I am tired. I do not want to write a poem. Which seems like a good argument for not doing this Month of Poetry crap. I mean, what's the point of writing poetry (supposedly a leisure activity for me) when I just want to go to bed and not write ANYTHING?
The fact that tomorrow is my deadline with the paper and I just spent several hours turning verbose press releases into banal but concise news briefs, could quite possibly be the reason for my rebellion. My brain is quite sick of words at the moment.
But here we go...
The community tiller broke
And needing to break up
The squash bed
I swung a wooden-handled
Hoe high into the clear sky
Then down again in a hard
Swoosh, over and over
into the relentless
Earth, a space
The size of two SUV's or
A swimming pool --
Not so big.
And the ground
Did relent little by little,
And I felt for a time
Jubilation,
And then I felt
A grain or two of the truth
Of the life of the women
Of this world
Who have no choice
But to beat life
For themselves
And their babies
Out of the dirt
Day after day
After sweaty day.
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