Carver: A Life in Poems

Every once awhile I come across a book that I can't bear to give away. I'm sorry friends, but Carver by Marilyn Nelson, (Boyds Mills Press, 2001) is a book that is staying on my shelf. 

Like me, many of you probably know some of the basics about George Washington Carver's life. You may know he was born a slave in Missouri about 1864, started the agricultural department at Tuskegee Institute, and developed new uses for peanuts, cowpeas, and sweet potatoes in his desire to help poor farmers combat poverty.

Tuskegee Institute, 1916
 https://commons.wikimedia.org/w/index.php?curid=685224

But what you probably don't know is that besides being a scientist, inventor, and botanist; he loved to sew, paint, play piano, and read his Bible. Although he never married or had children, for 47 years at Tuskegee he taught multitudes of students, personally corresponded with countless farmers who sought his help, and left a legacy of information and inspiration.  

http://www.icr.org/article/science-man-god-george-washington-carver/

Award winning author Marilyn Nelson, tells Carver's story through beautiful poetry. Sometimes the poems are from Carver's point of view and his emotions and thoughts are so well portrayed that you feel as if you are inside his skin. Other poems are written from the point of view of people who interacted with him. All of them weave together well-researched details and build a narrative of Carver's life. 

Here are a few of my favorites, but please note that I had difficulty formatting the second, third and fourth poems and had to skip lines. There are no line spaces in the original. 

The Last Rose of Summer

The paper shakes so
the words are hard to read,
but what good is a singing range
from high D to three octaves below,
what good the bold step to a larger canvas
for the yucca on the easel now,
what good piano lessons paid for
with paintings, what good
a rosebud boutonniere if Jim 

        your brother  

            smallpox    (p. 24)

***************

Four a.m. in the Woods

Darkness softens, a thin

tissue of mist between trees. 

One by one the day's 

uncountable voices come out 

like twilight fireflies, like stars. 

The perceiving self sits 

with his back against bought bark, 

casting ten thousand questions into the future. 

As shadows take shape, the curtains part 

for the length of time it takes to grasp, 

and behold, the purpose of his 

life dawns on him. (p.25)

***********

Ruellia Noctiflora 

A colored man came running at me out of the woods 

last Sunday morning. 

The junior choir was going to be singing 

at Primitive Baptist over in Notasulga, 

and we were meeting early to practice. 

I remember wishing I was barefoot 

in the heavy, cool-looking dew. 

And suddenly this tall, rawbone wild man 

come puffing out of the woods, shouting 

Come see! Come see! 

Seemed like my mary janes just stuck 

to the gravel. Girl, my heart 

like to abandon ship! 

Then I saw by the long tin cylinder 

slung over his shoulder on a leather strap 

and his hoboish tweed jacket 

and the flower in his lapel 

that it was the Professor. 

He said, gesturing, 

his tan eyes a blazing, 

that last night, 

walking in the full moon light, 

he'd stumbled on  

a very rare specimen:

Ruellia noctiflora, 

the night-blooming wild petunia. 

Said he suddenly sensed a fragrance 

and a small white glistening. 

It was clearly a petunia: 

The yellow future beckoned 

from the lip of each tubular flower, 

a blaring star of frilly, tongue-like petals. 

He'd never seen this species before. 

As he tried to place it, 

its flowers gaped wider, 

catching the moonlight, 

suffusing the night with its scent. 

All night he watched it 

promise silent ecstasy to moths. 

If we hurried, I could see it 

before it closed to contemplate 

becoming seed. 

Hand in hand, we entered 

the light-spattered morning-dark woods. 

Where he pointed was only a white flower 

until I saw him seeing it. (p. 73-4)

********* 

My Beloved Friend 

Letter to Jim Hardwick, April 1924 

Your letter touched me deeply. How I wish 

I was more worthy of the things you say 

about me. I love you more dearly because 

you are of another race. God is using you 

to teach the world the brotherhood of man, 

the fatherhood of God. How sweet it is 

to let God purge our souls of ego and 

bitterness, and to have a little taste 

of heaven here on earth. I trust you will pray 

for me, that I get rid of my littleness. 

I did not have to learn to love you: You 

were chosen for me. I knew that the first 

time I saw you. It was the Christ in you, 

of course. (p. 86)

I read this book because I thought Carver could be an inspiration for Lillie, my African American character in Half-Truths. What I didn't expect, is how much Nelson's poetry and Carver's life would inspire me.