The Potato

Poemata L

Potato Planting - 1940’s/50s’ (USA)

To the French 'twas but a flower 
Once upon a time
In that dark and direst hour
Of need and of thoughtless crime;

To Irish, it was life itself
A source of endless food
The foundation of such wealth
When the wealth was in the mood;

Some "evil" call it, in a word
Because it's nightshade's brother
A root and shoot may thus afford
A nutrition to another;

I made of one a battery
For there's power in that apple
I mean by this no flattery
This idea I must grapple--

The tater is nowise a fruit
Though a peanut is a bean;
The endless stretching starchy root
Of a natural machine;

After I had left it there
Green it turned outside
Even if they see no air
Taters still divide;

I placed them in a garden plot
All the sprouting eyes
Later, in that very spot
A massive tunnel lies;

Who dug it then? It was but me
It took about an hour
To unearth the secret society
Of an ordinary flower.