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Seed Catalogue: A Poem
Presents a collection of poetry that centers on prairie life in Canada.
40 pages, Hardcover
First published January 1, 1977
1 person is currently reading
66 people want to read
About the author
Robert Kroetsch
55 books24 followersRobert Kroetsch was a Canadian novelist, poet, and non-fiction writer. He taught for many years at the University of Manitoba. Kroetsch spent multiple years in Vancouver, British Columbia before returning to Winnipeg where he continued to write. In 2004 he was made an Officer of the Order of Canada.
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Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews
April 5, 2010
Adam and Eve got drownded"
November 16, 2017
How do you grow a poet? This is one of the questions that lie at the heart of Kroetsch's remarkable poem—a poem which (in my humble opinion) ranks amongst the best of the English language. Kroetsch was born and raised in rural Alberta—an environment none too sympathetic towards poetic expression. But unlike other artists with comparable origins, who often either ignore their roots or else unduly fetishize them, he manages to balance the particular with the universal: that is to say, Seed Catalogue is both an investigation of the construction (Kroetsch himself prefers the more organic term "growth") of an individual poet, and the construction of poetry—as a historically and geographically situated art-form—in general.
Thus, the names of Al Purdy and Pete Knight—"You know what I mean? King of All Cowboys"—occur alongside those of Heidegger and Hiroshige. And whenever Kroetsch invokes the luminaries and conventional topoi of 'high' art and culture, he always does so with a deep self-consciousness of his own inherent subjectivity. He notes, for instance, that the prairie poet must suffer the "absence of the Seine, the Rhine, the Denube, the Tiber and the Thames"—the great rivers that, throughout the ages, have captivated the minds of innumerable European artists. But the list is concluded with a river of his own:
With its profound awareness of time and place, of its own construction, of the simultaneous importance and unimportance of art—and moreover, with the remarkable earnestness with which this awareness is expressed—Kroetsch's Seed Catalogue might be one of the most effective and absorbing works of 'post-modernism' I have ever encountered.
In short: highly recommended.
Thus, the names of Al Purdy and Pete Knight—"You know what I mean? King of All Cowboys"—occur alongside those of Heidegger and Hiroshige. And whenever Kroetsch invokes the luminaries and conventional topoi of 'high' art and culture, he always does so with a deep self-consciousness of his own inherent subjectivity. He notes, for instance, that the prairie poet must suffer the "absence of the Seine, the Rhine, the Denube, the Tiber and the Thames"—the great rivers that, throughout the ages, have captivated the minds of innumerable European artists. But the list is concluded with a river of his own:
Shit, the Battle River ran
dry one fall. The Strauss boy could piss across
it. He could piss higher on a barn wall than
any of us. He could piss right clean over the
principal's new car.
With its profound awareness of time and place, of its own construction, of the simultaneous importance and unimportance of art—and moreover, with the remarkable earnestness with which this awareness is expressed—Kroetsch's Seed Catalogue might be one of the most effective and absorbing works of 'post-modernism' I have ever encountered.
In short: highly recommended.
August 17, 2025
“My father was mad at the badger: the badger was digging holes in the potato patch, threatening man and beast with broken limbs (I quote). My father took the double-barrelled shotgun out into the potato patch and waited.
Every time the badger stood up, it looked like a little man, come out of the ground. Why, my father asked himself-Why would so fine a fellow live under the ground? Just for the cool of roots? The solace of dark tunnels? The blood of gophers?
My father couldn't shoot the badger. He uncocked the shotgun, came back to the house in time for breakfast. The badger dug another hole. My father got mad again. They carried on like that all summer.
Love is an amplification by doing/over and over.
Love is a standing up to the loaded gun.
Love is a burrowing.
One morning my father actually shot at the badger. He killed a magpie that was pecking away at a horse turd about fifty feet beyond and to the right of the spot where the badger had been standing.
A week later my father told the story again. In that version he intended to hit the magpie. Magpies, he explained, are a nuisance.
They eat robins' eggs. They're harder to kill than snakes, jumping around the way they do, nothing but feathers.
Just call me sure-shot, my father added.”
—
“This is the God's own truth:
catechism, they called it,
the boys had to sit in the pews
on the right, the girls on the left.
Souls were like underwear that you
wore inside. If boys and girls sat
together—
Adam and Eve got caught
playing dirty.
This is the truth.
We climbed up into a granary
full of wheat to the gunny sacks
the binder twine was shipped in —
we spread the paper from the sacks
smooth sheets on the soft wheat
Germaine and I we were like/one”
—
“I planted some melons, just to see what would
happen. Gophers ate everything.
I applied to the Government.
I wanted to become a postman,
to deliver real words
to real people.
There was no one to receive
my application
I don't give a damn if I do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die
do”
—
“But how do you grow a poet?
Start: with an invocation
invoke —
His muse is
his muse/if
memory is
and you have
no memory then
no meditation
no song (shit
we're up against it)”
—
“How do you grow a poet?
