Anthology From the Field., No.4: Harvest

A selection of original poems on the theme of harvest

Photo by Paz Arando on Unsplash

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Wendell Berry Reading Group link for 1st June session at the bottom of this piece

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Welcome to another Anthology from the Field, this time on the theme of Harvest. I received some excellent poems from readers and I have included them below. Thank you to all who submitted poems.

The next theme will be ‘Forests’, so as usual, if you wold like to be in with a chance of appearing in the next Anthology From the Field, please submit poem(s) and a brief biography (which can include a link to your work) to haddenturner@protonmail.com or in reply to this email.

Now on to some poems.

The Old Time Gleaner

On the ground. At the margins.
Up high. Down low.
Hidden away. Out of reach.
Broken and bruised, rejected and refused.
Overturned and overlooked, overripe and "not quite right".

These all are what I seek -
my daily bread and all.
For it is upon these that my life depends -
the goodness you leave behind. 

Hadden Turner
Chelmsford, 2024 

Storm at Harvest Time

Black clouds gather like broken
dreams on the horizon.
The wheat - ripe and erect -
makes its final vain stand,
before the slayer comes: 
relentless, ravaging, raging. 
The harvest is his to reap, 
his to consume, 
his to destroy.

No sickle in his hand, nor combine in sight,
gusts and gales, lightning and hail -
these the violent tools in his calloused, cruel hands.
Nothing escapes him, nothing remains. 
Total dominion. 
Total ruin. 

That is, unless the "signs of the times" 
were heeded by the wise old farmer. 
The grain, already in the barn
gathered cool, dry, and content. 
This, the wise old farmer knows,
his only hope. 
Decimation is the converse. 

A dance, it is, between life and death - 
this the farmers lot. 
Bounty one moment, ruin the next;
a waltz, riding the rhythms between 
joy and dejection,
plenty and subjection -
this the farmer's "Oh so blissful life!".
Constantly, he lives 
at the mercy of that 
which knows no mercy.
Only the cruel, unwavering fluctuations 
of fire and of ice. 

To control the uncontrollable,
to predict the unpredictable,
to grow the ungrowable,
to tame the untameable -
this, the farmer's unending endeavour.
And the storm, 
with his black awesome clouds -
has the final say.

Unless...


Hadden Turner
Chelmsford, 2024 

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Readers poems

Peanuts in June
           a lament for Grandaddy

Chock-full of vigor,
our fixture of fervor
now shuffles,
	stoop-shouldered.

Skin, smooth and pink, reduced
to a patch of cancer,
	stretched over a frame.

Between sunup and sundown
his muscles worked a shovel,
dehorned cattle,
swam the Blackwater,
paddled the Colorado,
fried cornbread,
grated sweet potatoes,
	held his wife.

Tell me, what was it like to plow behind a mule?
Tell me why you love the land so.
Tell me, where did all that muscle go?

You spent it.
Like your lungs, now taking your last breath—
you turned it into adventure—
traded it in for years of
	laughing, light in your eyes— dancing 
with your only partner, in the airport parking lot.

You wore it clean out, buried
your muscle in the sandy soil
of that Sunset View—
planted it deep,
on into death.

For 89 years
we watched it bloom,
	like peanuts in June.

Anna A. Friedrich
Boston

Anna A. Friedrich is a poet and Arts Pastor in Boston, Massachusetts. You can find more of her work at annaafriedrich.substack.com

The line, Tell me where did all that muscle go? You spent it. Captures perfectly the relentless work of harvest and the effect this has on the body after many years out in the field. Harvest is a time which demands one’s all. It is not for the faint hearted, and Anna’s beautiful poem poignantly reminds us of this.

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In a Jiffy

Nightshade blossoms
from the funnel clouds
Rainin’ on the porch.

Mr. Parrum’s tractor
Freshly off the plow,
And freshly off the torch.

Hailstones take to dancin’
And balance on the fence,
Until the world is ash.

And beat upon the face
And eyes of our old home,
I catch the flash.

In an instant,
eighty acres of tobacco
cut in half.

And will-o’-wisps
Dance for hours,
Takin’ up a laugh.

All up in a jiffy, all up ‘n gone too fast.

Paul Jordan
North Carolina

Paul is a father of three who keep him young and make him old all at once. He’s married to his best friend, Kristian, who always encourages the very best in him. He works with a local home building company and is also a part-time gunsmith, by trade. He and his family live in a small town in North Carolina, which to Paul, is growing too fast. He’s an amateur poet and writer, with dreams of branching out into the world of publishing. If you’d like to read more of Paul’s work, you can check out his Substack here:

Weather (or rain and hail) is the constant foe of harvest time, and it is imperative that farmers get their crop in the barn or under cover as quick as they can — or as Paul colloquially puts it, “Up in a jiffy”. Indeed, weather is the ever present backdrop to this poem as it is to farmers. The way Paul uses the theme of weather gives the impression that Mr. Parrum is constantly looking over his shoulder to check on the clouds…

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