I'm not sure about this poem. It is based on something I saw recently, a woman digging out blades of grass that grew between the paving slabs outside her house. Her lawn was composed of plastic grass and the exacting precision with which it had been laid reminded me of a model train exhibition I had seen in the early summer.
The grass on her lawn could have been laid
by a carpet fitter and probably was
it’s plastic and could outlast The Bomb
It looks like a scene in a toy train diorama
the well kept garden of some dream house
that faces the train line with a waving figure in the doorway
Meanwhile she’s on her knees
hoicking up rebellious sods of grass
that have the temerity to poke up between the paving stones
And I wonder if the model shop sells plastic figures
that enable such order to be brought to nature
I am not sure about the end, whether it needs to be less critical, I suspect it does. I was struck by the artificial neatness of the lawn and how she was endeavouring to remake the street in its image. Perhaps this is what humans have been doing from the get go attempting to remake the world to suit the image in their heads.
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Coincidently two different albums have just been released about Amelia Earhart and both are worth a listen. This is Public Services Broadcasting.
And this is Laurie Anderson.
Until next time.
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