[James Brancheau]

Tough Love

The earth sucks as we move, shoes thick
with mud, slacks now black bells swinging

back and forth. For harvest we unplant
each of our steps and corn that still stands

dead and undressed as if backbones of
scarecrows, or the stalks are their souls—

the heart of their scare was husks stuffed
in our clothes. We leave them unshaken,

heavy at the root, for enough of a thud
to knock some sense in—enough weight

to reach Joe, born slow, and half sunk
in mud. Not in him to mourn, or to mind

our dirt storm, the tails of our comets
wagging as they fall. So as we all lose our

church shoes and our spit and sweat change
to rain, we sling them towards the clouds

like answering a dare: underhanded and
harder, stalks slipping in our fists, we wing

them at father—our weather in his planted
hands, from the knuckles of his prayer.



*Adjustments:

Last four lines changed from:

like answering a dare. Underhanded and
harder, stalks slipping in our fists, we wing

them up at father—this weather from his
planted hands, the knuckles of his prayer.




*Note: This is an older poem that I posted here a long while back. I’ve made some changes and would like to see if it was worth resuscitating.
I’m going back and forth between Tough Love and Harvest for the title. Thanks.

[Mark McDonnell]

Jim, this reads beautifully. There's so much going on sonically, with consonant sounds and internal rhymes, that is incredibly satisfying to hear aloud. The poem hits me right at my sweet spot of dark, musical and slightly baffling. I find it really intoxicating and I keep reading it over and over.

[Glenn Wright]

I really like this, James. The alliteration and images aptly capture the difficulty of the farmers’ lives and their aggrieved and grudging gratitude (or anger) to their severe God. The dead corn stalks described as “backbones / of scarecrows, or . . . their souls” resonated with me.

I was a bit confused by the last three lines. The farmers, including the speaker, are throwing corn cobs into the air. (BTW, why “wing” instead of “fling” to take advantage of the /f/ alliteration? I’m guessing that you wanted to keep the speaker’s hostility toward God more ambiguous?). They are like Cain, resentfully offering their first fruits from the cursed earth to their unloved God, or maybe they are just frustrated beyond endurance with their dependence on the whims of God’s weather. I could not make sense of “planted.” Does the last line mean that he answers their prayers with His knuckles, beating them with “tough love?” Or is the “tough love” directed by the farmers toward God? Are the thrown corn stalks like fists they wish could inflict hurt on God? (I couldn’t help but think of Shirley Jackson’s short story, “The Lottery.”)

Glenn

[James Brancheau]

Thank you very much for the encouraging words, Mark. As I mentioned, this is an old poem that I’ve been wanting to sort out for some time, so your response was especially nice to hear.

Thanks for your input, Glenn, and I’m happy that you generally liked this. One reason I chose “wing” is because it’s slangy and I like what I think it does in terms of voice. One of the problems of the other, old versions of this poem was that readers were often confused (a safe assumption) as to what was going on. Your response is consistent with that, so I may have a little more work to do. It’s one of the reasons I’m juggling two possible titles. While I aesthetically prefer “Harvest,” I feel that I need “Tough Love” to make the situation clearer for the reader. In short, the anger is directed towards the deceased father who practiced a special kind of "tough love," especially when it came to Joe. (It’s an old poem, so I’ll spill the beans…)*

*I should add that I'm not necessarily opposed to different interpretations, within reason. Being angry with God, for example, is certainly hanging around, among other things. Just wanted to be open about what I was specifically thinking in this particular poem.

[John Riley]

James, I like this. It feels legendary in a good way. I wouldn’t worry about how it’s interpreted. I see no reason to direct reader’s attention. Timelessness is more valuable than the illusion of knowing.

Enjoyed.

[James Brancheau]

Thanks much, John. Very pleased that this worked for you.

[David Callin]

Originally Posted by Mark McDonnell

Jim, this reads beautifully. There's so much going on sonically, with consonant sounds and internal rhymes, that is incredibly satisfying to hear aloud. The poem hits me right at my sweet spot of dark, musical and slightly baffling. I find it really intoxicating and I keep reading it over and over.

That pretty much says it for me too, James.

It was the sudden (I thought) appearance of "father" that particularly threw me. Is he foregrounded in the poem in some way that I missed?

Either way, this is excellent.

Cheers

David

[James Brancheau]

Thank you, David. It’s great to hear that you liked this. I never thought that maybe I should make some reference to the father earlier in the poem and now you have me thinking. A long time ago I thought of titling it “A Father’s Prayer” (or “A Farmer’s Prayer”). I will keep thinking about that and thanks again.