"It's a pleasure to advise that I
won the First Prize at the Calgary
Horticultural Show ... This is my
first attempt. I used your seeds."
Son, this is a crowbar.
This is a willow fencepost.
This is a sledge.
This is a roll of barbed wire.
This is a bag of staples.
This is a claw hammer.
We give form to this land by running
a series of posts and three strands
of barbed wire around a quarter-section.
First off I want you to take that
crowbar and driver 1,156 holes
in that gumbo.
And the next time you want to
write a poem
we'll start the haying.”
—
“How do you grow a poet?
This is a prairie road.
This road is the shortest distance
Between nowhere and nowhere.
This road is a poem.
Just two miles up the road
you'll find a porcupine
dead in the ditch. It was
trying to cross the road.
As for the poet himself
we can find no record
of his having traversed
the land/in either direction
no trace of his coming
or going only a scarred
page, a spoor of wording
a reduction to mere black
and white/a pile of rabbit
turds that tells us
all spring long
where the track was”
—
“After the bomb/blossoms
After the city/falls
After the rider/falls
(the horse
standing still)
How/do you grow a garden?
Poet, teach us
to love our dying.
West is a winter place.
The palimpsest of prairie
under the quick erasure
of snow, invites a flight.”
Every time the badger stood up, it looked like a little man, come out of the ground. Why, my father asked himself-Why would so fine a fellow live under the ground? Just for the cool of roots? The solace of dark tunnels? The blood of gophers?
My father couldn't shoot the badger. He uncocked the shotgun, came back to the house in time for breakfast. The badger dug another hole. My father got mad again. They carried on like that all summer.
Love is an amplification by doing/over and over.
Love is a standing up to the loaded gun.
Love is a burrowing.
One morning my father actually shot at the badger. He killed a magpie that was pecking away at a horse turd about fifty feet beyond and to the right of the spot where the badger had been standing.
A week later my father told the story again. In that version he intended to hit the magpie. Magpies, he explained, are a nuisance.
They eat robins' eggs. They're harder to kill than snakes, jumping around the way they do, nothing but feathers.
Just call me sure-shot, my father added.”
—
“This is the God's own truth:
catechism, they called it,
the boys had to sit in the pews
on the right, the girls on the left.
Souls were like underwear that you
wore inside. If boys and girls sat
together—
Adam and Eve got caught
playing dirty.
This is the truth.
We climbed up into a granary
full of wheat to the gunny sacks
the binder twine was shipped in —
we spread the paper from the sacks
smooth sheets on the soft wheat
Germaine and I we were like/one”
—
“I planted some melons, just to see what would
happen. Gophers ate everything.
I applied to the Government.
I wanted to become a postman,
to deliver real words
to real people.
There was no one to receive
my application
I don't give a damn if I do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die do die
do”
—
“But how do you grow a poet?
Start: with an invocation
invoke —
His muse is
his muse/if
memory is
and you have
no memory then
no meditation
no song (shit
we're up against it)”
—
“How do you grow a poet?
"It's a pleasure to advise that I
won the First Prize at the Calgary
Horticultural Show ... This is my
first attempt. I used your seeds."
Son, this is a crowbar.
This is a willow fencepost.
This is a sledge.
This is a roll of barbed wire.
This is a bag of staples.
This is a claw hammer.
We give form to this land by running
a series of posts and three strands
of barbed wire around a quarter-section.
First off I want you to take that
crowbar and driver 1,156 holes
in that gumbo.
And the next time you want to
write a poem
we'll start the haying.”
—
“How do you grow a poet?
This is a prairie road.
This road is the shortest distance
Between nowhere and nowhere.
This road is a poem.
Just two miles up the road
you'll find a porcupine
dead in the ditch. It was
trying to cross the road.
As for the poet himself
we can find no record
of his having traversed
the land/in either direction
no trace of his coming
or going only a scarred
page, a spoor of wording
a reduction to mere black
and white/a pile of rabbit
turds that tells us
all spring long
where the track was”
—
“After the bomb/blossoms
After the city/falls
After the rider/falls
(the horse
standing still)
How/do you grow a garden?
Poet, teach us
to love our dying.
West is a winter place.
The palimpsest of prairie
under the quick erasure
of snow, invites a flight.”
January 29, 2022
Seed Catalogue
1.
No. 176 - Copenhagen Market Cabbage: "This new introduction, strictly speaking, is in every respect a thoroughbred, a cabbage of highest pedigree, and is creating considerable flurry among professional gardeners all over the world."
We took the storm windows/off
the south side of the house
and put them on the hotbed.
Then it was spring. Or, no:
then winter was ending.
Winter was ending.
This is what happened:
we were harrowing he garden.
You've got to understand this:
I was sitting on the horse.
The horse was standing still.
I fell off.
