chainsaw vs the pampas grass by Simon Armitage — Analysis & Translation

Original Poem

chainsaw vs the pampas grass It seemed an unlikely match. All winter unplugged, grinding its teeth in a plastic sleeve, the chainsaw swung nose-down from a hook in the darkroom under the hatch in the floor. When offered the can it knocked back a quarter-pint of engine oil and juices ran from its joints and threads, oozed across the guide-bar and the maker’s name, into the dry links. From the summerhouse, still holding one last gulp of last year’s heat behind its double doors, and hung with the weightless wreckage of wasps and flies, mothballed in spider’s wool . . . from there, I trailed the day-glo orange power line the length of the lawn and the garden path, fed it out like powder from a keg, then walked back to the socket and flicked the switch, then walked again and coupled the saw to the flex – clipped them together. Then dropped the safety catch and gunned the trigger. No gearing up or getting to speed, just an instant rage, the rush of metal lashing out at air, connected to the mains. The chainsaw with its perfect disregard, its mood to tangle with cloth, or jewellery, or hair. The chainsaw with its bloody desire, its sweet tooth for the flesh of the face and the bones underneath, its grand plan to kick back against nail or knot and rear up into the brain. I let it flare, lifted it into the sun and felt the hundred beats per second drumming in its heart, and felt the drive-wheel gargle in its throat. The pampas grass with its ludicrous feathers and plumes. The pampas grass, taking the warmth and light from cuttings and bulbs, sunning itself, stealing the show with its footstools, cushions and tufts and its twelve-foot spears. This was the sledgehammer taken to crack the nut. Probably all that was needed here was a good pull or shove or a pitchfork to lever it out at its base. Overkill. I touched the blur of the blade against the nearmost tip of a reed – it didn’t exist. I dabbed at a stalk that swooned, docked a couple of heads, dismissed the top third of its canes with a sideways sweep at shoulder height – this was a game. I lifted the fringe of undergrowth, carved at the trunk – plant-juice spat from the pipes and tubes and dust flew out as I ripped into pockets of dark, secret warmth. To clear a space to work I raked whatever was severed or felled or torn towards the dead zone under the outhouse wall, to be fired. Then cut and raked, cut and raked, till what was left was a flat stump the size of a barrel lid that wouldn’t be dug with a spade or prised from the earth. Wanting to finish things off I took up the saw and drove it vertically downwards into the upper roots, but the blade became choked with soil or fouled with weeds, or what was sliced or split somehow closed and mended behind, like cutting at water or air with a knife. I poured barbecue fluid into the patch and threw in a match – it flamed for a minute, smoked for a minute more, and went out. I left it at that. In the weeks that came new shoots like asparagus tips sprang up from its nest and by June it was riding high in its saddle, wearing a new crown. Corn in Egypt. I looked on from the upstairs window like the midday moon. Back below stairs on its hook the chainsaw seethed. I left it a year, to work back through its man-made dreams, to try to forget. The seamless urge to persist was as far as it got.

Translation (English)

