i believe ive shared this thing once before in one form or another. in case i havent, this is a sorta rework of a poem i wrote maybe five years ago while i was reading "Letters from an American Farmer" by (deep breath) J. Hector St. John de Crèvecœur for a class on colonial american literature. the names an obvious giveaway but i still like it.
anyway, i thought itd be fun to the text an accompanying visual element this time around. like i said, the writing is old, so cut me some slack.
also its horror so you know proceed with caution.
plain text under the cut
Letters from the Last American Farmer
Frontiersmen do their souls neglect,
Turned to trappings, metal bound.
Hid away from the Elect,
Noses pressed against the ground.
From hand to mouth- the path’s direct.
I’ll stand apart and hold my worth,
A farmer be, and earn respect;
I till the soil, turn the earth.
Who is he, the favored son,
Who raises up the fruit and grain?
And works until the day is done,
And come the harvest reaps the gain.
This is he- I’ll be the one
To give my life to righteous toil.
I wield the pitchfork, not the gun;
I turn the earth and till the soil.
Proclaim the men from off the docks,
“Ubi panis ibi patria”
And to her fortunes they will flock
In love of fair Columbia.
Perhaps it comes to you a shock
Or else a simple source of mirth
But this pride you mustn’t mock;
I till the soil, turn the earth.
The silver hand of Justice fair
Does lightly steer the citizen,
Brush’d his cheek, as soft as air
With good will towards his countrymen.
And although we know it rare
To her blind axiom we’re loyal.
For sanctum from the noble glares
I turn the earth and till the soil.
The story’s whispered, be it true,
Often is it I have heard
Although he’s swaddled in the glue,
Tar and feathers make no bird.
No wings, no eyes, yet high he flew,
The rope raised up a deathly girth,
And bid, as I, this soft adieu:
I till the soil, turn the earth.
The snake pursues me, long and white.
Its doubts do pull me from the fold
To embark into the night,
To embark into the cold.
Far to the West they say there’s light.
Though ill-bred souls may curse and roil
Like gold, my virtue still shines bright;
I turn the earth and till the soil.
The land’s the heart and heart’s my own.
With little cabin, hearth, and fire,
I make this wilderness my home
And faithfully snuff my desire
For meat that melts clean from the bone.
I’ll overcome the winter’s dearth
If God’s good graces He may loan.
I till the soil, turn the earth.
Desolation scrapes my spirit,
The rifle shakes within my grip,
An anthem’s sung- I cannot hear it,
Teeth set upon my trembling lip.
Do in my labours I promerit?
Or show some moral split or spoil?
The end is nigh and as I near it
I turn the earth and till the soil.
One final verse I will extend
As cold and hunger overtakes
In hopes that you, my final friend,
Perhaps may learn from my mistakes.
Here all is ruin, all shall rend
Revolutions come unbirthed,
Yet compelled am I to tend
And till the soil, turn the earth.
Till the soil, turn the earth.
Till the soil, turn the earth.
Till the soil, turn the earth.
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