not even a scab or a crease
on the fist of heaven,
inserted rather than shoved into the blue privy
by the mom & pop church at the junction.
just passing through again.
implanted by the different gardens
I endured in the hot sun and coal
hardened by the surface tension.
tossing about in the strip mine
ponds,
the heavy silt clinging still.
and nothing belongs to me.
and Johnny ran the burnt out gas station,
as a very quiet saloon,
and Mom borrowed money down there some.
Author notes
Written July 28th, 2003
In a list
A contest entry
- Where Do You Come From? by belly.
500 points, ended July 23, 2007, 9 entries
Bronze trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
What did you think
Comments
1 - 16 of 16
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somewhat graphic
I enjoyed this account of a hard life, the burnt gas station/salon and the church privy and working in the mine. -
"the heavy silt clinging still.
and nothing belongs to me. "
wonderful writing!
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I think it's quite lovely that the pooms in this contest seem to be about smaller, personal spaces and memories or spots of time or whatever and people and bits and bobs instead of those scary poems you find on AP that are about flags and come crashing in with jingoistic nonsense going "America America I love America it's real great our president's swell and all the A-rabs can burn in hell" bullshit, orr orrr some patriotic crap about Britain in the style of the BNP. Yuk. The worst are the ones that use red, white and blue and think they're being clever. As a general rule I'm against book burning but I think those sort of poems should be subjected to a fate more horrific than Guantanamo. Maybe not. But I must have low expectations of AP because when I saw the contest I thought it was going to be full of grossly patriotic crap and it's not. I think patriotism must be racism with a safer title, I can't see what else it might be. Anyway what I'm saying is, when I saw you done a poem in the contest I knew it wouldn't be nationalistic bilge, obviously, but I think this poem's just a lovely example of writing which has an illuminated, bright bright sort of unmistakable sense of place, space and identity without any glimpse of the nasty P word. Sort of like Chinua Achebe has when he writes about Nigeria. Or Primo Levi he makes places ache out the page and swallow you. Or Ed's fucking good at it too actually, doing place, his city plumes. There's lots of places but hardly anyone can make them right in a poem. I think some people mistake places for just being bits of land and forget the faces in them and the stuff that happens. I mean this poem seems like a big fat whole place. Very special and not a flag no where.
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But do you belong to it?
I hate that no matter how I try to get away from places and the things they represent they seem to have been inserted , then locked in somehow.
I don't know much about American Literature but it did smell like Steinbeck smells.
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The final line was so perfectly presented that I really can't think of anything to say to match its effect on me. By the end of it all, I felt like I had grown up there myself. The church, the junction, maybe every town has a mom and pop something or other. Thank you for entering. I feel like calling home after reading this one.
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Have this on my faves.
I love the story of your youth. I love how it still pops up -- as in your Hank poem. I've pieced you together you know. Thread by thread. You are a beautiful tapestry.
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American.
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above and beyond good
Before the big fire in '99 that all but leveled 3 city blocks, Sal ran the only saloon in town, just next door to his barber shop but it wasn't very quiet there. Used to attrack a rowdy crowd but it was a good place to get a beer for 30 cents a glass on ladies night, which didn't do me any good cause I don't like beer very much, (at least that cheap stuff jonny use to buy) and also cause the place was full of girls, which was good for Sal since he's always looking for a new chew toy. Anyways, like this one Lutie. Reminded me of Sal.
Desiree -
Very interesting imagery here, if I may say so myself.
I, for some reason, get a picture of the small California town where I lived until I was six. Good memories. -
Just classic goodness here. I think it paints the picture of any small town. Especially the one I live in, of course- any small town is much like the other. I loved the images and the flow. It was rather like gazing at a good oil painting.. Makes you wonder "What else is going on?". Picture perfect.
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great poem...but slightly overdone
I have to agree with some of the commenters. Do not try too hard. You have to relate to people and some people do not even say "privy" or "scab" anymore....maybe rarely.
ANYWAY...theimagery (yes, I understood all those words...lol) was a great. I cannot complain. The above was just a comment for "future reference".
I have to mention that the phrase "and nothing belongs to me" stuck out and made me think a moment. What a phrase..."and nothing belongs to me". I feel that way about some things...lol -
norman rockwell with a touch of realistic notalgia. i like, i like.....
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What I like most of your poetry is your voice...
it is always so clear and distinct...
and I like the way you communicate a strong sense of place and space...loved the last stanza.
Thank you for sharing,
Maria -
Now as you already know my opinions about your imagery, it would not benefit me to say how wonderfully you describe places within your stories and poetry... now as far as the rest... I felt pulled into this, and some imaginary melody materialized from nothing in my head. This is fabulous... and I better cut this out before I start rambling like some verbose fool...
Many blessings,
Raven Aurora -
Merry meet
Darkest Greetings from thy Lord & Lady of the Golden Dawn
~~~~~l~~~~~~~~~~e~~~~~~~~~~n~~~~~~~~~~~~~n~~~~~~~~~~~~o~~~~~~~~~n~
My dear you words speak of such imagery, one can almost place themselves upon the worn sidewalks looking inside all the abandoned shops. Reminds me of my childhood home, where things were done carefree and time felt as if it revovled only around us....*sighs* Ok enough of my foolish rambling
"just passing through again.
implanted by the different gardens
I endured in the hot sun and coal
hardened by the surface tension.
tossing about in the strip mine
ponds,
the heavy silt clinging still.
and nothing belongs to me. "
My dear these lines are simply beautiful...
Blessed Be
Morwenna Davina
May the Goddess protect thee -
The first stanza, I don't think one could describe a town any better. "Not even a scab or a crease..." such imagery! I really think you out did yourself here. I would probably think some on the puncuation though. Seems some of those commas might make better periods, as that is on HECK of a lonnnnng sentence. ~~~Val
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