“The poet is the great anti-specialist.”
Poison ivy renders my hands useless.
My computer in the hands of repair.
I rock on the back porch,
watch beans sprout & grow,
watch kale reach leaves higher & wider,
and ponder my existential life.
Title borrowed from a May Swenson essay.
4 thoughts on "“The poet is the great anti-specialist.”"
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Poison ivy, computer repair, existential life…you blend them so well
Great poem! I love how you turn the word usage of “hands” in the first two lines, and then how you surrender to the quiet moment on the porch. Like the speaker had to be forced into this pondering–or, simply’s too busy to allow for the presence. There’s a lot to ponder here (sorry!) and I can really relate!
I love how much meat is on the bones of such few lines.
I lost a battle with poison ivy this month, as well 😩
Interesting title and piece—I think of poets sometimes as Renaissance men/women or Jack of all trades—we know a little bit about everything and everything we notice