Weeds
The pigrush, the poverty grass,
The bindweed's stranglehold morning glories,
The dog-blow and ninety joints –
They ask so little of us to start with,
Just a crack in the asphalt,
Or a subway grate with an hour of weak light.
One I know has put down roots
As far as a corpse is buried, its storage stem
As big as my leg. That one's called
Man-under-ground. That one was my grudge.
And suddenly now this small
Unlooked for joy. Where did it come from,
With these pale shoots
And drooping lavender bell? Persistent
Intruder, whether or not
I want you, you've hidden in the heart's
Overworked subsoil. Hacked at
Or trampled on, may you divide and spread,
Just as, all last night,
The wind scattered a milkweed across the sky.
– J D McClatchy
Anyone with a garden (or, less grandly & intentionally, a yard) is familiar with this phenomenon: the "weed" – the wild flower, the stubborn strange grasses, the volunteer, the bird-planted, the revenant – that prospers in place of the pampered & often expensive plants we labored to see in their place. Sometimes the results are better than what we intended; other times, the initial beauty deceives. A few years ago a wonderful plant sprang up all over my yard, with lacy green leaves & little cloudlets of white flowers (I assume it was some variant of wild carrot or Queen Anne's Lace; it had that kind of look). I was taken with it & decided to let it bloom wherever it was growing, which was all over. But then seed time came, & the plant turned on me: the seeds were sticky little burrs that got everywhere. When I walked through the yard, I would end up with them all over my arms (& in my arm pits), my hair, my yard gloves, my clothes, my shoes . . . everywhere. I brushed them off until I realized I was just spreading the seeds. The next year, I ruthlessly yanked up any of these plants I saw, even in their early beauty stages. I pulled them up by the dozens. A few still show up, of course, despite my dedicated efforts.
The poet here starts off with some really unattractive-sounding plants, their unwanted wildness contrasting with the regularity of his lines & stanzas. I may know some of these by other names (such is the nature of "weeds"), though I don't recognize most of these names, but then I'm sure they were chosen for sound & connotation: pigrush, poverty grass, bindweed, dog-blow (it's an interesting phenomenon that every dog-related term I can think of in English is an insult of some sort), ninety-joint: they sound mean, low-natured, gross or balky.
But then the mood changes a bit: they ask so little of us. It can be a relief not to have to deal with their needs. Is their self-sufficiency generous or indifferent or powerful or all of those and/or something else? Despite the unappealing names we stick on them, there seems something admirable in their tenacity & self-reliance & independence (& aren't those supposed to be great cultural virtues for Americans?).A crack in the asphalt, a subway grate: the plants aren't even interrupting the visualized flow of some ideal garden here; they're just trying to live (I remember a passage from a long-ago reading of Crime & Punishment, a description of how even the suffering will cling to life, even if they are stuck on a bare rocky ledge: still they cling to life). The poet tells of one weed that has sunk down as far as a corpse is buried: that's presumably a human corpse; the plant finds life amidst our death, & maybe even through our death. This plant's storage stem (a type of root that stores food & other nutrients) is as thick as the poet's leg. Things are getting personal! The comparisons to a man's leg & the vicinity of corpses & the name Man-under-ground & the storage stem all suggest that the plant's vitality is somehow feeding off of our (defunct) bodies. No wonder the poet has a grudge against it. It's doubtful that he managed to defeat it, though: a root that massive is difficult to remove completely, & unless you do that, that plant is returning.
The mood changes more significantly in the second stanza: the poet does not begin by describing the "weed", but by relating how he reacts to it: And suddenly now this small / unlooked for joy. It's not even clear at first that he is, in fact, describing a plant. The line break lends subtle emphasis to unlooked for. Joy is rare & fleeting enough in life, even small joys, so an unlooked-for one is welcome. After the emotion comes its cause: pale shoots / and drooping lavender bell. The plant is still an intruder, but not a fragile beauty, despite its paleness & drooping & pastel shade; it is persistent, not just in showing up where it wasn't planned for but in its insistence on its own existence & loveliness. Where did it come from? The it is emphasized with italics, bringing out the singularity of this particular weed. It refers to this plant, but perhaps also to the unexpected apparition of the plant's loveliness.
The poet is not completely won over (perhaps he's had an experience similar to mine with the lacy beauties): whether or not I want you. He's not ready to give up his plans for his garden, but he does admit the persistent intruder with pale shoots & a delicate bell-flower has worked its way into the heart's / overworked subsoil. Again, the body is linked to the world of nature as shown in the garden; the heart, seat of love, is compared to a garden (gardens are a traditional erotic image in many poetic traditions). And this weed has not just lodged there superficially; it is in the subsoil. The heart is cultivated, even overworked, but still receptive to the surprising bit of joy brought unexpectedly by an unlooked-for & unwanted discovery.
With that, the poet gives the plant his unnecessary blessing to bloom in his garden. Acknowledging the weed's likely future of being hacked at / or trampled on (it is still an intruder, & hacking & trampling are how people treat weeds), he also wishes it to divide & spread, those two terms balancing the earlier two: dividing is a sort of hacking, a separation (it is also a deliberate process by which gardeners keep their plants healthy; here, it is the plant itself that is keeping itself healthy by division); spreading seems related to trampling: both expand the plant outwards, even if crushed. And most gardeners have had the experience of realizing they were carrying & spreading seeds stuck in the ridges of their work boots.
The poem so far has dealt with the ground, & what's underneath it; in the last two lines, it takes flight into the sky. First the way is prepared by the introduction of the metaphor: Just as, all last night. . . . Night prepares us for a dreamlike vision: The wind scattered a milkweed across the sky. On one level, this is a factual statement of the natural process by which some weeds are spread: the wind blows the light seeds through the air. But of course they aren't blown "across the sky"; they cover only a bit of territory, fairly low down in the atmosphere, before they fall to earth. What the phrasing gives us is a wonderful evocation of the seeds of this weed, the milkweed, as a kind of starry Milky Way spread & suspended dazzlingly overhead. The seeds of this unwanted plant become a generous celebration of the powerful glories of Nature itself.
The title is Weeds, not A Particular Weed I Happened to Like: the poet is suggesting, perhaps, a revised way of looking at the aesthetic imposition on & forcing of Nature that constitutes "a garden", into a broader acceptance of the strange byways & serendipitous discoveries of the living world.
I took this from Garden Poems, selected & edited by John Hollander, part of the excellent Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series.
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