chainsaw vs the pampas grass It seemed like an unlikely pairing. All winter, it was unplugged, resting in a plastic cover, the chainsaw hung nose-down from a hook in the dark room under the floor hatch. When given the oil can, it drank a bit of engine oil and the oil flowed from its joints and threads, spread across the guide-bar and the maker’s name, into the dry links. From the summerhouse, still holding a bit of last year’s warmth behind its double doors, and covered with the light remains of wasps and flies, wrapped in spider webs... from there, I followed the bright orange power line across the lawn and garden path, let it out like powder from a keg, then walked back to the socket and turned on the switch, then walked again and connected the saw to the cord – clipped them together. Then released the safety catch and pulled the trigger. No warming up or getting to speed, just instant fury, the rush of metal striking the air, connected to the power. The chainsaw with its complete disregard, its mood to get caught in cloth, or jewelry, or hair. The chainsaw with its violent desire, its craving for the flesh of the face and the bones underneath, its big plan to push back against nails or knots and rise up into the brain. I let it blaze, lifted it into the sun and felt the hundred beats per second pulsing in its heart, and felt the drive-wheel gurgle in its throat. The pampas grass with its ridiculous feathers and plumes. The pampas grass, taking the warmth and light from cuttings and bulbs, basking in the sun, stealing the show with its footstools, cushions, and tufts and its twelve-foot spears. This was like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. Probably all that was needed here was a good pull or shove or a pitchfork to lever it out at its base. Overkill. I touched the blur of the blade against the nearest tip of a reed – it didn’t exist. I poked at a stalk that drooped, cut a couple of heads, removed the top third of its canes with a sideways sweep at shoulder height – this was a game. I lifted the fringe of undergrowth, cut at the trunk – plant juice spat from the pipes and tubes and dust flew out as I tore into pockets of dark, secret warmth. To clear a space to work I raked whatever was cut or felled or torn towards the dead zone under the outhouse wall, to be burned. Then cut and raked, cut and raked, until what was left was a flat stump the size of a barrel lid that couldn’t be dug with a spade or pried from the earth. Wanting to finish things off I took up the saw and drove it vertically downwards into the upper roots, but the blade got clogged with soil or tangled with weeds, or what was cut or split somehow closed and healed behind, like cutting at water or air with a knife. I poured barbecue fluid into the patch and threw in a match – it burned for a minute, smoked for a minute more, and went out. I left it at that. In the weeks that followed, new shoots like asparagus tips sprang up from its nest and by June it was riding high in its saddle, wearing a new crown. Corn in Egypt. I looked on from the upstairs window like the midday moon. Back below stairs on its hook the chainsaw fumed. I left it a year, to work back through its man-made dreams, to try to forget. The seamless urge to persist was as far as it got.

About the Poet

Simon Armitage (Contemporary)

Simon Robert Armitage is an English poet, playwright, musician, and novelist, born on May 26, 1963. He was appointed Poet Laureate in 2019. Armitage has published over 20 collections of poetry and is known for his work that often reflects on his home town of Marsden in West Yorkshire.

Historical Context

Literary Form: Free verse
When Written: 2002
Background: The poem explores themes of man versus nature, the futility of human efforts against the resilience of nature, and the use of excessive force where simplicity would suffice. It reflects on the conflict between technological power and natural persistence.

Sources: https://genius.com/Simon-armitage-chainsaw-versus-the-pampas-grass-annotated, https://www.best-poems.net/simon-armitage/chainsaw-versus-the-pampas-grass.html, https://poemanalysis.com/simon-armitage/chainsaw-versus-the-pampas-grass/

Detailed Explanation

Simon Armitage's poem 'Chainsaw Versus the Pampas Grass' explores the conflict between human technology and nature. The chainsaw, a symbol of human power and aggression, is depicted with violent imagery, suggesting its readiness to destroy. Despite its power, the chainsaw's efforts are ultimately futile against the pampas grass, which symbolizes nature's resilience and ability to regenerate. The poem uses vivid imagery and personification to contrast the chainsaw's mechanical fury with the natural elegance of the pampas grass. The chainsaw's failure to permanently remove the grass highlights the theme of nature's persistence and the limitations of human intervention. Armitage's use of language evokes a sense of inevitability and the cyclical nature of life, as the grass regrows despite the chainsaw's attempts to eradicate it. The poem reflects on the futility of excessive force and the enduring strength of nature, suggesting a deeper commentary on environmental concerns and the balance between human activity and natural ecosystems.

Themes

Literary Devices

Word Dictionary

Word	Meaning	Translation	Transliteration
unplugged	disconnected from power	not connected to electricity	uhn-pluhgd
grinding	rubbing harshly	making a harsh noise by rubbing	grahy-nding
mothballed	stored away	kept unused for a long time	moth-bawld
day-glo	brightly colored	vividly fluorescent	day-gloh
rage	intense anger	violent anger	reyj
disregard	lack of respect	ignoring something	dis-ri-gahrd
sweet tooth	craving	strong desire	sweet-tooth
ludicrous	ridiculous	absurd or silly	loo-di-kruhs
sledgehammer	heavy hammer	large, heavy tool	slej-ham-er
overkill	excessive	more than necessary	oh-ver-kil
seethed	boiled with anger	felt intense anger	seethd
man-made	artificial	created by humans	man-mayd
urge	strong desire	compulsion	urj
persist	continue	keep going	per-sist
seamless	smooth	without interruption	seem-lis