City is Undone (Part I)

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In continuing to consider Tree of Life-esque dichotomies through the whole mind of Wendell Berry, I first thought it appropriate to post a poem from the Mad Farmer series, that speaks quietly regarding the spirituality of women and trees.

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As my first blow against it, I would not stay.

As my second, I learned to live without it.

As my third, I went back one day and saw

that my departure had left a little hole

where some of its strength was flowing out,

and I heard the earth singing beneath the street.


Singing quietly myself, I followed the song

among the traffic. Everywhere I went, singing,

following the song, the stones cracked,

and I heard it stronger. I heard it strongest

in the presence of women. There was one I met

who had the music of the ground in her, and she

was its dancer. “O Exile,” I sang, “for want of you

there is a tree that has borne no leaves

and a planting season that will not turn warm.”

Looking at her, I felt a tightening of roots

under the pavement, and I turned and went

with her a little way, dancing beside her.

And I saw a black woman still inhabiting

as in a dream the space of the open fields

where she had bent to plant and gather. She stood

rooted in the music I heard, pliant and proud

as a stalk of wheat with the grain heavy. No man

with the city thrusting angles in his brain

is equal to her. To reach her he must tear it down.

Wherever lovely women are the city is undone,

its geometry broken in pieces and lifted,

its street and corners fading like mist at sunrise

above groves and meadows and planted fields.


Wendell Berry “The Mad Farmer in the City,” in Farming: A Handbook (1970)

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