The Strange Harvest of the Meta Crawler by Natalia Spencer

Harvest is not all yield of soil, nor are

furrows the mark of weeks. Later he reflects

on this weird harvest, of stale belches—each

irrigating a blighted prayer:

 Bless us

 Father, for all that is eaten will be

well assimilated into blood-stream.


What’s the strange harvest? say you, who hack ground

bending your almost fleshless backbones there,

flexing every sinew—the synthesis of echoing,

de-personalised sound.

 (Dusk is a feared sheath their blades are dulled in.)

Idling along the side of a lake,

they hear the sounds of a harvest in progress,

and it rains down,  falls in strange positions

like rare fruit from a strange harvest larder


A farmer’s spade bore him out,

rough midwife to driftwood hung with shrivelled grapes

Dreamlike, and indistinct, and strange were all things around them;

My throat is dry. And should I dip gently

your one Canadian padre, exhausted

from consoling the wounded

and burying the endless lines of dead,

in a single wave of fish that braids together

 bits from Schor’s time a strange harvest of the seeds we’d sown.



 And over there would be useless. He would only lead

us down streets of a strange town,

in the late afternoon, to a house we could not enter.

………………….‘Please to accept that no men are foreign and no countries strange.

 All are fed by the harvest and the harvests are ruined by war

around the world.’



To something new, to something strange; Nothing

that is, can exist In vineyard or in harvest field,       Vases and urns, a young woman’s head

found in Denmark, similar

to tribal sacrifices to the gods of harvest.

It was invaded by outlandish harvest mice, from outside,

 who devoured Indian corn in strange disguises:

ash cakes, hoe cakes all baked on a scythe’s blade


It’s very strange the way, we think of them,

the vehicle for a strange frenzy, which stands on its own

but fits into the narrative scope of Early Harvest.

We have fed many, by peaceful harvests,

by war’s long winter starved, in order to halt the course of events.


This far north, the harvest happens late. … It is not so strange

 to feel nostalgia for the present; described every month of the year


Already this September evening is as old as a photograph of itself.

Have you ever thought of some people as strange

or other countries as foreign?

The strange friend’s pity can restore the human spirit


Now does the Lawyer make an end of his harvest, and the client,

a strange bird perched for days on the byre roof,     immersed in the Song of the Dead,

in the man-stifled town. We yearned beyond the sky-line

where the strange, follow after-follow after—for the harvest is sown: by the bones.



………………………..Violence is primordial, a foul carcass

on gravel strewn bed, La Belle Dame sans mercy.

It raises legs in the air, like a lustful woman,

………………………..Burning and dripping with poisons.

La Belle at Harvest time, in language strange

…………………..said ‘Les Fleurs du Mal, de Baudelaire,


When these are ripe, my heart is lost; the beasts have eaten it.

But what does it matter what reality is outside myself,

 so long as it has helped me to live, to feel that I am, and what I am?

The harvest’s done it strange and beautiful horror

and I feel so strange and lonely here.’




Found Poetry: Culled from by-lines of five pages of a Google Search
Three Poems in One Text


Natalia Spencer, B.A. Hons, is a Writer from South West England.
Like most Writers she knows, she has family, cats and many books. The MSF Silver Award for poetry is welcomed addition to her bookshelves. Her work also appears in: I Am Not A Silent Poet, Writers For Calais Refugees, Flash Frontier, and the anthology Kissing Frankenstein and other Stories.



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