The Kurpie

The farms of Northern Poland have never seen opulence.

The first men who gathered wild honey from the thick of trees
were alone and broke,
but brave and strong—
which mattered more.

The backs that broke the forest into field
were tired and poor,
but free and in love—
which mattered more.

The beets that made the borscht so red
were cheap and dirty,
but grew fast and stored well—
which mattered more.

My Great Grandmother who left this town, 19 years old
had nothing,
but hope—
which mattered more.

By Karen E Farrell, New Gloucester

Wordsmiths and photographers, send us your goods! MWM is soliciting local poets and picture-takers for inclusion in Verse and View, our reader-submitted, word-and-image series. Send your entries to: verse_view@mainewomenmagazine.com.

Author profile

We strive to bring our readers the best content possible and provide it to you free of charge. In order to make this possible we do utilize online ads.

We promise to not implement annoying advertising practices, including auto-playing videos and sounds.

Please whitelist our site or turn off your adblocker to view this content.

Thank you for your understanding.