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Heritage
I’ve never asked for anything
The living soil does not provide.
I don’t want cash; I don’t want bling;
I only want to stand beside
The footprints of departed fathers,
Now looking down through time and space
To see what son it is who bothers
To understand his proper place.
I never thought I’d be the one
To trace this legacy so late,
But I am not the only son
Who scorned the fare put on his plate.
The final stroke is all that matters
When winding down ancestral clocks,
And note how every sunbeam scatters
Off Avalon’s inviting docks.
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The Old Gardener’s Garden
His yard looked like a highly touched-up scene
From Better Homes and Gardens magazine.
_I asked him what he did on Sundays.
_“I groom the corner where the nun prays.”
He pointed to a kneeling figurine
Half-hidden in a shaded swath of green,
Then showed me to a bench made out of teak
Where we sat down, and he began to speak:
_“It doesn’t take much effort to
_Enjoy the things that Nature grew,
But taking care of them involves some work,
As you’d expect in any thriving kirk,
And that’s what I’ve been sent down here to do.”
His claim to piety was nothing new,
_But I could tell he wasn’t kidding:
_He hustled off to do the bidding
Of some compelling supernatural force,
And I was asked to tag along, of course.
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C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
Vignettes; life story clippings that tell just enough to make a gentle point at the end. Smooth as river rock.
“Heritage” also qualifies as being poignant, as it touches on both perusing and treasuring our personal and ofttimes tenuous ties to the past. It is up to us to preserve and pass them on lest they be lost forever.
Entertaining and thought-provoking as always.
River rocks fetch high prices these days, James, whether bought by the bag or by the truckload.
“Heritage” also reconsiders the old question of what they will think of us when we are gathered to our fathers.
The words of “Heritage” open many passageways. It moves from a farm or garden to stand alongside those footprints left behind, and gaze wonderingly into the future. In the center of the poem comes the question of knowing one’s proper place. Most of us trace the legacy late. I was just thinking yesterday of all my father had done for me, so much unappreciated at the time. But considering it all, his accomplishments now seem greater and his deficiencies fewer. The final stanza, flowing into English myth, transports this reader far and fast into wondering where Arthur’s funeral barge traveled to get to the supposed gravesite at Glastonbury. The sunbeams scatter without settling the matter. Excellent inconclusive conclusion.
You must have learned a great deal, C. B., tagging along with old gardeners.
Though I am primarily an autodidact when it comes to gardening, Margaret, I have had the good fortune of meeting and speaking with many an accomplished gardener. The funny thing now is that I have become one of those old gardeners, though in my case piety does not count for much. I am very methodical, which might make me a Methodist.
Very moving poems, CB: I don’t myself “.. only want to stand beside
The footprints of departed fathers,” but I wish I did. These are extremely well-written and well-expressed poems about some atavistic urge I feel we should all have.
You don’t have to want, James. You stand beside those footprints whether you mean to or not.
It’s certainly true you can’t escape the ‘b*ggers’, CB: hence some of my ‘meetings’ in HellWard et al!
I especially love “The Old Gardener’s Garden”, for its concept and characters, and also for its form, with the middle two lines of each stanza shortened to tetrameter. “Sundays / nun prays” brought a big smile, too.
I wouldn’t want, Cynthia, to write a poem that none praise. Is there anyone who doesn’t enjoy a well-tended garden (except possibly for someone responsible for its upkeep)?
CB Sir,
Honestly speaking, your poems are like a carriage taking one along the path of life.
“Heritage” reminded me of my ancestors, the way they lived their lives in the country side, doing good for people – their best takeaway in life was doing good for people. And when my father moved to city life, he acted as the bridge between both the village and the city – I’m completely disjointed. An universal poem yet quite personal in its tone.
“The Old Gardener’s Garden” appears personal to me – the words took me to my own poem “The Lemon Tree” ( https://classicalpoets.org/2025/01/the-lemon-tree-a-poem-by-satyananda-sarangi/ ) I’m concerned if anybody at all will take care of my garden and understand the language of decades-old trees.
Thanks a ton for eliciting these sentiments within me.
Also honestly speaking, Satvananda, sometimes writing these poems is like trying to control a runaway horse.
Though not everyone has children, everybody has ancestors, and a good deed is far and away better than a good intention.
I remember well your “Lemon Tree” poem, and I recall thinking highly of it. I don’t spend a lot of time worrying about plants; they’ve taken care of themselves for a much longer time than we have been around.
Thanks for the “trying to control a runaway horse”. This thought in itself is so powerful – I’ll keep this in mind.
“Heritage” is utterly beautiful. You achieve your effect subtly, presenting a turn in the third stanza. The trajectory is reminiscent of the Parable of the Prodigal Son — what matters is where we end up, even if our journey was errant.
“The Old Gardener’s Garden” is (at least as I experienced it) lighter in tone, but no less weighty in subject matter. The gardener is paternally providing wisdom, and the final line leaves us wondering: this is no mere gardener. As an aside, rhyming “Sundays” and “nun prays” is masterful.
Sometimes things just fall into place, Adam, and at other times it’s a struggle to remain upright, but all’s well that ends well.
The old gardener is indeed (whether ecclesiastically or familially) a father or a brother, and the student needs must listen. Rhyme, as it turns out, is the easy part.