb
Among so many plants and pines
Always tried to be a good samaritan
And grew up American
Lived an hours drive from the Monterey Bay Aquarium
Moms is a veterinarian
Neither one of us has ever been a vegetarian
I don't understand why so many people display arrogance
And continue making comparisons
In certain areas are traces of Barium
As well as pieces of carrion
Certain times called for the use of a clarion
Near and far away from places considered agrarian
During war, some rode on chariots
And conducted the first trials of their experiments
No time for foolishness
Wiser to always do my best
Anywhere not just from here to Budapest
Who'd have guessed?
There'd be soon success
If they'd only use some sense
While many snooze and rest
Underneath the moon and jets
Workers in the rice fields,
Labourers on agrarian land,
They move in rows and columns,
They work assiduously until they are spent,
Until twilight wears its garment over the region.
It's the golden season,
The season that precedes the dry,
It’s a season when the land yields bountifully,
The land births a teeming population,
Nature has smiled over the fields.
They gather their harvest in silos and local shelters,
There’s enough for the home and market,
Then comes the annual festival,
They sing songs in their indigenous dialect,
They come out in colourful attire,
They extol Nature for his kind and merciful acts.
The town is a shadow of itself,
It sits in forlorn hope,
A lonely wind sweeps through its streets,
The fields have become a haven for birds and unseen creatures,
Land dispute, encroachment and trampled rights,
These threesomes have stripped the land of its beauty,
They have pushed the town down the cliff.
November 8, 2022.
2022 Poetry Marathon Mile 22 Poetry Contest,
Mark Toney.
Who decides what historical events adorn
textbooks students read,
hence a starry notion born
grew up while
this lumpenproletariat day dreaming,
Asian aw shucks husky
husbandry furrowed brow gritty farmer
barnstorming across
expansive fields of baby
(barely) barley corn
crib bed crop 'pon harvest time,
(an maize zing genre), especially
when enriched with humus
laden loamy muck cob bra,
then aye delightfully
trumpet from dehorn
of good 'n plenti kernel Sanders gave me
saluting rank and file fool's capped
fecund fashioned earthborn
dunce sing tassels,
versus growing seasons gone by,
when draught of ideas forlorn
despite futilely blowing on my flugelhorn
high and dry reap peat head paltry yield,
asper when this strapping chap
a sweaty backed greenhorn
pondering why agrarian laborious life of toil
omitted as part and parcel of "newsworthy"
posterity sagas deeming
shenanigans of highborn
and/or "FAKE" headlines crowd inborn
noble folks,
who grease palms of industrialists,
whose quaking self importance
thwarts aside rural cosseted
krummhorn grounded bumpkin mor'n
how kapellmeister coaches bourgeoisie
helping determine
zero absolute value of newborn
fated to slave away
till body electric outworn,
yet paradigm shift of
(butter late then ever)
jiffy popcorn version
sown by seeds of Jethro Tull,
whose bonhomie with brio didst reborn
agricultural revolution took root,
whence before long some did scorn
and lamented machinations
ordered simple existence ripped and torn,
where antithetical views suppressed
and unto revolutionaries
became legion and well-worn.
I am reading
"Democracy in Black"
by Eddie S. Glaude, Jr.
but continue reconstructing this title
"Hypocrisy in Only White."
Because
when I let my memory
look back to my own self-interests in history
as archaeological digging and prying and discovery,
adventure and curiosity
of my internal ecological development,
I reweave back
through still on-going matriarchal lines
that include,
are shared with,
anyone capable of reading
and comprehending
these words of regenerating memory.
Back
to darker
denser
richer genes and memes
of cooperative to still thrive today,
saving competitions for survival moments.
Back to
better to prey together
side by side
as neanderthal brothers and sisters
than to grow predative
against each other.
This Golden Rule
of dark Afro-Eurasian
equatorial resonant depth
of historical origin
in normative play
at least until we substitute capitalism's
supremacist agendas
for rationalism's ego-ecocentric
reweaving memory
of this original Earth Mom
magical and mysterious
then worshiped and danced
ritualed and cooperative ownership co-governing,
then more modern radical eccentricities
forgetting our shared matriarchal
regenetic
memory of dualdark
hypocrisies of merely white inferiority
complexes
disease
dissonance
despair of remaining fully
who we together are,
where we have been
predating history
where we could return
each morning
with greatest polyphonic joy.
