I said those words aloud just now
To the open air. Robin didn’t answer;
He didn’t seem to care.
"Oh, ho!" I thought, "Your little brain
Has soon forgotten how he came
And flushed you from your evening nest
And ran you crazy like the rest
Of the birds he used to rule."
He’s in the ground, and like a fool,
I sit alone and think on how
I said those words aloud just now.
This hand is tan?
It’s green, say I, or other hue,
As real for me as tan for you.
What of the man who has no eyes?
Does color not exist, or does he see
Reality but with a different twist?
In truth, there is no contest.
If no contestants try
To win the prize in others’ eyes,
Then what is second best?
In truth, there is no beauty,
Though poor John Keats has said,
But truth denies where beauty lies
And Keats, alas, is dead.
In truth, there is no reason
Nor rhyme behind this verse
Beyond the thought that this was wrought
Because a lie is worse.
Taken by an evening chill,
I leave my sun-soaked seat,
Forsaking hummingbirds
That trouble trumpet vines
And bumblebees that startle
At their sudden rise and fall.
Conceding feeders to
The scrabbling squirrels
And serviceberries to
The reign of mockingbirds,
I force my trembling self
To pause as life,
Unshaken by the coming
Of the night,
Grows dark against
The purple evening sky.
Take a bit of creosote,
soak a wooden tie,
press snug on a gravel bed
and spike it in the ground.
Do this and do this
‘til all you can see
as far as you look
looks like piano keys,
moving to a pencil point
far down the line.
Now you are ready to
lay a penny down,
or even better yet,
to dance to the sound,
heel first, toe next,
heel now again,
arms spread out,
ready to fly
west to
where you can see forever,
not just around the bend,
where the sun comes up
right out of the land,
where the sun goes down
in the field behind,
where you can hear the whistle
long before you see,
long before you think it’s time
to think of heading back,
long before you run along,
pacing with the clack,
arms pumping
knees rising
cheeks blowing
chuff chuffing,
long before you hook your arm
on that rusty rail,
long before you swing on up,
grinning from the feel
of the run and the journey
and the warm metal bar
crooked in your arm
as you watch from the car
the smooth, flat land that
rolls beneath the wheels.
Just a bit of creosote,
soaked into a tie
pressed snug on a gravel bed,
spiked into the ground,
just one penny flat,
or even better yet,
just one kid dreaming
of dancing to the clack.
Spinning, spinning,
the pavement tilts and settles,
tilts again; music drums a beat, colors
whirling faster and faster to the thrum
thrum in our ears, our veins, our feet
on the hot
Strings of summer rise with heat
as we turn, turn, heads back,
eyes sliding sideways, hair whipping cheeks,
mouths stretching wider and wider
until only the sound and the color
and the beat of the music course
in our ears, our veins, our feet
on this swinging summer street.
Beside the gate,
a girl, caught in sun
that halos round her head
like dandelion blooms,
squints up her eyes.
Beneath the dress
that tulips when she stoops,
small toes plow paths
of prints in
fertile earth.
Beyond our view,
in silent still salute,
the master’s hand drops
shadow blossom memories
at our feet.
This poem is occasioned by the discovery in an old stagecoach stop of an unopened letter from Mrs. Mary C. Mann to Mrs. William B. Taliaferro, wife of Confederate General William B. Taliaferro, written
The letter is property of my father, amateur Civil War historian, who traded an outboard motor for the find. It is now in the hands of a preservationist at the University of Virginia, but its fate rests on Dad’s decision either to donate to the College of William and Mary, where Taliaferro’s papers rest, or to hoard his find. Time will tell.
The details in the first two stanzas are gleaned from the letter. The commentary of the last two stanzas is mine. While I revile Mrs. Mann’s venomous sentiments regarding the North and Mr. Lincoln’s Proclamation, I sympathize with all women who have worried for their men and lived their lives helpless of the forces that make the rules. As human, we must try to understand those whose ideas are not our own.
The Letter
A clock ticks minutes, days,
Generations, centuries, more…
Behind the mantel, lodged within a crack,
A missive waits in silent, sad dismay,
While Pippins, those not fallen and decayed,
Make flat array on proffered china plate,
And garden gay with flowers not yet nipped,
Soft Dahlia and Verbena, ever bloom
And ward away the threat of early frost
Forever in the peace that holds off Doom.
The little ones stay well, the doctor ill;
The neighbor’s youngest daughter still is gone.
Your son remains enthralled by soldier’s turn;
The servants settled, yet you feel alone.
Your husband’s horse once more from you bespoke;
Your visit to the city unfulfilled,
Your thoughts on Proclamation, “vile, extreme,”
Disdain and fear of changes here revealed.
Oh, lady, have you wondered all of time
That words of honeyed warm Virginia Tide
Should fall on ears turned deaf to soft, sweet sounds
And bring no answering measure to your side?
Have you long feared for horrors of the march,
Stampedes of dreadful, frightful things to come?
Would you have been at peace if you had known
That brothers here once more would be as one?
Your genteel letter sent with faith and hope
To silence anxious hearts and fears allay
Was lost to chance behind a piece of wood
And holds your heart in stasis here today.
Go softly to your rest with this sweet thought:
That one who reads the words that went astray,
Long years beyond your joys and fears and love,
Feels these as you, a time and tide away.
My father spends these days in wood –
Strong, hard oak that turns to smooth-grained
Treasures in his hands. Time and trials have taught
Him that to create the form he seeks, he first
Must put his heart into the piece.
I love to watch him move about his shop,
His big, rough hands touching planer and saw,
Holding router and clamp, reaching through the dust
Of creation he wears in every wrinkle and crease.
He says that his work must be square
So the bonds will hold and the fit will be true.
Carefully, he sights along the cut and chisels the waste away,
Proving the lessons of his work: “Right angles,”
He tells me, “make the best geometry.”
