So much can depend on a seed: hierarchy, marriage, slavery, ownership, social structure, disease, and war. Then there is Neolithic women, the bread baker. She rounds a kernel between her fingers, pushes it into the black earth of the Fertile Crescent thus changing all of us, forever. I stare at her germating spheres: the masses of hip, head, breast and belly bridging the gap between substance and cultivation as the past creeps up like the weeds in the garden.
Together, we shall think of him, the stranded Homo habilis, our handy man. We’ve invited him to build a stonewall around our nomadic hearts, around the bush, the barley, the lentil, the pea, the flax, and the bitter vetch—
Careful now, he goes about his business. It is a warm afternoon and the tools are heavy—
How such tender revolutions became the trappings of my domesticity.
3 comments:
After reading this poem, I literally said aloud, "Oh, wow." I love the oxymoronic idea of a tender revolution, used masterfully in your final line. I'm also intrigued with gender construction, and how we abide by its archaic trappings: your poem explores the topic hitting all the right notes, focusing on that little seed that sprouted into a revolution.
SInce I fancy myself a bit of a gardener I love the first line. I marvel at just how much stuff can come from one seed. There are so many simple, beautifully constructed images here. The stone wall around the nomadic heart, I love that. The last line is very intriguing. Well played.
I sense the influences of Whitman and Ginsberg here. Upon the first read, the last line surprised me, but forced me to go back and reread the poem. It is well crafted. After reading this several times, the lines that really stand out to me are the two line before the last. They beautifully set up the last line by reinforcing that old male stereotype.
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