Into the dark of January
the seed catalogue bloomed
a winter proposition, if
spring should come, then,
with illustrations:
No. 25 - McKenzie's Improved Golden Was Bean: "THE MOST PRIZED OF ALL BEANS. Virtue is its own reward. We have had many expressions from keen discriminating gardeners extolling our seed and this variety."
My mother was marking the first row
with a piece of binding twine, stretched
between two pegs.
The hired man laughed: just
about planted the little bugger.
Cover him up and see what grows
My father didn't laugh. He was puzzled
by any garden that was smaller than a
¼-section of wheat and summerfallow.
the home place: N.E. 17-42-16-W4th Meridian.
the home place: 11⁄2 miles west of Heisler, Alberta,
on the correction line road
and 3 miles south.
No trees
around the house.
Only the wind.
Only the January snow.
Only the summer sun.
The home place:
a terrible symmetry.
How do you grow a hardener?
This is what happened - at my mother's wake. This
is a fact - the World Series was in progress. The
Cincinnati Reds were playing the Detroit Tigers.
It was raining. The road to the graveyard was barely
passable. The horse was standing still. Bring me
the radish seeds, my mother whispered.
1.
No. 176 - Copenhagen Market Cabbage: "This new introduction, strictly speaking, is in every respect a thoroughbred, a cabbage of highest pedigree, and is creating considerable flurry among professional gardeners all over the world."
We took the storm windows/off
the south side of the house
and put them on the hotbed.
Then it was spring. Or, no:
then winter was ending.
"I wish to say we had lovely success
this summer with the seed purchased
of you. We had the finest Sweet
Corn in the country, the Cabbage
were dandy."
- W.W. Lyon, South Junction, Man.My mother said:
Did you wash your ears?
You could grow cabbages
in those ears.
Winter was ending.
This is what happened:
we were harrowing he garden.
You've got to understand this:
I was sitting on the horse.
The horse was standing still.
I fell off.
The hired man laughed: how
in hell did you manage to
fall off a horse that was
standing still?Bring me the radish seeds,
my mother whispered.
Into the dark of January
the seed catalogue bloomed
a winter proposition, if
spring should come, then,
with illustrations:
No. 25 - McKenzie's Improved Golden Was Bean: "THE MOST PRIZED OF ALL BEANS. Virtue is its own reward. We have had many expressions from keen discriminating gardeners extolling our seed and this variety."
Beans, beans,
the musical fruit;
the more you eat,
the more you virtue.
My mother was marking the first row
with a piece of binding twine, stretched
between two pegs.
The hired man laughed: just
about planted the little bugger.
Cover him up and see what grows
My father didn't laugh. He was puzzled
by any garden that was smaller than a
¼-section of wheat and summerfallow.
the home place: N.E. 17-42-16-W4th Meridian.
the home place: 11⁄2 miles west of Heisler, Alberta,
on the correction line road
and 3 miles south.
No trees
around the house.
Only the wind.
Only the January snow.
Only the summer sun.
The home place:
a terrible symmetry.
How do you grow a hardener?
Telephone Peas
Garden Gem Carrots
Early Snowcap Cauliflower
Perfection Globe Onions
Hubbard Squash
Early Ohio Potatoes
This is what happened - at my mother's wake. This
is a fact - the World Series was in progress. The
Cincinnati Reds were playing the Detroit Tigers.
It was raining. The road to the graveyard was barely
passable. The horse was standing still. Bring me
the radish seeds, my mother whispered.
February 28, 2018
Timeless and dated in the same breath! I read the first edition of Seed Catalogue, published by Turnstone Press in 1977. At the time 1000 copies were printed and there have been several editions published since. What struck me with this earlier edition was the 8 1/2 by 11 size format, the mint-green pages with the poems printed in an emerald green typeface. Half of the book also used a light tan screen depicting images of old seed catalogues. I was holding a piece of history and the design of the book clearly reflected its contents. Most of the poetry was beautifully written and I enjoyed the way author Robert Kroetsch played with the words. His voice was strong and his long poem Seed Catalogue provided some intellectual (and comical) answers to such questions as How Do You Grow a Gardener? and How Do You Grow A Poet? However, does today's reader still care about drunken escapades "I was drinking with Al Purdy...Now that's what I call/a piss-up." or the 'semen' laced love potion of a "Blackfoot brave who knew half/the women west of/Winnipeg"? What begins with the innocence of planting radish seeds ends with sowing one's wild oats and worrying about whether a child's ears are perfect and will look exactly like its parents.
April 30, 2023
Just a brilliant and original piece of poetry. I love how the poetic form changes and interlaps, with the occasional question of How does one grow a [...]?.
April 1, 2024
My favorite work of Kroetsch. As an Albertan this just feels like home. The delicate pieces of gender and sexuality and nothingness has always stuck with me and it is a work I revisit often .
January 29, 2010
Very different and a little too brusque in places suddenly, but by the end of it I did very much want to find more of his poetry to know where his stories had come from and where they would go to next.
July 29, 2012
Consummate Canadian poetry.
Displaying 1 - 10 of 10 reviews