Do you ever just have a moment where you fall to your knees thanking God and everyone else responsible for the creation of poems? In the short weeks of early October before my apprenticeship at the UCSC Farm and Garden ended, I was wandering the streets of downtown Santa Cruz slightly bereft, and came across a man sitting behind a vintage typewriter. This man, named Kevin Devaney, will write a poem for an occasion, person or situation of your choosing at which point you can decide how much to pay him. “I actually have a graduate degree in poetry, so this is what I am most qualified to do in the world,” he explained.
A poet for hire, this was perfect! Poetry was the salve we applied to every kind of situation on the farm. Poems helped introduce class topics, set the vibe for community meetings, and pre-harvest pump-ups. Poetry filled the void when all other words escaped us. Many harvest mornings poems took us on a journey within as we carried the words of poets like Wendell Berry and Mary Oliver with us to bunch rainbow chard with our hearts overflowing. For me, poetry is a basic need, like air and water, which sustains my soul.
“I have a situation,” I said. He leaned toward me listening, without taking notes. “I am a farm apprentice at the UC Santa Cruz farm. I am one of 38 aspiring farmers from all ages, backgrounds and walks of life. We came from all over the country and the world, uprooting ourselves from home and community to learn how to be organic farmers. After six months together we have fallen in love with the work, the vegetables, the flowers, the farm, and each other. Now we have to leave and figure a way to make a living as organic farmers. And we are somewhat heartbroken. Can you write a poem for us?”
Kevin looked at me from across his shiny black 1930s Remington typewriter, nodded confidently and said “yes come back in 15 minutes and I will have a poem for you.” I loved this idea of direct marketing for poetry! It reminded me how satisfying it was to sell the vegetables we grew to real people at our market stand. Not only did we fetch a higher price selling directly to the consumer, it was also more meaningful to have an exchange with someone who would be enjoying our produce and flower bouquets. Sometimes we even got tips!
I strolled down the streets, past the cute shoe and surf shops, and the people eating meals at fancy restaurants, feeling an unexpected wave of contentment. I realized I did not need to buy a thing, other than this poem. The past six months of simple living on the farm was the perfect antidote to consumerism. All of my basic needs were met. I slept in a comfortable single bed in a 10-by-10-foot yurt with four large screened windows that looked out to a cypress grove. I washed my tired body in an outdoor shower heated by the sun and draped with sweet-smelling honeysuckle blossoms. I ate healthy meals cooked with love by my fellow apprentices sourced from the vegetables and fruits that we grew throughout the season. I even picked and arranged a fresh bouquet of cut flowers to decorate my tent cabin every week.
The only thing missing was the right words to describe this ache at having to fledge this nurturing environment and find another place to begin my new life as an aspiring farmer. I wanted to offer a poem for my farming comrades to carry with them into the world; something to help us all remember this unique experience.
When I returned to Kevin’s Pacific Avenue street desk he handed me the poem typed on a small, recycled rectangle of paper with a Busker Fest call for artists printed on the back. His smudged fingerprints from the midstream ribbon change trailed across the page like animal tracks. The poem was perfect. Tears sprang into my eyes as I read the beautiful language and imagery he summoned to the page where none had existed moments before.
I thanked him with him all the cash I had in my wallet, which sadly was only $10. Assigning monetary value to his creative effort was not possible; the poem was worth so much more. I wanted to give him a teeming box of our vegetables in order to equal the amount of heart he extended to the work. If there are two occupations that are guaranteed to keep your bank account running on the empty side, it is being a farmer or a poet. Yet both are necessary to feed our bodies and souls. As I make my way to farm new fields, I think of Kevin and read the poem he wrote for us, my voice thick with emotion and gratitude.
Kate Watters is a plant enthusiast, writer, artist and musician. She has been a resident of Flagstaff for almost 20 years, and recently took a hiatus to Santa Cruz, Calif., where she was farm apprentice at the Center for Agroecology and Sustainable Food Systems. She is now armed with hand pruners and a harvest knife and intends to apply her newfound knowledge and passion to growing all kinds of plants in northern Arizona.
