Vox Populi
A curated webspace for Poetry, Politics, and Nature with over 20,000 daily subscribers and over 8,000 archived posts.
Michael Simms: Hatred
Out of spilled coffee grounds and banana slime beside the compost bin a gangly vine grew twisting out of shadow into slats of light between the boards of the deck above. I hated the way tough thorns of Rubus drew blood whenever I passed, the way a suckering root held clay and stone in a thousand fingers never letting go, choking the softer roots of elderberry and cherry, stealing water from roses and sweet shrub and milkweed that fed the monarch. This bramble, this briar patch of demon weed was killing my garden so I investigated poisons: Triclopyr kills dicots, leaving grasses alone but would kill the roses and azaleas as well, and maybe me, but still I was crazed with hatred for this weed. I scythed, mowed, axed hoed, trimmed, yanked and eyed with vicious intent this intruder eating my garden. But the satanic bramble would not die. Then, in the spring of the fourth year of my war, the arching canes ventured small white blossoms whose yellow stamens attracted bees. And in midsummer, green berries turned red, then black – and a tanager perched on the compost bin feasted on the dark drupes. The berries tasted sweet, the hard seeds insistent on my tongue. I resisted pleasure, then succumbed.
Michael Simms is the Founding Editor of Vox Populi. His many books include a novel, Bicycles of the Gods: A Divine Comedy (Madville, 2022).
Copyright 2022 Michael Simms. First published in Live Encounters, edited by Mark Ulyseas.
Image source: Encyclopedia Britannica
Discover more from Vox Populi
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
A powerful poem 🖤
LikeLike
Thanks, Lisa! It was an important one for me.
>
LikeLike
I love his poems, and the metaphorical manner of his verses. And much more…
LikeLike
Thank you, Marina! I’m honored by your praise.
Michael
LikeLiked by 1 person
This is terrific. Patience and sense abides here. Good to see/read it and you.
Rosaly
LikeLike
Thanks, Rosaly!
>
LikeLike
We have a mulberry mixed in with the grape and blackberries, and it has come back from a million maulings. Now we have finally figured out what it is, I don’t see it!
LikeLike
HA! I’m learning to be a better identifier of plants, but it is a subtle art.
>
LikeLike
Michael, I start off hearing They Feed They Lion, but end up somewhere completely different – with lion cubs licking my fingers. Nicely done.
LikeLike
Thanks, Tony. As you know I love Phil Levine, so for you to hear him in my lines is a wonderful thing.
>
LikeLike
I can see a feast. Too many fruits but with too many predators. Winged ones.
It is a new poem.
Sweet.
LikeLike
Thank you, Saleh!
LikeLike
What a great poem! I love it.
LikeLike
Thank you, Deborah!
LikeLike
Thanks for this poem. It brings back memories of running barefoot through the woods and fields, along the train tracks looking for blackberries; trying to find enough to pick so mother could make us a blackberry cobbler. The bloom, the fruit of the wild things (the weeds) are to me the most beautiful. Sweet Autumn Clematis, lyreleaf sage, wild carrot (Queen Anne’s Lace) and even a thistle have appeared in my “flower” garden and have been allowed to stay and are cherished.
LikeLike
Lovely prose poem, Leo. Thank you!
>
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
I love this one, Michael — the tone and push and tension mounting and the “I scythed, mowed, axed
hoed, trimmed, yanked
and eyed with vicious intent
this intruder eating my garden.
But the satanic bramble would not die. ”
…you know me: clarity, energy, sounds and cadence, imagery and passion — I second Bob! Bingo!
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you!
LikeLike
Loved it. great description of the struggle and the reward.
LikeLike
Thanks, Mel!
>
LikeLike
Irony + A Smile! Thanks, Michael. A good way to start my day.
LikeLike
Thank you!
>
LikeLike
Bingo, Michael.
LikeLike
A bingo from you, Bob, is worth a pot of gold. Thank you.
LikeLike