Category Archives: Farming

“Spring Rise” by Fan Chengda [w/ Audio]

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In Spring, the waters rise --
 Shore grass sways with breezes,
 And geese drift right beside;
 Boats glide as the stream pleases.
   Yon pagoda looks far,
      but feels quite close.

Streamside, one feels a chill.
 Fields have yet to be plowed --
 Not while the torrents spill.
 Mulberry limbs are bowed.
   Soon we'll have a taste,
      and harvest cocoons.

NOTE: The title of this poem is 蝶 戀 花. Xu Yuanchong uses the quite literal “Butterflies in Love with Flowers” as his translated title. I chose differently because a wet Spring is the throughline of the poem and, well, there are no explicit butterflies (or flowers) in the poem [only their potential.] Of course, maybe that’s exactly why the original is a great title.

Burnable World [Haiku]

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after the harvest,
 farmland - dry & ignitable:
  distant smoke.

DAILY PHOTO: Himalayan Pasture

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DAILY PHOTO: South Karnataka Farmland

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“Feeling for the Farmers” by Li Shen [w/ Audio]

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Hoeing farmer, as heat haze roils,
   His flowing sweat waters the soil.
 All those who know food on a plate
   Should feel each grain comes of that toil.

NOTE: The title of this poem (悯农, or Mǐn Nóng) is often translated as “Toiling Farmers,” though “Compassion for Farmers” or “Pity Farmers” would be closer to the literal translation.

Grazers [Senryū]

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the herd grazes
 as Spring rains start to fall;
  none looks up.

The Vine [Free Verse]

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Grape leaves flutter 
   and some catch the light
     to glow with translucence.

I'm in an ancient place,
   and this is such an ancient
     endeavor.

Wine has been the king
    of pursuits in these parts
      for millennia. 

Is that why I can become
   lost in the play of light 
      on quivering leaves?

Or is it just that time of day?
   The sun is low -- ready to set -- 
      My mind is slow & ready to drink.

“Mowing” by Robert Frost [w/ Audio]

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There was never a sound beside the wood but one,
 And that was my long scythe whispering to the ground.
 What was it it whispered? I knew not well myself;
 Perhaps it was something about the heat of the sun,
 Something, perhaps, about the lack of sound --
 And that was why it whispered and did not speak.
 It was no dream of the gift of idle hours,
 Or easy gold at the hand of fay or elf: 
 Anything more than the truth would have seemed too weak
 To the earnest love that laid the swale in rows,
 Not without feeble-pointed spikes of flowers
 (Pale orchises), and scared a bright green snake.
 The fact is the sweetest dream that labor knows.
 My long scythe whispered and left the hay to make.

“The Hayloft” by Robert Louis Stevenson [w/ Audio]

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Through all the pleasant meadow-side
   The grass grew shoulder-high,
 Till the shining scythes went far and wide
   And cut it down to dry.

These green and sweetly smelling crops
   They led in wagons home;
 And they piled them here in mountain tops
   For mountaineers to roam.

Here is Mount Clear, Mount Rusty-Nail,
   Mount Eagle and Mount High --
 The mice that in these mountains dwell,
   No happier are than I!

O what a joy to clamber there,
   O what a place for play,
 With the sweet, the dim, the dusty air,
   The happy hills of hay!

“The Donkey” by G.K. Chesterton [w/ Audio]

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When fishes flew and forests walked
   And figs grew upon thorn,
 Some moment when the moon was blood
   Then surely I was born.

With monstrous head and sickening cry
   And ears like errant wings,
 The devil's walking parody
   On all four-footed things.

The tattered outlaw of the earth,
   Of ancient crooked will;
 Starve, scourge, deride me: I am dumb,
   I keep my secret still.
 
Fools! For I also had my hour;
   One far fierce hour and sweet:
 There was a shout about my ears,
    And palms before my feet.