Re-reading Theses on Feuerbach at the allotment
I • Filthy as new potatoes freshly dug,
muck on the hands is everything.
II • My thoughts are solid: I imagine into life
broad beans, Swiss chard, earthed leeks, curly kale.
III • I practice revolution: sow nasturtiums,
gorge on brambles, lick black juice from fingers.
IV • No more us and them, spirit and flesh:
soil is sacred, horse manure is holy.
V • Contemplate these substances: the give
of softening tomatoes, mildew on cucumbers.
VI • Dream the divine to shape: godly knuckles
round the plum tree, incense of compost.
VII • What’s mystical is worm-riddled,
sourly angelic like the glow of sloes.
VIII • Touch is mystery: the stab
of nettles, lacerations of a new-laid hedge.
IX • Monks and hermits know this: tree roots
etch the paths to summits, keep us face down.
X • Such is the real: the rioting of bindweed,
invasions of ants, slugs on the march.
XI • It all strives to one point, this bud:
why not be changed, changed into fire?
Julian Dobson lives in Sheffield. His poems have appeared in various publications, most recently Brittle Star and The Interpreter’s House, and on a bus in Guernsey. More of his poems are at https://52poemsinayear.wordpress.com