I am not as small as she was nor as strong,
you can see if you look at the picture,
the hint of a smile even as she works,
the dreamy glow about her,
living in air, birthing babies, getting on,
planting corn season after season, the giant green stalks
between the meadows and the river,
the Hackensack river ran through the area then.
I was born in the hospital in the city
of Hackensack years later,
but for me, always she was on the farm
planting and making pillows with chicken feathers,
watching wrestling on TV when TV finally came,
she was aghast at it and loved it at the same time.
She worked until she was tired
and slept until she had to wake, she raised chickens and pigs,
said goodbye to Prague and the Charles River years before,
pushed off right across Europe to America
where there were seven Czech farms,
Little Ferry, New Jersey, USA,
this was the way, she followed the others,
joined the Sokol Hall, sent her children
to pick strawberries and blackberries for 5 cents an hour,
sent my Uncle Joe to WWI,
he was gassed in the trenches and never the same after it,
drinking hard liquor at the bar on Indian Lake to forget,
she loved all of it, planted beans, tomato, marigold,
it never got old, of course my father forgot
none of it, he was the youngest, told me how the meadows
were filled with garbage, the reeds blowing in the wind
like angels on a summer night paved over,
companies moving there from all over the world
but all he could think of was the farm, the mornings
when the sun rose over the city, the Hudson so close,
and then the meadows with outlets to come, a football stadium,
soon, Good Lord yes, the Super Bowl,
there where the birds in the meadows rested on the tall reeds,
a place so wild and wily, with eddies under the black water
in deep pools. She knew what to do.
I know, she lived strong, well, keen,
Mary Havel worked, lived as a farmer,
on the rich black soil of Northern New Jersey
in the greenest of meadows.
Author Bio:
I am an organic gardener, a teacher, a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Program fellowship holder and my writing has appeared in THE ADIRONDACK REVIEW, LITERAL LATTE, POETRY EAST, most recently in THE STONE CANOE, NINEPATCH, THE HAMPDEN SYDENEY POETRY REVIEW, PINYON, CITRN, this month in EVENING STREET REVIEW.
you can see if you look at the picture,
the hint of a smile even as she works,
the dreamy glow about her,
living in air, birthing babies, getting on,
planting corn season after season, the giant green stalks
between the meadows and the river,
the Hackensack river ran through the area then.
I was born in the hospital in the city
of Hackensack years later,
but for me, always she was on the farm
planting and making pillows with chicken feathers,
watching wrestling on TV when TV finally came,
she was aghast at it and loved it at the same time.
She worked until she was tired
and slept until she had to wake, she raised chickens and pigs,
said goodbye to Prague and the Charles River years before,
pushed off right across Europe to America
where there were seven Czech farms,
Little Ferry, New Jersey, USA,
this was the way, she followed the others,
joined the Sokol Hall, sent her children
to pick strawberries and blackberries for 5 cents an hour,
sent my Uncle Joe to WWI,
he was gassed in the trenches and never the same after it,
drinking hard liquor at the bar on Indian Lake to forget,
she loved all of it, planted beans, tomato, marigold,
it never got old, of course my father forgot
none of it, he was the youngest, told me how the meadows
were filled with garbage, the reeds blowing in the wind
like angels on a summer night paved over,
companies moving there from all over the world
but all he could think of was the farm, the mornings
when the sun rose over the city, the Hudson so close,
and then the meadows with outlets to come, a football stadium,
soon, Good Lord yes, the Super Bowl,
there where the birds in the meadows rested on the tall reeds,
a place so wild and wily, with eddies under the black water
in deep pools. She knew what to do.
I know, she lived strong, well, keen,
Mary Havel worked, lived as a farmer,
on the rich black soil of Northern New Jersey
in the greenest of meadows.
Author Bio:
I am an organic gardener, a teacher, a Syracuse University Graduate Writing Program fellowship holder and my writing has appeared in THE ADIRONDACK REVIEW, LITERAL LATTE, POETRY EAST, most recently in THE STONE CANOE, NINEPATCH, THE HAMPDEN SYDENEY POETRY REVIEW, PINYON, CITRN, this month in EVENING STREET REVIEW.
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