Poem #49 from a series of poems drawn from the imagination and collected as: a Bachelard reverie.

Back to Bachelard and me – Introduction

you see
this here

he grasped the young shoot
in a gnarled left hand

this here
is nature

he used a quiet voice
as though
speaking to cows
without wishing
to disturb them
just before the milking

his right hand
held a wickedly sharp
and relatively sterile
pruning knife

a deft movement
part wrist-twist
part slice
and he had removed
the bulk of the growth

another practiced movement
and he had established
receiving notches
in the root stock
that remained

while this

he displayed
a short stick
but matching the thickness
of the root stock
for notch


he said again
as he slathered the wounded wood
with his own patent
of both
nutrition and protection

is culture

and it will grow
the fruit
that I want

he wrapped the treated wound
with a generous quantity
of grafting tape

my culture

he laughed
and went on
to perform
the next graft
on the next tree

© Frank Prem 2017

Bachelard and me Poem #50: three flames

4 thoughts on “cultured

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