Edward J. Pluchar - The Blogsplitter

This is “Manifesto:  The Mad Farmer Liberation Front” by Wendell Berry.  The lines in bold were my favorite after the last read-through.

Love the quick profit, the annual raise,
vacation with pay. Want more
of everything ready-made. Be afraid
to know your neighbors and to die.
And you will have a window in your head.
Not even your future will be a mystery
any more. Your mind will be punched in a card
and shut away in a little drawer.
When they want you to buy something
they will call you. When they want you
to die for profit they will let you know.

So, friends, every day do something
that won’t compute. Love the Lord.
Love the world. Work for nothing.
Take all that you have and be poor.
Love someone who does not deserve it.
Denounce the government and embrace
the flag. Hope to live in that free
republic for which it stands.
Give your approval to all you cannot
understand. Praise ignorance, for what man
has not encountered he has not destroyed.

Ask the questions that have no answers.
Invest in the millenium. Plant sequoias.
Say that your main crop is the forest
that you did not plant,
that you will not live to harvest.
Say that the leaves are harvested
when they have rotted into the mold.
Call that profit. Prophesy such returns.

Put your faith in the two inches of humus
that will build under the trees
every thousand years.
Listen to carrion - put your ear
close, and hear the faint chattering
of the songs that are to come.
Expect the end of the world. Laugh.
Laughter is immeasurable. Be joyful
though you have considered all the facts.
So long as women do not go cheap
for power, please women more than men.
Ask yourself: Will this satisfy
a woman satisfied to bear a child?
Will this disturb the sleep
of a woman near to giving birth?

Go with your love to the fields.
Lie down in the shade. Rest your head
in her lap. Swear allegiance
to what is nighest your thoughts.
As soon as the generals and the politicos
can predict the motions of your mind,
lose it. Leave it as a sign
to mark the false trail, the way
you didn’t go. Be like the fox
who makes more tracks than necessary,
some in the wrong direction.
Practice resurrection.

I saw a picture of a 4 year old boy, who is now 9 years old or something like that, which inspired this poem. It’s not quite there, but there’s something here.  (I am unable to break the lines where I want to, so I have inserted forward-slashes (/) to indicate these breaks).

Ode to Potential

A sweet face

Well-rounded baby fat

A momentary smile

Revealing peace not often found/

What will become of such a spirit?

What struggles will try him?

What will the unexpected blessings be?

Which dreams will he choose?/

But potential can be a lover

Who suddenly won’t dance

Potential can be a hypochondriac

Who can’t make up his mind./

Already that sweet face

Has lost some baby fat

No sweet and simple imagining

Could possibly be fulfilled./

And still there must be something there

To grow women from girls

Captivating and driving,

sometimes grand and sometimes fatal

It lays in wait and there will spoil,

unless dynamism be infused.