National Poetry Month, Day 2
Submitted by Mark Cox
—
She will agree, if you back her into a corner, that it is
Well past time to rejoin the living–memories are disembodied
Ghosts which after having been invited to lunch, decide to stay
The week usually–but her acquiescence, and nod, will come sheepishly half-hearted.
She has, for half a century now, consciously elected to remain
In the red-shuttered white farmhouse she helped Ed build
Where peals of laughter roaring from decades past
Resonate within the walls of her soul if nowhere else.
Quietly she slips her needle in and out of triangles and octagons
above a firkin box of thread spools, scissors, antique thimbles,
and puffy pin cushions. Her concerto grosso– a cacophony of
cicadas, katydids’, and the occasional whippoorwill– fills her senses
ten times better than some fancy concert hall ever might.
She wonders why–If the present is so wonderful–there is
Such a dearth of smiles nowadays. Time was when smiles weren’t rationed
Into time blocks between puerile reality TV shows, mindless jabs
Of buttons on cellular phones, and catatonic sessions in front of
computer screens; somewhere along the line everyone had missed
the fact that with the indolent life of invention and ease
came the sudden death of personality and distinction.
She has heard every argument–for and against–
progress and convenience, and has concluded that an unfathomable
amount of benefit and virtue is to be gained in the effort of life’s pursuits,
which she sums up in one of her succinct and rather quaint idioms:
If too much is freely handed out, it won’t be appreciated”and–
If a body ain’t careful will soon be expected.
She is excruciatingly aware that the opinions of Dr. Marie Thompson
With her crisp suit, spurious half-smile, and pointed questions
Carry a great deal of weight in determining whether she will remain
At home with her memories of Appalachia or be involuntarily admitted
To the Lifesteps Geriatric adult day services facility over in Kingsport
Where undoubtedly the song of the crickets, bullfrogs, and owls
Will be replaced by the chatter from the nurses’ station
Where bored coffee swilling workers will talk only
Among themselves and refuse to look at the magic mirrors
Which show them images of themselves a few years removed.
Ed has left her with ten thousand memories–good memories–
Any one of which on occasion will elicit a broad smile connoting
Some esoteric reason for its rapid and unexpected appearance to
A face punctuated by laugh lines, crow’s feet and well weathered crinkles
Situated–somehow beautifully–around two bright sapphires
which can still catch the light and dance with fire, as anyone
who happens to be watching her quilting beneath the Single porch-light fixture
with its dangling pull-string and dozen circling moths can attest.
She will admit that her life has been a hard go at times
But she allows that triumph through fire is to be preferred–
and is vastly more rewarding–than things that just show up.
Her and Ed were never ones to let life come to them, they reached
Out and grabbed it, squeezing every drop of happiness it would
Yield–and the Good Lord respected that–she surmises with
A reverential smile that confirms it as unquestionable truth.
She will a narrate a story flipping pages of scenic color
from a mind as of yet unravaged by Alzheimer’s
with a fervor and oratory style reserved For those twice blessed
with the gift of song and voice which she exercises beautifully:
She and Ed didn’t have the time to give the great depression much thought.
They waded Spicewood creek catching black Hellgrammites
And climbed a thousand trees gathering Catawba worms
To sell to the TVA workers headed up to the lake but they
Laughed and smiled together all along the journey.
Those smiles and laughter from a bright yesterday are now sewn into
A dozen tight and perfect ten-sided polygons cut
From the fabric of Ed’s old green shirt”and–from the
Fabric of memory.
She understands something about long term memory
that the doctors cannot grasp– The elderly
Only know of two roads: the one by which the hayfields
Sway and the old schoolhouse stands, running some
Two miles past Hayes filling Station winding upward
past Grayson’s weathered barn and it’s emerald cornfields
and onward to the single-lane bridge crossing Gilmer creek
which leads to home, and the one which leads to someplace
altogether dim and unfamiliar.
A choice has to be made; Forward to the swirling haze
Or back down the road toward home. And smiles.
-Mark Cox (originally posted at his blog XOCKRAM)
Mark Cox is originally from Bristol, Tennessee (which, he says, might explain why the piece has a decidedly Appalachian flavor…) Though he humbly called his piece “very amateur free-verse” I don’t see anything amateur in this poem. Tone, voice, imagery, and subject matter meld deftly to create a real experience for the reader. Don’t you agree?
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