I want to post some photos of my garden, and thought about what poem to go with it. Theodore Roethke was the great poet of gardens, his father ran a nursery. This one came to mind, earthy, slightly menacing.
Florist’s Root Cellar
Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch,
Bulbs broke out of boxes hunting for chinks in the dark,
Shoots dangled and drooped,
Lolling obscenely from mildewed crates,
Hung down long yellow evil necks, like tropical snakes.
And what a congress of stinks!— Roots ripe as old bait,
Pulpy stems, rank, silo-rich,
Leaf-mold, manure, lime, piled against slippery planks.
Nothing would give up life:
Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.
And here are the photos, not menacing at all.
2 thoughts on “The Garden Master”
I absolutely loved that poem. more than any poem, it hooked me, made me laugh out loud in a gallows kind of way. Your garden….such grandeur…..and of course that cat. Love, Simone
You should ge a book of Roethke from the library. I bet you’d like him. He was famously manic-depressive, lots of stories of him holed up at Bennington, refusing to teach, throwing things out the window. Then if you do like him, I’ll send you a book.