To paraphrase David Holmgren
(Permaculture, p. 113)
Containers were one essential organic innovation
necessary for this cooperative agrarian revolution.
Opportunities to refill organically produced bodies
are enormous
transitioning into recycling energy descent
for shared cooperative memory.
Reimaging full organic containers
is far better than sending us
away and down and out for recycling.
Most official ecopolitical waste reduction strategies
place little emphasis
on organic reuse refilling re-educating
deep ecologically learning containers,
or confuse WinWin refueling,
reweaving,
with capitalism's WinLose recycling,
switching productive containers
into merely consuming eventual empties,
bleached-out white-washed faded hypocrisies
of purest supremacy against nothing
deeply densely
richly resonantly valued.
Let's go back
back to before oil harvesting
to empower machines
to make stronger and more accurate bullets
for bigger and badder guns,
for fear and anger rifle associations,
for military fully invested
justified war theories
of devolution
degeneration
standing in for
polypathic theories of Yang Revolution
with bilateral EvolvingYin
WinWin non-violent TaoTime.
Are you back there yet?
Before big oil
and big armies
and big enculturing public school miseducation
following monocultural anthropocentric hubris
looking for polyculturally healthier healing,
more robust
resonant
resilient mental health outcomes.
We might have to return
to our earliest healthy happy memories
of childhood EarthWombed care,
sensory learning,
heart and lung and mind bicameral development.
OK,
once we get back to this agrarian economizing EarthTime
and SoulPlace,
What is your highest and best Golden Rule
for Left good healthy deductive wealth use,
ethological nature
theological spirit
ecological
psychological
even therapeutic meaning,
secular-sacred vocational purpose?
Please let me know
if you see and hear restorative ballast
healing retributive ballistics.
Please let us know
if you feel called to support Earth's refugees;
those not so well oiled
of all degenerating species.
To support refugees and emigrants
and immigrants with seeds and plants
and holistic ZeroZone nutritious plans
for ego-eco therapy,
pedagogical healing
and health care education,
restorative justice
and PositivEnergy Democracy,
EarthRights
and growing internal-external Climate Health
by shrinking and starving Climate Pathologies
inside too small egocentric
anthrocentric
to be truly WiseElder Original Intent
of pre-industrial ZeroZones
with universal Yang health
and Unitarian Yin wealth
holonic
holy
harmonic.
Eleven years ago,
while rambling in my car
along the bank of Iril river
at Kongpal Moirangpurel,
a serene countryside
I spied Ureirom plants growing there,
their flowers blooming.
Long ago in our agrarian society
their fruits dyed women’s clothes pink -
done indigenously in every household
by the womenfolk.
Now the old art has faded
year by year with time
and the plants, once grown
in abundance are no longer seen.
Next day, in scattering showers,
with a camera I went there
and captured photographs
of the plants long unseen,
wondering how they grew there
while absent elsewhere.
Today, after eleven years,
when I strolled there again
the ureirom plants were gone
among the riverbank’s weeds -
Once women’s favorite,
now out of fashion,
neglected, nowhere to be seen.
The farmer sent his son to agricultural school for an education,
To see if he could learn anything about an agrarian vocation.
Professors filled his head with ideas about operating a farm.
Such nonsense caused the old man raging headaches and alarm!
"Son, when it comes to farmin', them perfessors ain't got a clue.
I've been farmin' nigh on fifty years and I'm a-tellin' you,
Yer book-larnin' and them silly ideas is all outta whack;
This here farm is run by the moon and the Farmer's Almanac!"
"Now, when you plant pertaters, one thing is very plain.
You plow and sow 'em when the moon is on the wane.
When it comes to makin' hay, don't never cut it too soon;
Wait til it's a-bloomin' and mow in the full of the moon."
"When butcherin' hogs, you must do it when it's opportune,
And that means you kill 'em at the right time of the moon.
Let the Farmer's Almanac be yer guide when plantin' seeds.
It's also helpful fer prunin' trees and killin' noxious weeds."
"There'll be platoons of county agents a-tellin' me what to do.
Them fellers can talk all they want til their face is blue!
They'll try to change my ways, but I ain't hummin' that old tune.
This here place is run by the Almanac and hangin' of the moon!"
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired (© All Rights Reserved)