Desert Island Poems: The Lawnmower by Michael Laskey

In this post I share a poem and my thoughts on what makes it so powerful.

The Lawnmower by Michael Laskey was published in his 2004 collection Permission to Breathe published by Smith/Doorstep

The Lawnmower

Irreproachable, the racket of the Qualcast

coming and going in the cool

of the evening, every so often

running on the spot while he empties

the grass box. This is the man

we’ve given up kneeling in the window

watching the gate for. So intent

on his stripes that he looks straight through

our headstands, our new backwards skipping.

Though the motor’s died, the blades

don’t stop at once. We keep back,

do as we’re told, don’t touch.

It must be overgrown now, the grave.

by Michael Laskey from 'Permission to Breathe' (Smith/Doorstep, 2004)

I came across this poem after watching this video that popped up on one of my social media feeds. In the video an academic, Francesca Gardner, from the University of Cambridge describes their research, which is that of, wait for it… lawnmowers in British poetry. I must admit I was sceptical at first, but as the video went on I became totally convinced about the status of the lawnmower as an important symbol in the history of English poetry, and what it represents which is, well, a lot. 

It also reminded me of my own childhood, and my own father cutting the grass as he did so often, and continues to do. I grew up in rural Northern Ireland, and while we lived in a modest bungalow we had a pretty large garden which my father would cut with a ride-on lawnmower. It’s not hard to summon up the smell of the engine, its noise, the smell of the grass once cut, the piles of cuttings stowed into a corner to compost, the loud bang of the engine backfiring, and last but not least, the sight of the just-cut lawn which suggested summer, and a fresh start. 

So, when I read Michael Laskey’s poem ‘The Lawnmower’ I was swept away. It’s such a moving meditation on father/son relationships, lost youth, ageing and the Old Testament idea that ‘All flesh is grass.’ There is so much that is admirable about the way in which Laskey summons this summer scene, but I particularly enjoy the way the poem is driven by imagery such as ‘emptying the grass box’ or ‘the blades don’t stop at once.’ The transition, or huge leap rather, from the penultimate line to the last line is incredibly dramatic and moving, and in the hands of a lesser craftsman wouldn’t have quite worked. But, here we get the sense that the next generation has neglected to look after the earth in the same way that his father did, cutting the grass so meticulously. There is a great sense of regret in these lines and sorrow at the speaker’s sudden remembrance about his father’s grave, beneath the ‘racket of the Qaulcast.’