Poetry is the Salve for Everything: Especially for Aspiring Farmers

by Kate Watters

Do you ever just have a moment where you fall to your knees thanking God and everyone else responsible for the creation of poems? In the short weeks of early October before my apprenticeship at the UCSC Farm and Garden ended, I was wandering the streets of downtown Santa Cruz slightly bereft, and came across a man sitting behind a vintage typewriter. This man, named Kevin Devaney, will write a poem for an occasion, person or situation of your choosing at which point you can decide how much to pay him. “I actually have a graduate degree in poetry, so this is what I am most qualified to do in the world,” he explained.

A poet for hire, this was perfect!  Poetry was the salve we applied to every kind of situation on the farm. Poems helped introduce class topics, set the vibe for community meetings, and pre-harvest pump-ups.  Poetry filled the void when words escaped us. Typewriters are also especially sacred to me. My 1960’s Royal was among the worldly possessions I brought with me to the farm. I like the satisfying, clear ding that signals the edge of the margin and the animal instinct that returns to me when I type. I feel the sureness of the words that come, much like the immediacy of pen to paper. It was my official correspondence tool while living on the farm.

My trusty typewriter

 “I have a situation,” I said. He leaned toward me listening, not taking notes. “I am a farm apprentice at the UC Santa Cruz farm. I am one of 38 aspiring farmers from all ages, backgrounds and walks of life. We came from all over the country and the world, uprooting ourselves from home and community to learn how to be organic farmers. After six months together we have fallen in love with the work, the vegetables, the flowers, the farm, and each other. Now we have to leave and figure a way to make a living as farmers. And we are somewhat heartbroken. Can you write a poem for us?”

The UCSC Farm is as close to Eden as it gets

Kevin looked at me from across his shiny black 1930’s Remington typewriter, nodded confidently and said “yes come back in 15 minutes and I will have a poem for you.” 

I loved this form of direct marketing for poetry. Cut out the middle man. Who needed an agent or publisher? It reminded me how satisfying it was to sell the vegetables we grew to real people at our stand at the entrance to the University. Not only did we fetch a higher price selling directly to the consumer, it was more meaningful to have an exchange with the people who would be enjoying our produce and flower bouquets. Sometimes we even got tips!

Who knew that arranging vegetables would be so satisfying!

I strolled down the streets, past the cute shoe and surf shops, and the people eating meals at fancy restaurants feeling an unexpected wave of contentment. I realized I did not need to buy a thing, other than this poem. The past six months of simple living on the farm was the perfect antidote to consumerism. All of my basic needs were met. I slept in a comfortable single bed in a 10 by 10 foot yurt with four large screened windows that looked out to a cypress grove. I washed my tired body in an outdoor shower heated by the sun and draped with sweet-smelling honeysuckle blossoms. I ate healthy meals cooked with love by my fellow apprentices sourced from the vegetables and fruits that we grew throughout the season. I even picked and arranged a fresh bouquet of cut flowers for myself every week.

All I need is this farm fresh cut flower bouquet

The only thing missing was the right words to describe this ache at having to fledge this nurturing environment and find another place to begin my new life as an aspiring farmer. I wanted to offer a poem for my farming comrades to carry with them into the world; something to help us all remember this unique experience.

When I got back Kevin said he needed five more minutes because he had to change the typewriter ribbon in the middle of writing, so I strolled into the bookstore. I made a beeline to the poetry section and pulled a book by one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, off the shelf.

There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

I am also constantly looking with my arms open; wanting to reach out and sweep all of the world—both beautiful and devastating—close to my chest so I can feel it more vividly. Looking in this way honors the simple, honest goodness and sadness of our daily lives. I am grateful for poets like Mary Oliver who capture “the things you can’t reach.”

For me, poetry is a basic need, like air and water, which sustains my soul. Poems are like healthy snacks, the kind that keep me from flagging on a long hike in the Grand Canyon or a big harvest morning. On most days I wish I had a book of poetry in my car, or in my backpack. You just never know when a collection of words might be the medicine you or someone else needs to get through the day.  There were many times in my life where a poem had swept me back from the depths of despair by naming my pain and helping me realize I was not alone. The poet and teacher Ellen Bass says that poems help us see that there is another world, and it is in this one. I am always drawn to those other worlds within. 

When you are busy, it is hard to find room for poetry. The only way you make space for poems is to create still and quiet places in your mind. Even if you are folding laundry or sweeping the floor, or shoveling dirt there is room for a poem if you allow every wild thought through the gates. Perhaps that is why farming and poetry make such good companions. Of course Wendell Berry figured this out awhile ago (and still uses a typewriter.) Many harvest mornings his words took us on a journey within as we carried them with us to the field with our hearts overflowing.

I began to be followed by a voice saying:

"It can't last. It can't last.

Harden yourself. Harden yourself. 

Be ready. Be ready."

"Go look under the leaves,"

it said, "for what is living there 

is long dead in your tongue."

And it said, "Put your hands

into the earth. Live close

to the ground. Learn the darkness.

Gather round you all

the things that you love, name

their names, prepare

to lose them. It will be

as if all you know were turned

around within your body."

And I went and put my hands

into the ground, and they took root

and grew into the season's harvest.

I looked behind the veil

of the leaves, and heard voices

that I knew had been dead

in my tongue years before my birth.

I learned the dark.

When I returned to Kevin’s Pacific Avenue street desk he handed me the poem typed on a small, recycled rectangle of paper with a Busker Fest call for artists printed on the back. His smudged fingerprints from the midstream ribbon change trailed across the page like animal tracks. The poem was perfect. Tears sprang into my eyes as I read the beautiful language and imagery he summoned to the page where none had existed moments before. 

The original poem with fingerprints

I thanked him with him all the cash I had in my wallet, which sadly was only ten dollars. Assigning monetary value to his creative effort was not possible; the poem was worth so much more. I wanted to give him a teaming box of our vegetables in order to equal the amount of heart he extended to the work. If there are two occupations that are guaranteed to keep your bank account running on the empty side, it is being a farmer or a poet. Yet both are necessary to feed our bodies and souls. As I make my way to farm new fields, I think of Kevin and read the poem he wrote for us, my voice thick with emotion and gratitude.

My colored pencil rendition

Poetry courtesy of "Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?" from Why I Wake Early: New Poems by Mary Oliver, 2005.  "Song in a Year of Catastrophe" from Wendell Berry: New Collected Poems, 2012.