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My Father cuts a Furrow

My father cuts a furrow, true lines does he run,
My father cuts a furrow, no horses did he have,
My father cuts a furrow no fields, hills of grass,
My fathers furrows were wisdom,
This is what he had.

To his dying day his gait was straight and true,
My father was not a farmer, for the city,
All he knew.

As father cut his furrow, so does hit son, I am told,

The wisdom my Father passed on to lay dormant,
Many years, put on hold, not until the age of 78 did
I realize, not much time left, as I too was growing old,
So I write my poetry from my fathers wisdom,
That was willed to me, only way to have my stories told.

As father cut his furrow, so does his son, to pass
The wisdom, that was left from father,

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poem by Charles Garcia
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INVITATION FROM LATVIA by Marjorie Evasco

(Inspired by “Big Sea # 1 “by Vija Celmins and “Penelope as Painter” by John
Berger,)
I.
It is the sea, Vija, before my eyes —
Shimmered by the constant measure of your hand’s
Pressure on trough and crest: each wave
Crumpled by shadows the wind makes
As it blows from the frozen steppes
Of your knowing heart. But you are
Nowhere in your painting.
You have stepped into anonymity,
Thirty years an explorer with your graphite
And oils, tracing the world’s visible lines,
Searching the mysterious vast,
The mast of your pencil or brush
Following the light in the eye,
In the disciplined patience
Of an old hand of the Baltic.
II.
Big Sea #1 reminds John Berger of Penelope

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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Georgics

GEORGIC I

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom

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poem by Virgil
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The Furrow

An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
For the young horse and the young lad, they're needed yonder now -

The horse, so young and mettled he scarce had known the rein,
That shook his feathered fetlocks and tossed his streaming mane -

The lad that used to drive him, so strong and straight and tall,
That dressed him fine with ribbons and groomed him in the stall.

Ah, there as here, old Captain, we know, both I and you,
He'll drive a straight furrow as he always used to do!

The clods before the ploughshare fall heavily apart,
But never a clod among them so heavy as my heart -

To smell the clean earth breaking and the kind country smells,
And think o' the stink and reek there, and the bursting o' the shells.

An old horse to the furrow - an old man to the plough -
And the young horse and the young lad . . . how fare they yonder now?

poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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Georgic 1

What makes the cornfield smile; beneath what star
Maecenas, it is meet to turn the sod
Or marry elm with vine; how tend the steer;
What pains for cattle-keeping, or what proof
Of patient trial serves for thrifty bees;-
Such are my themes.
O universal lights
Most glorious! ye that lead the gliding year
Along the sky, Liber and Ceres mild,
If by your bounty holpen earth once changed
Chaonian acorn for the plump wheat-ear,
And mingled with the grape, your new-found gift,
The draughts of Achelous; and ye Fauns
To rustics ever kind, come foot it, Fauns
And Dryad-maids together; your gifts I sing.
And thou, for whose delight the war-horse first
Sprang from earth's womb at thy great trident's stroke,
Neptune; and haunter of the groves, for whom
Three hundred snow-white heifers browse the brakes,
The fertile brakes of Ceos; and clothed in power,

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poem by Publius Vergilius Maro
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Endymion: Book III

There are who lord it o'er their fellow-men
With most prevailing tinsel: who unpen
Their baaing vanities, to browse away
The comfortable green and juicy hay
From human pastures; or, O torturing fact!
Who, through an idiot blink, will see unpack'd
Fire-branded foxes to sear up and singe
Our gold and ripe-ear'd hopes. With not one tinge
Of sanctuary splendour, not a sight
Able to face an owl's, they still are dight
By the blear-eyed nations in empurpled vests,
And crowns, and turbans. With unladen breasts,
Save of blown self-applause, they proudly mount
To their spirit's perch, their being's high account,
Their tiptop nothings, their dull skies, their thrones--
Amid the fierce intoxicating tones
Of trumpets, shoutings, and belabour'd drums,
And sudden cannon. Ah! how all this hums,
In wakeful ears, like uproar past and gone--
Like thunder clouds that spake to Babylon,

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poem by John Keats
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Winds of May

Winds of May, that dance on the sea,
Dancing a ring-around in glee
From furrow to furrow, while overhead
The foam flies up to be garlanded,
In silvery arches spanning the air,
Saw you my true love anywhere?
Welladay! Welladay!
For the winds of May!
Love is unhappy when love is away!

poem by James Joyce
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The Yeoman's Son

It fell about the edge of dark,
Between the sun and moon,
The yeoman's son came home again
With the mire upon his shoon -

With the red clay upon his shoon
From a furrowed field afar -
The sour and bitter clod that breaks
Beneath the share of war.

'Oh, kiss me once on the brows, mother,
And hold me to your breast;
For the long day's work is over and done,
And I go glad to rest.'

'And oh, good-bye, my father's house,
Good-bye to field and hill,
For I'll lie down in the red furrow
To sleep, and sleep my fill.'

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poem by Cicely Fox Smith
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The Crow Sat On The Willow

The crow sat on the willow tree
A-lifting up his wings,
And glossy was his coat to see,
And loud the ploughman sings,
'I love my love because I know
The milkmaid she loves me';
And hoarsely croaked the glossy crow
Upon the willow tree.
'I love my love' the ploughman sung,
And all the fields with music rung.

'I love my love, a bonny lass,
She keeps her pails so bright,
And blythe she trips the dewy grass
At morning and at night.
A cotton dress her morning gown,
Her face was rosy health:
She traced the pastures up and down
And nature was her wealth.'
He sung, and turned each furrow down,

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poem by John Clare
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The Woodlark

Teevo cheevo cheevio chee:
O where, what can tháat be?
Weedio-weedio: there again!
So tiny a trickle of sóng-strain;
And all round not to be found
For brier, bough, furrow, or gréen ground
Before or behind or far or at hand
Either left either right
Anywhere in the súnlight.
Well, after all! Ah but hark—
‘I am the little wóodlark.
. . . . . . . .
To-day the sky is two and two
With white strokes and strains of the blue
. . . . . . . .
Round a ring, around a ring
And while I sail (must listen) I sing
. . . . . . . .
The skylark is my cousin and he
Is known to men more than me

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poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins
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