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World Poetry Translation Project

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Emergency Haying
by Hayden Carruth

Coming home with the last load I ride standing
on the wagon tongue, behind the tractor
in hot exhaust, lank with sweat,

my arms strung
awkwardly along the hayrack, cruciform.
Almost 5OO bales we've put up

this afternoon, Marshall and I.
And of course I think of another who hung
like this on another cross. My hands are torn

by baling twine, not nails, and my side is pierced
by my ulcer, not a lance. The acid in my throat
is only hayseed. Yet exhaustion and the way

my body hangs from twisted shoulders, suspended
on two points of pain in the rising
monoxide, recall that greater suffering.

Well, I change grip and the image
fades. It's been an unlucky summer. Heavy rains
brought on the grass tremendously, a monster crop,

but wet, always wet. Haying was long delayed.
Now is our last chance to bring in
the winter's feed, and Marshall needs help.

We mow, rake, bale, and draw the bales
to the barn, these late, half-green,
improperly cured bales; some weight l5O pounds

or more, yet must be lugged by the twine
across the field, tossed on the load, and then
at the barn unloaded on the conveyor

and distributed in the loft. I help-
I, the desk-servant, word-worker-
and hold up my end pretty well too; but God,

the close of day, how I fall down then. My hands
are sore, they flinch when I light my pipe.
I think of those who have done slave labor,

less able and less well prepared than I.
Rose Marie in the rye fields of Saxony,
her father in the camps of Moldavia

and the Crimea, all clerks and housekeepers
herded to the gaunt fields of torture. Hands
too bloodied cannot bear

even the touch of air, even
the touch of love. I have a friend
whose grandmother cut cane with a machete

and cut and cut, until one day
she snicked her hand off and took it
and threw it grandly at the sky. Now

in September our New England mountains
under a clear sky for which we're thankful at last
begin to glow, maples, beeches, birches

in their first color. I look
beyond our famous hayfields to our famous hills,
to the notch where the sunset is beginning,

then in the other direction, eastward,
where a full new-risen moon like a pale
medallion hangs in a lavender cloud

beyond the barn. My eyes
sting with sweat and loveliness. And who
is the Christ now, who

if not I? It must be so. My strength
is legion. And I stand up high
on the wagon tongue in my whole bones to say

woe to you, watch out
you sons of bitches who would drive men and women
to the fields where they can only die.

American Review | www.PaperLyon.com | McGill Live Radio | Publish

Translations for this Poem

English	Spanish	French	Italian
Portuguese	Korean	Russian	Chinese
Japanese


	Poems by Hayden Carruth At Seventy-Five Rereading An Old Bo Block Emergency Haying Endnote February Morning Goes Graves I I I Onondaga Early December On Being Asked To Write A Poem Agai Poem Catching Up With An Idea Ray Saturday At The Border Scrambled Eggs And Whiskey Something For The Trade The Afterlife Letter To Sam Hamill The Curtain The Way Of The Coventicle Of The Tr When I Wrote A Little Words In A Certain Appropriate Mode


	A B C D E F GHI J K L M N O P R S T V W Y [ALL]


	H.D


	Hans Arp


	Harold Pinter


	Hart Crane


	Hayden Carruth


	Helen Dunmore


	Henrik Nordbrandt


	Henry Lawson


	Henry Longfellow


	Hermann Hesse


	Hilaire Belloc


	Ho Xuan Huong


	Homer


	Howard Nemerov


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