The Earth on Our Hands
The Earth on Our Hands
Our hands are on the plodding ploughs
They dig their furrows deep
Our hands they drop the eager seeds
That months from now we’ll reap
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands they guide the wooly cows
What lo and stand and eat
When hunger makes our hands to shake
They’ll slaughter them for meat
Our hands on spades they carve the earth
And guide the running rill
Wet from rains that green the moulds
And trench and field fill
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on axes cut the woods
And haul them to our Dun
Where high we build the palisade
No thieves have yet to’ve won
On hands and knees we crawl the field
Plucking every weed
To mulch and rot to dirt so black
The spent earth it will feed
The earth upon our hands is black
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on bows do draw and loose
Into the darkened night
At eyes of wolves what howl and stalk
As moan our cows with fright
Our hands on scythes do swish and sing
As falls the severed wheat
Hafts of gold, they speak of beer
And lasting more to eat
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on swords now stab and hack
Our starving Highland kin
But burns our home and cattle’s gone
They’ll live by us through sin
Our flesh in tatters fights them still
Slaughters in our field
Till blood in furrows feeds the earth
That ne’er again will yield
Our blood upon our hands is red
It fills the furrows too
It feeds the earth but us no more
For now our lives are through
Our hands are on the plodding ploughs
They dig their furrows deep
Our hands they drop the eager seeds
That months from now we’ll reap
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands they guide the wooly cows
What lo and stand and eat
When hunger makes our hands to shake
They’ll slaughter them for meat
Our hands on spades they carve the earth
And guide the running rill
Wet from rains that green the moulds
And trench and field fill
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on axes cut the woods
And haul them to our Dun
Where high we build the palisade
No thieves have yet to’ve won
On hands and knees we crawl the field
Plucking every weed
To mulch and rot to dirt so black
The spent earth it will feed
The earth upon our hands is black
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on bows do draw and loose
Into the darkened night
At eyes of wolves what howl and stalk
As moan our cows with fright
Our hands on scythes do swish and sing
As falls the severed wheat
Hafts of gold, they speak of beer
And lasting more to eat
The earth upon our hands is brown
It’ll feed us till we’re through
It’ll feed us now much longer still
For we’ve still so much to do
Our hands on swords now stab and hack
Our starving Highland kin
But burns our home and cattle’s gone
They’ll live by us through sin
Our flesh in tatters fights them still
Slaughters in our field
Till blood in furrows feeds the earth
That ne’er again will yield
Our blood upon our hands is red
It fills the furrows too
It feeds the earth but us no more
For now our lives are through
Submitted by MythWind at 8:54 PM
6 Comments:
Jake, I love the methodical rythmn of this poem- it befits the subject matter - the repeated toil of daily life in the field. The continual references to the hands and the particular work they're doing ties this piece together. It is a somber and thoughtful reflection. I really like it.
I especially liked that you described the seeds as "eager"- i also liked the imagery of the enemies' blood filling the furrows in the land and making it barren. On the down side, "as moan our cows with fright" was a bit convoluted, i thought you could phrase it better. And your use of "what" instead of "that", as in "what lo and stand and eat" seemed a bit awkward to me - maybe it's just a stylistic thing- you're trying to create that "olden days" feeling that you love so much, but i don't think the poem would lose anything by replacing "what" with "that
" -again, maybe it's just a personal stylistic thing - but that's my gut feel about it. Over all - awesome! Me gusta.
I liked this as well Jake, for many of the same reasons that Anna did. Thinking so much about the cadence of syllables as I have been lately in regards to my own work, I noticed that one or two of the lines seemed to snag. "And trench and field fill" seemed off on the when I first read it, but that may just been me. I think it was the f-d-f sounds that seemed a little hard to get my tongue around, but that just be me.
I think it's funny Rob should mention that, because while I see what he's talking about, that line was one of my favorites. There's something about the odd cadence that occurs there that really appeals to me, it seemed like you were really experimenting with and reveling in the language, and that's what interests me in the case of poetry.
I agree with you Max that Jake was definitely reveling in the language. With me, a vague shadow of the speech impediment I had as a child still haunts with certain sounds, and sometimes I don't where the difficulty is coming from.
This started out as an image to myself of what our lives would be on Dun Ben Klibreck. Um...I guess it doesn't fit into the overall epic saga, since I seem to have gotten the Bastards killed by some stupid Picts. Sorry guys. The poem made me do it.
Not necessarily... this could be sort of a lament for other kin or comrades, merely spoken in the first person even though you're not actually talking about yourSELF being dead. I think this poem is an very good representation of the daily struggle, toil, and sometimes the futility of the sort of life you've set out to capture.
But there's also an indication that life will always go on, no matter how toilsome and futile it may seem--crops will always grow, blood will always spill, men will always sing, even as they die. In that sense, this is a piece that deserves to be kept, polished if you care to, and preserved as part of the great story we've all been building for so long.
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