Walt Whitman-- in honor of Labor Day

Working at watering the trees before burning the brushpile below - PL

 

 

I HEAR AMERICA SINGING

by Walt Whitman

 

I hear America singing, the varied carols I hear;

Those of mechanics -- each one singing his, as it should be,

       blithe and strong;

The carpenter singing his, as he measures his plank or beam,

The mason singing his, as he makes ready for work, or leaves

        off work;

The boatman singing what belongs to him in his boat -- the

        deckhand singing on the steamboat deck;

The shoemaker singing as he sits on his bench -- the hatter

        singing as he stands;

The wood-cutter's song -- the ploughboy's, on his way in the

        morning, or at the noon intermission, or at sundown;

The delicious singing of the mother -- or of the young wife at

       work -- or of the girl sewing or washing -- Each singing

       what belongs to her, and to none else;

The day what belongs to the day -- At night, the party of young

       fellows, robust, friendly,

Singing, with open mouths, their strong melodious songs.

~~

Typed from The Walt Whitman Reader, c 1993 by Running Press



In a search for "August," I found "work."

Working on school bags, UMCOR, 2013

 

I wanted to find another person's poem with August in the title. I began looking through the three shelves of poetry books, but tired quickly after five or six books and nothing. Aha, from Garrison Keillor's Good Poems, I found an even better section to match the work that's gone on around here this week (new flooring in the kitchen). Under WORK, I found the following piece by Bob Arnold.

 

No Tool or Rope or Pail

 

It hardly mattered what time of year

We passed by their farmhouse.

They never waved,

This old farm couple

Usually bent over in the vegetable garden

Or walking the muddy dooryard

Between house and red-weathered barn.

They would look up, see who was passing,

Then look back down, ignorant to the event.

We would wave nonetheless,

Before you dropped me off at work

Further up on the hill,

Toolbox rattling in the backseat,

And then again on the way home

Later in the day, the pale sunlight

High up in their pasture,

Our arms out the window,

Cooling ourselves.

And it was that one midsummer evening

We drove past and caught them sitting

Together on the front porch

At ease, chores done,

The tangle of cats and kittens

Cleaning themselves of fresh spilled milk

On the barn door ramp;

We drove by and they looked up--

The first time I've ever seen their

Hands free of any work,

No tool or rope or pail--

And they waved.

~~

In the biography section is this snippet: Bob Arnold (b. 1952, Adams, MA) is a carpenter and stonemason and poet whose family owns the oldest family lumber business in America, Arnold Lumber. "I took off for the woods after high school and don't plan ever to come out," Arnold wrote. Keillor's book was published in 2002.

 



School begins again - without me, whee!

a bed of cosmos
surrounding last year's sandbox
rusting Tonka truck
~~

overnight
the lilac beautyberries
turn purple
~~

a summer lunch
seed-freckled tomato juice
in the saucer
~~

round and round
on the notebook spiral
a tiny black ant
~~

the creek's coldness
rustling over gravel bar
an orange leaf
~~

c 2014, Pat Laster dba lovepat press

August already?

Grandson Billy-saying goodbye to summer

and hello to school? PL

first day of August

buying school supplies

before the rush

~~

 

one child

on the school playground

in two weeks, many

~~

 

barbershop at noon

no waiting, even the week

before school

~~

 

woodsmoke and cool air

mother more energetic

now that school is near

~~

 

two days until school

teachers in at recess

their cars on the playground

~~

PL

c lovepat press 2014