The Damned Chickens

I didn't begin college until my mid-30's. I knew absolutely nothing about poetry, other than I hated it. Of course, the final essay for my English Lit class in 1997 was to write a poem based on some aspect of the Carlos Williams poem, The Red Wheelbarrow. Oh, it was also supposed to be written in the form of Schuster's Handbook. So, I did what I sometimes due best - procrastinate. Then, the night before it was due, I got drunk. And I wrote my final essay. So, here it goes....

I began thinking about farms and the people I knew growing up in corn country, Illinois. I hope it doesn't rain. Knee high by the Fourth of July. Sweet corn festivals and corn detasseling. All things familiar to a farmer.

Williams poem (partially)

"So much depends.

Upon the red wheelbarrow

Glazed with rainwater

Beside the white chickens."

He sat on the weathered porch and glared at the red wheelbarrow. And at the white chickens pecking the ground around it. They were always underfoot. The damned chickens.

Knarled hands, lined face, he silently looked over the crowd. And there was always a crowd. Why did it always rain at these sales? He drew the blanket around his legs closer. The auctioneer's voice rang in his head. That was the '49 tractor. What would be next. The harrow was already gone. The combine would be next. Hell, the bank only loaned him the money to buy it two years ago. Well, they would be sorry about that.

If only...he thought. If only the accident hadn't happened...If only he'd been looking where he was going...But if only's would never bring the farm back. He'd lost it. If it weren't for the damned chickens.

The equipment went first. Always did. He'd been to enough of these types of sales to know that. Farmers always knew a good deal when they saw it, even if they were ashamed when they took it from their friends and neighbors.

The neighbors. Joe and Carla. Tom and Alice. Jimmy and his three young ones. It was a shame about Jimmy's wife, but then you can never tell about those city folks. The neighbors...they were good people. If it hadn't been for the rain. The grass was slick, the chickens...the damned chickens! The accident. Hurrying... Hadn't Dad told him numerous times that the chores weren't going anywhere. No use dwelling on that. He knew if the rain had stopped, the neighbors would have brought in the crop. As it was, they lost theirs too.

The household goods were much slower. No one wants to bid on a friend's life or memories. The hutch, the dining room table, carved by hand, Grandpa's fingerprints could never be erased from them. The buyer can't help feeling guilty. He wants to sneak away like a thief in the night. But he knows the money he can ill afford to spend will be a blessing. At least he has his health.

The red wheelbarrow. The chickens. The rain. The fields, the crops, the weather. The equipment that al"ways breaks. A farmer's life. He knows now he'll never walk again. Never walk the fields again. Never feel the silk of the corn tassels against his cheek. Never drive a tractor again. But...maybe...the sale will give his son a chance. God...please don't let him be a farmer. Make life easier for him. Don't let him be a slave to the sun or the rain, or anything the weather may bring.

Growing up, I knew several farmers. While it may seem like a life of leisure, in farming, the weather, the equipment, the unknowns of day to day life make a simple slip in the rain a wrong step that can change your life. The damned chickens.

My teacher's comments "According to the HANDBOOk (fragments) this is a disaster, but I see your intent. Super.!" Final Grade: A