In wild green fields behind our tract we searched
long summer days for pony-herds, buried
treasures, hidden daydreams of childhood parched
by empty hours. One time I married
two neighbors in a bamboo bower, preached
vows I did not then know were parodies.
Another time we pitched ragged quilt tents
and pioneered landscaped aridities.
We sought adulthood but found instead crisp
leaves of wild lettuce shaded by tall
weeds, rambling vines with secret hoards of sweet,
long, ladyfinger grapes we chose to risk.
We built weed huts that rose in hours and fell
when parents called our return at sunset.
Author notes
The prompt--bamboo--reminded me of this incident, now about 45 years in the past. But I still remember the sight of the bamboo stand, the lushness and greenness in the middle of a dry California summer.
A contest entry
- BAMBOO! by Fairy Nutty Buddy.
600 points, ended December 29, 2007, 9 entries
Gold trophy winner
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
1 - 10 of 10
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Finally got the bamboo newsletter published on the web site! You can go to pnwbamboo.org|downloads|newsletters|Winter2007 to download the newsletter and see your poem on page 3.
Thank you again for your entry and for allowing me to use it in the newsletter. I really appreciate it.
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Wonderful write. Oh, our childhood days. What are ladyfinger grapes. I grew up in Michigan, we had a grape vine in our backyard. Concord Grapes.
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We moved frequently, but everywhere we went, my parents planted concord vines, then in the fall filled the pantry with jars and jars of grape juice.
Ladyfinger grapes are long (sometimes 2" or more), white, unusually sweet grapes. We found several vines in the vacant lot and loved to pick the grapes as we played. I don't think I've seen them anywhere else, curiously enough.
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One question, should "aridities" be "aridity?" It is an adverb and not a noun, so I can't find that it could be used properly with "ies" on the end?
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"Aridity" has a long history as a noun, going back several centuries, at least to John Dryden and others in phrases such as "state of aridity." Given that, I used poet's privilege to transform it into a plural, to suggest that the vacant lot might represent not just a single, specific desert landscape but many, depending on imagination and circumstance.
I do this fairly frequently--it drives my SpellChecker crazy, but that's one way the language has always grown. And it's fun. -
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Great, thanks! Just wanted to make sure.
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This is lovely, full of childhood innocence and warmth. Thank you so much for your entry.
Where did you get the picture? I think that would be great to put in the newsletter, but have to know where it came from and determine if it's okay to publish. Thanks!
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The picture is one my father took of use building out bamboo hut one summer (probably around 1960) in the empty lot behind out house in Carmichael, California. I see no problem with your using it. Please let me know whether you decide to. If you do, please credit the image to Ralph W. Collings.
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The picture will show above the following in the newsletter (with your name and place above the poem copyright note), and in a much prettier font and centered. Please let me know if this is acceptable. Thanks!
Picture by Ralph W. Collings
copyright reserved
Vacant Lots
In wild green fields behind our tract we searched
long summer days for pony-herds, buried
treasures, hidden daydreams of childhood parched
by empty hours. One time I married
two neighbors in a bamboo bower, preached
vows I did not then know were parodies.
Another time we pitched ragged quilt tents
and pioneered landscaped aridities.
We sought adulthood but found instead crisp
leaves of wild lettuce shaded by tall
weeds, rambling vines with secret hoards of sweet,
long, ladyfinger grapes we chose to risk.
We built weed huts that rose in hours and fell
when parents called our return at sunset.
Copyright, all rights reserved
Picture above is of the author, taken by his father around 1960. -
Awesome, thanks so much! And, can I get your name and city/state to credit your poem?
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