They Feed They Lion by Philip Levine Out of burlap sacks, out of bearing butter,
Out of black bean and wet slate bread,
Out of the acids of rage, the candor of tar,
Out of creosote, gasoline, drive shafts, wooden dollies,
They Lion grow. Out of the gray hills
Of industrial barns, out of rain, out of bus ride,
West Virginia to Kiss My Ass, out of buried aunties,
Mothers hardening like pounded stumps, out of stumps,
Out of the bones' need to sharpen and the muscles' to stretch,
They Lion grow. Earth is eating trees, fence posts,
Gutted cars, earth is calling in her little ones,
"Come home, Come home!" From pig balls,
From the ferocity of pig driven to holiness,
From the furred ear and the full jowl come
The repose of the hung belly, from the purpose
They Lion grow. From the sweet glues of the trotters
Come the sweet kinks of the fist, from the full flower
Of the hams the thorax of caves,
From "Bow Down" come "Rise Up,"
Come they Lion from the reeds of shovels,
The grained arm that pulls the hands,
They Lion grow. From my five arms and all my hands,
From all my white sins forgiven, they feed,
From my car passing under the stars,
They Lion, from my children inherit,
From the oak turned to a wall, they Lion,
From they sack and they belly opened
And all that was hidden burning on the oil-stained earth
They feed they Lion and he comes. ---------------
Philip Levine's blue-collar baseness of human condition thrush up against the ebullient resonance of our shared world has always struck me as a powerful part of contemporary poetry.
that poem played a part in triggering this one by Lucie Brock-Broido, which you may enjoy for that reason: Am lean against.
Am the heavy hour Hand at urge,
At the verge of one. Am the ice comb of the tonsured Hair, am the second
Hand, halted, the velvet opera glove. Am slant. Am fen, the injure Wind at withins,
Stranger where the storm forms a face if the body stands enough In a weather this
Cripple & this rough. Am shunt. Was moon-shaped helmet left In bog, was condition
Of a spirit shorn, childlike & herd. Was Andalusian, ambsace, Bird. Am kept.
Was keeper of the badly marred, was furious done god, was Patient, was bad
Luck, was nurse. Ninety badly wounded men lay baying In the reddened reedy
Hay of Saxony, was surgeon to their flinch & hoop, was hospice To their torso hall,
Was numinous creature to their dying Off. Am numb.
Was shoulder & queer luck. Am among. Was gaunt.
Was--why--or the mutton & moss. Was the rented room. Was chamber & ambage
& tender & burn. Am esurient, was the hungry form. Am anatomy.
Was the bleating thing."Am Moor"