Chicory
by John Updike
Show me a piece of land that God forgot—
a strip between an unused sidewalk, say,
and a bulldozed lot, rich in broken glass—
and there, July on, will be chicory,
its leggy hollow stems staggering skyward,
its leaves rough-hairy and lanceolate,
like pointed shoes too cheap for elves to wear,
its button-blooms the tenderest mauve-blue.
(the rest is here)
We’re in full-on chicory season and I love it. I’d head over to the railroad tracks and dig some up to plant in my garden…if it weren’t for that last line of the poem.
Such a great reminder to let the wild be wild and meet it on ITS terms, rather than on our human terms. Such a great reminder to BE wild and thrive in whatever sidewalk crack we’re given.
What does July mean to YOU, where YOU live?
(When I did a google search for this poem, I was amused to find that I had posted it almost exactly 10 years ago on the original A Year of Reading blog. That’s when I chose the chicory for the background of Poetrepository, which is in dire need of updating.)
Margaret has this week’s Poetry Friday roundup at Reflections on the Teche.
A(nother) Year of Reading 
Chicory is a beauty, isn’t it? It’s lovely to return to a poem that still speaks to us! Many years ago when I was in Guatemala, I was told the same thing about quetzals (the bird), that they can only live in the wild.
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I understand the temptation to dig some and plant it in your own yard. There is a blooming swamp plant that I’d like to grab and plant, but I’m wondering if the same is true. I should leave it to be glorious where it is.
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Thank you for the Updike poem, Mary Lee. It’s one I will tuck into my notebook.
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Ooh, good question. July, in my Florida memory, means either inside in air conditioning reading books or outside with my skin sizzling in too hot sun. In Minnesota, July is the time of Queen Anne’s Lace as it frills the edges of every sidewalk. Thanks for sharing this poem :>)
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The chicory is lovely. I must admit, I don’t think I’ve ever consciously called this plant chicory. I know it grows in most of the U.S., so I probably have seen it. July where I am is dry and dusty. Once in a while a monsoon storm that brings heat relief and a nice settling of the dust. The baby quail are teenagers now, too.
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I wonder if the beauty of anything is its wildness? And if wild can’t be cultivated, if it needs to be free to thrive, how do we find our wild? — My musings from your poem!
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I just adore this poem, but I wondered how on earth my Papa got his beloved chicory coffee (N’Awlins, yessuh) if that stuff doesn’t want be cultivated… So down the rabbit hole I went. (Two YouTube videos and a couple of old cooking blogs.)
Apparently it’s cultivated in Europe and some in Nebraska but folks still dig it out of the woods… The point is that CAN grow it! It’s just going to take you a lot of digging because they have a foot long taproot.😅
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Oh the love for chicory flowers is strong! July is Marionberries and the beginning of blueberries, the crimson of crocosmia.
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I adore chicory this time of year and it’s bright purples on the side of the highway. I keep wanting to take some scissors on my walk and trim some for a wild vase. But wow, this poem by John Updike is so good!
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How serendipitous! My sisters and I were just admiring a huge patch of chicory amidst broken pavement behind a chain-link fence in upstate NY. I love this new-to-me John Updike poem and your reflections on meeting wild on “its terms.” Now you have me pondering what July means to me…
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“ but will not thrive
in cultivated soil: it must be free.” I think I have a patch of soil like this, perhaps it needs some chicory… Always enjoy seeing it fill in, thanks Mary Lee!
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Mary Lee, thank you for the chicory poem and the word, lanceolate. July has deep meaning for me because it is my anniversary on the last day. It is the month to celebrate summer as it was and still is tucked between the end of school and the beginning of the next school year. It is also my time to praise nature and my gardens.
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