But a long season of discovery for Thompson was starting. For something like 30 years, he'd been isolated from the poetry world, rarely publishing, a solitude he sought partly to avoid rejection but also from an anxiety about his artistic independence that he describes as "not letting my rock get turned over." Chris, his wife, saw the steady flow of poems from the upper-floor writing room. She knew the company he kept: 20 or so admired poets watching him from photos pressed under glass on his desk.
She concluded that it was time for Thompson to get published.
Seven birthdays later, Thompson's work has appeared in five chapbooks, although not yet in a full collection. Combined, about 100 poems have been published in the modest, soft-covered volumes. Last spring, after 25 rejections, Parallel Press at the University of Wisconsin brought out a more cumulative chapbook, "Where We Live." Its title states Thompson's ambition to find a collective voice for the San Joaquin Valley.
Also, in 2009, this great-grandfather won the Sunken Garden Poetry Prize, which bestowed publication of his latest chapbook and a reading last August at the Sunken Garden Poetry Festival, near Hartford, Conn.
There, Thompson met C.K. Williams, one of America's most highly regarded poets, who set about helping him find a publisher for a manuscript collecting the poetry of decades. If that happens, Thompson will join a select group whose lifelong labor appears in one hard-earned strike of visibility.
These days, Don and Chris Thompson are back at their home near the small town of Buttonwillow, about two hours north of Los Angeles, 20 minutes west of Bakersfield. The Parsons Ranch, as the place is called, is named for Chris' family, in which it's passed through four generations. Fields stretch from a white-painted house built for no-nonsense spaciousness. A large oak tree stands out front. While his in-laws run the farm, Thompson teaches state inmates at a nearby minimum-security prison skills to cope with life upon release. He's kept his writing so quiet that some relatives still don't know that he's a serious poet.
Thompson's poems tend to be lyrically charged, highly personal meditations based on a lifelong immersion in Central California's agricultural landscape -- "flatlands with no skyline / except a few silos" and "furrows, straight and narrow," grapevines "snarled in their own freedom" and hawks "at ease in the emptiness."
If such phrases suggest the natural innocence of a warm-climate Robert Frost, Thompson is no more a sage of the simple life than -- well, Frost himself, or William Stafford, whose penetrating eye for country places led Thompson to write, as he says, "about how the landscape lives."
He finds beauty in the San Joaquin's austere, often corporate fertility, making room in his poems for its inescapable clouds of dust and fog. Ironies and unsettled quests unfold within sharp-edged political, religious and economic contexts. Man's place in nature becomes a model for existence. The flight of an owl or a cloud eclipsing the moon will lead to a kind of studious wonder.
Thompson populates his poems with the ghosts of the area's Yokut Indians and speaks of hired farm hands, those who hire them and automation's impact. He can be humorous, both whimsical and angrily ironic.
When he gazes toward Los Angeles, Thompson becomes a Central Valley David aiming his poetic slingshot at the water-guzzling Goliath:
Some rivers become so sluggish,
They can barely feel their way around a rock;
Others are manic in spate & rip trees from the banks.
What about the California Aqueduct,
In a concrete suit, relentless, obsessed