Classic and Contemporary Poetry
THE WIND OUR ENEMY, by ANNE MARRIOTT Poet's Biography First Line: Wind / flattening its gaunt furious self against Last Line: Wind. Subject(s): Wind | ||||||||
I Wind flattening its gaunt furious self against the naked siding, knifing in the wounds of time, pausing to tear aside the last old scab of paint. Wind surging down the cocoa-coloured seams of summer-fallow, darting in about white hoofs and brown, snatching the sweaty cap shielding red eyes. Wind filling the dry mouth with bitter dust whipping the shoulders worry-bowed too soon, soiling the water pail, and in grim prophecy greying the hair. II The wheat in spring was like a giant's bolt of silk Unrolled over the earth. When the wind sprang It rippled as if a great broad snake Moved under the green sheet Seeking its outward way to light. In autumn it was an ocean of flecked gold Sweet as a biscuit, breaking in crisp waves That never shattered, never blurred in foam. That was the last good year. .... III The wheat was embroidering All the spring morning, Frail threads needled by sunshine like thin gold. A man's heart could love his land, Smoothly self-yielding, Its broad spread promising all his granaries might hold. A woman's eyes could kiss the soil From her kitchen window, Turning its black depths to unchipped cupsa silk crepe dress (Two-ninety-eight, Sale Catalogue) Pray sun's touch be gentleness, Not a hot hand scorching flesh it would caress. But sky like a new tin pan Hot from the oven Seemed soldered to the earth by horizons of glare. .... The third day he left the fields. .... Heavy scraping footsteps Spoke before his words, "Crops dried outeverywhere" IV They said, "Sure, it'll rain next year!" When that was dry, "Well, next year anyway." Then, "Next" But still the metal hardness of the sky Softened only in mockery. When lightning slashed and twanged And thunder made the hot head surge with pain Never a drop fell; Always hard yellow sun conquered the storm. So the soon sickly-familiar saying grew, (Watching the futile clouds sneak down the north) "Just empties goin' back!" (Cold laughter bending parched lips in a smile Bleak eyes denied.) V Horses were strong so strong men might love them, Sides groomed to copper burning the sun, Wind tangling wild manes, dust circling wild hoofs, Turn the colts loose! Watch the two-year-olds run! Then heart thrilled fast and the veins filled with glory The feel of hard leather a fortune more sweet Than a girl's silky lips. He was one with the thunder, The flying, the rhythm, of untamed, unshod feet! But now It makes a man white-sick to see them now, Dullheads saggingcrowding to the trough No more spirit than a barren cow. The well's pumped dry to wash poor fodder down, Straw and saltand endless salt and straw (Thank God the winter's mild so far) Dry Russian thistle crackling in the jaw The old mare found the thistle pile, ate till she bulged, Then, crazily, she wandered in the yard, Saw a water-drum, and staggering to its rim, Plodded around iton and on in hard, Madly relentless circle. Weakerstumbling She fell quite suddenly, heaved once and lay. (Nellie the kids' pet's gone, boys. Hitch up the strongest team. Haul her away. Maybe we should have mortgaged all we had Though it wasn't much, even in good years, and draw Ploughs with a jolting tractor. Stillyou can't make gas of thistles or oat-straw.) VI Relief. "God, we tried so hard to stand alone!" Relief. "Well, we can't let the kids go cold." They trudge away to school swinging half-empty lard-pails, to shiver in the schoolhouse (unpainted seven years), learning from a blue-lipped girl almost as starved as they. Relief cars. "Apples, they say, and clothes!" The folks in town get their pick first, Then their friends "Eight miles for us to go so likely we won't get much" "Maybe we'll get the batteries charged up and have the radio to kind of brighten things" Insurgents march in Spain Japs bomb Chinese Airliner lost "Maybe we're not as badly off as some" "Maybe there'll be a war and we'll get paid to fight" "Maybe" "See if Eddie Cantor's on to-night!" VII People grew bored Well-fed in the east and west By stale, drought-area tales, Bored by relief whinings, Preferred their own troubles. So those who still had stayed On the scorched prairie, Found even sympathy Seeming to fail them Like their own rainfall. "Welllet's forget politics, Forget the wind, our enemy! Let's forget farming, boys, Let's put on a dance to-night! Mrs. Smith'll bring a cake. Mrs. Olsen's coffee's swell!" The small uneven schoolhouse floor Scraped under big work-boots Cleaned for the evening's fun, Gasoline lamps whistled. One Hungarian boy Snapped at a shrill guitar, A Swede from out north of town Squeezed an accordion dry, And a Scotchwoman from Ontario Made the piano dance In time to "The Mocking-Bird" And "When I grow too Old to Dream," Only taking time off To swing in a square dance, Between ten and half-past three. Yet in the morning Air peppered thick with dust, All the night's happiness Seemed far away, unreal Like a lying mirage, Or the icy-white glare Of the alkali slough. VIII Presently the dark dust seemed to build a wall That cut them off from east and west and north, Kindness and honesty, things they used to know, Seemed blown away and lost In frantic soil. At last they thought Even God and Christ were hidden By the false clouds. Dust-blinded to the staring parable, Each wind-splintered timber like a pain-bent Cross. Calloused, groping fingers, trembling With overwork and fear, Ceased trying to clutch at some faith in the dark, Thin sick courage fainted, lacking hope. But tightened, tangled nerves scream to the brain If there is no hope, give them forgetfulness! The cheap light of the beer-parlour grins out, Promising shoddy security for an hour. The Finn who makes bad liquor in his barn Grows fat on groaning emptiness of souls. IX The sun goes down. Earth like a thick black coin Leans its round rim against the yellowed sky. The air cools. Kerosene lamps are filled and lit In dusty windows. Tired bodies crave to lie In bed forever. Chores are done at last. A thin horse neighs drearily. The chickens drowse, Replete with grasshoppers that have gnawed and scraped Shrivelled garden-leaves. No sound from the gaunt cows. Poverty, hand in hand with fear, two great Shrill-jointed skeletons stride loudly out Across the pitiful fields, none to oppose. Courage is roped with hunger, chained with doubt. Only against the yellow sky, a part Of the jetty silhoutte of barn and house Two figures stand, heads close, arms locked, And suddenly some spirit seems to rouse And gleam, like a thin sword, tarnished, bent, But still shining in the spared beauty of moon, As his strained voice says to her, "We're not licked yet! It must rain againit will! Maybesoon" X Wind in a lonely laughterless shrill game with broken wash-boiler, bucket without a handle, Russian thistle, throwing up sections of soil. God, will it never rain again? What about those clouds out west? No, that's just dust, as thick and stifling now as winter underwear. No rain, no crop, no feed, no faith, only wind. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE THREE CHILDREN by JOSEPHINE JACOBSEN THE WIND by LOUISE MOREY BOWMAN LEAF LITTER ON ROCK FACE by HEATHER MCHUGH RESIDENTIAL AREA by JOSEPHINE MILES THE DAY THE WINDS by JOSEPHINE MILES VARIATIONS: 12 by CONRAD AIKEN OH IT'S PRETTY WINDY OUTSIDE by LARRY EIGNER PRAIRIE GRAVEYARD by ANNE MARRIOTT |
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