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Garden Party
The sparrows near the feeder flit and preen
While predators politely quit the scene.
A mockingbird is chirping up a storm,
And soft drinks on the cart are getting warm.
The worms beneath the mulch are lying low,
But old cock robin knows just where to go
To find himself a tasty summer snack.
If truth be told, there’s nothing that we lack,
We celebrants within this garden gate.
The floral decorations all look great,
And even insects learn how to behave.
Thus, all that we can do is ask who gave
Us living space so perfectly designed
To satisfy the body and the mind.
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The Redemptive Quality of Root Beer
The hail that pelts a lean-to roof of tin
Creates a thunderous unnerving din.
So powerful it is, a man might ask,
“Are not such blows more suited to Alas-
Ka?” Every polar bear patrols its floe,
Expecting hapless seals, that do not know
What’s lurking on the ice nearby, to show
Their shiny heads. One shouldn’t ever wait
To take advantage of the things that fate
Has passed along, because to hesitate
Would be a waste. From somewhere high above
There came a blast of perfect thoughtful love:
With gathered hailstones I will chill a glass
Of carbonated sweetened sassafras.
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Model Church
Each forest is a bright cathedral
With open spaces polyhedral—
__Some geodesic,
__Some poetessic,
Where every young raccoon or skunk
Can find itself a hollow trunk
__In which to lodge.
__Get out of Dodge
Is not the word in sylvan glades,
And never will the mower blades
__Cut down the weeds
__Where Bambi feeds.
The groves of maple, oak and birch
Provide the Lord an ample church
__Where every seed
__Fulfills a need,
And kits will learn the art of sharing
And how to bond in times of pairing.
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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.
“Garden Party” is an idealistic look at the gifts provided by the growing plants along with the other features that birds and insects find rewarding. Your garden seems to have reached a status of homeostasis.
“The Redemptive Quality of Root Beer” at the end reminded me of my time on the farm without electricity, but with an icebox. When hail fell, we would pick some up and put in the icebox and use the pellets to cool our sodas.
“The Model Church” is an inspired name for the forest. Again, every animal seems to be perfectly placed and rewarded. Your poems gave me a peaceful feeling.
There is a place up my way, Roy, in New Hampshire, called Cathedral in the Pines. It’s the epitome of serenity and the pews (plank seats) are surrounded by towering white pines.
I love poems about gardens, and a garden party around a big table with everything at hand is the summit of human felicity, as Dr. Johnson might have said. A garden is the perfect embodiment of nature subdued and subjected to human control, with all her beauties and fruits put at our service. The picture by van de Velde that Evan Mantyk has chosen as an illustration is just the right accompaniment.
I’m glad there are still some people around who like root beer! It is the quintessential summer soft drink, and a root beer float (the cold soda with a large scoop of vanilla ice cream in it) is pure heaven.
I love the rhyme of “geodesic” and “poetessic” in the third poem. Kip Anderson has a real skill in coinage. And it interesting to note that the name “Bambi” (referring of course to the young deer) is now an accepted canonical reference. The original book is only a century old, but “Bambi” has become well known enough to be used by poets.
K.A.N.D.
As some garden once drafted as the title of one of his books: The Exuberant Garden and the Controlling Hand. All good gardens are in some way Edenic.
Yeah, Bambi has become iconic.My presumption is that “Bambi” is a shortening of “bambino.”
In the first line of my response, I meant, of course, “garden writer.”
All 3 of these poems are perfectly enjoyable to read. I love gardens so much I live in one, and naturally I enjoy garden poems too. I like the clever little rhyme of ask with Alas-ka. It livens things up and gives a humorous feel to the scenes described. Great job!
I’m not sure, Yael, how I made the jump to Alaska. I pretty much live in a garden, too, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
All three poems are excellent. Garden Party in particular seems like such a celebration, and only someone with your professional background and love of nature could have written something so lovely.
Just think, Russel, if I hadn’t discovered gardening I might have become a lawyer, or something.
The road not taken…
“Garden Party” implies an invitation to Eden, never entirely closed while such enchanting spaces are with us on earth.
You must know, Margaret, that little verse often seen on garden ironwork:
The kiss of the sun for pardon,
The song of the birds for mirth,
You’re closer to God in the garden
Than anywhere else on Earth.
I particularly enjoyed the simplicity of Garden Party with all its players.
I had the fortune of spending a month in the country amidst ‘sylvan’ and genuine churches, and a week sleeping on a couch in a modest conservatory enjoying the sound of rain and watching wildlife skittering across the corrugated roof, much of which I found encapsulated in the latter two poems.
Thanks for the reads, CB.
Sure, Paul, rhyming couplets are about as simple as one can get. I envy your “week sleeping on a couch.” If I could sleep that long, it might do me some good. Wildlife is everywhere, whether you want it or not. I will keep writing “reads” for as long as anyone cares to thank me for them.
What I found most striking about these three pieces is that they have deceptive titles, which I found an effective “hook” to grab my attention through to the end.
The garden party is of birds and worms; the root beer serves only as the climax of a poem about weather; and the model church is a forest. The apparent attenuation of the titles illustrates the power of the metaphor within the poem. Making this seem as second-nature as we see here is no small feat.