Pine Hill Cemetery, Wilmington, NC, 1990

Pine Hill Cemetery, Wilmington, NC, 1990

“What yah doin’ heah, boy?”

asks the town sheriff

of the shiny black man

standing up to his hips

in the partially dug grave.

The strapping young man

fixes the sheriff in the gaze

of his piercing black eyes.

He holds a pick in both hands.

He’s naked to the waist.

His biceps and pecs bulge out.

The sheriff’s hand moves to his gun.

 

The grave is a neatly laid out rectangle

with flat vertical walls.

The removed soil and stones

are piled to the black man’s right.

A shovel lays on the grass to his left.

Headstones fill in the distant background

beyond a cinder block wall.

 

The black man’s bold look disconcerts the sheriff.

His eyes say, “Leave me alone or else.”

The sheriff calculates the time he has

to pull his gun and shoot

if the nigger jumps up, pick in hand,

to murder him.

“Son, where yah diggin’ is not

within the cemet’ry walls”.

 

The thought enters the sheriff’s head

that if he was hacked to death

and buried here in this grave

in this isolated small grove of trees,

no one would ever find him

He takes a step backward.

He removes his hand from his gun.

“This time I’ll check on you at the office.

Good thing you was born when you was.

Yasiree, Bub”.

The sheriff turns and leaves.

The black man returns to his work.

 

©Sherman Poultney 13 October 2013

Note: based on Black&White photograph by John Rosenthal, http://www.johnrosenthal.com/JRNew/NCGAL/index.html

But What Does the Poem Mean?

But What Does the Poem Mean?

Many readers and teachers of poetry emphasize, above all else, finding out the meaning of a poem. They anxiously seek to decode and paraphrase a poem, or worse, make others paraphrase it (e.g. their students). Any wonder why so few people like poetry. When these self-same people write poetry, they most always tell the reader in the closing lines what meaning the reader should have drawn from their poem. They thus distance themselves and others from the experience of poetry. If, as A.E. Housman has stated, the hallmark of poetry is emotion (and all else is just verse), these people distance themselves from feeling emotion. They successfully bottle up the genie in the jar. They won’t let it escape.

A much better question to ask would be “what is the emotional impulse of the poem?” But even this question is too analytic. Read the poem and experience it. Nonsense poems can be enjoyed because of their sound, cadence, and music. Consider “Jabberwocky” or “The Owl and the Pussycat”. Just what does “Jabberwocky” mean? Does lack of an objective meaning ruin its impact? Can one enjoy without decoding the meaning?

Read a poem and note your experience of it. Where do the images carry you? How does the sound, music, cadence, texture affect you? What emotions do you feel? If you experience nothing, it is likely that it is the fault of an inferior poem (i.e. verse) and not you. What new insights into yourself or the world do you gain? What empathy is awakened? The experienced poet starts with an emotional impulse and applies his Craft to construct the genie. The open-to-experience reader reads and releases the genie. Much like music, dance, sculpture, and painting do.

Of course, the emotional impulse could lead to a gush of BS like much of the poetry after 9/11. The gush may have served a good purpose for the writer, but leaves the reader adrift. That is where the Craft of a poet enters. The poet uses his Craft to control the emotion and so optimally manipulate the reader. For example, Form is one element of Craft. Affected by a powerful emotional impulse, the poet can choose to write a sonnet. The emotion thus gets bundled into a tight package from which it strains to escape, becoming all the more powerful. The worst use of a Form like a sonnet is in turning one’s prose essay into that Form. I do not mean manipulate in the bad sense of controlling the reader. The reader will resist by stopping reading. I mean manipulate by guiding the reader.

The poet cannot also totally control himself. Once embarked on his poem by emotional impulse, the poet must be open to where it leads. Frost rightly said, “No surprise in the writer, no surprise in the reader”. This quote can be extended to all feeling, such as “No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader”.  The poet must be open to the unanticipated guest genie.

In addition to Form, there are a dozen or more elements of poetic Craft. They all aim at optimizing the experiencing of the poem by the reader. Optimizing the release of the genie. From the first line that entices the reader to the last line that leaves an indelible reverberation in the mind of the reader. Craft is a subject of a book of its own. Read, write, and enjoy verse, but don’t call it poetry or yourself a poet.

To borrow from Emerson Gilmore, “The poet does not give you words to recreate his experience in you, but he gives you the consecrated moments in which you will enlarge your own being.”

©  Sherman K. Poultney  3 June 2011

Rabbits - A Metaphor

 

 

Let the needy rabbits eat the lettuce,

Butterhead.

You have plenty,

Mizuna.

Don’t hoard it,

Iceberg.

You’ll never eat it all,

Escarole.

You’ll never create jobs with it,

Mr. Greenleaf.

You bought the seeds with tax breaks,

Arugula.

Offer some to the young widow,

Romaineo.

Pay off the pols,

Purslane.

Recycle the wilted,

Watercress.

Let the needy rabbits eat the lettuce,

Radicchio!

 

©  Sherman Poultney  8 May 2013

 

The War Statue

My great-grandfather fought for the Union

through the whole Civil War

and lived to continue his study of the classics.

He convinced his home town to erect,

at the terminus of their Decoration Day parade,

a memorial statue of a Union soldier

made entirely of wood.

When a boy I marched to it during WW II

and noticed its severe weathering.

The bayonet and part of the rifle barrel were already gone.

And the wheezing soldier before his WW I bronze statue

vilified the Germans who gassed him.

When thirty I marched to the statue again

as The Korean War was winding down.

The face was disappearing,

the hands had no fingers.

And the armless sailor before his WW II marble statue

vilified the Japanese who sent the Kamikazes.

When I was fifty, I journeyed to Greece.

How wise of the ancient Greeks to dictate

that their grave memorials be made of wood.

Only a tumulus of dirt remained at Marathon.

And the legless vet before his Korean War fiberglass platoon

vilified the Chinese who laid the landmines.

At seventy, I visit the statue alone.

Crows caucus loudly in the surrounding evergreens

and a cold winter rain drenches us.

I can no longer discern

the uniform and cap.

◊

©  Sherman K. Poultney  3 August 1999            The Frost Place

published in “Breath of Parted Lips II” (CavanKerry Press) 2004,

Her Outing to Victory Market

Her Outing to Victory Market

He wheeled her into the grocery store.

They passed the bakery and were immersed

in the aroma of fresh baked bread.

He took her from the nursing home once a month.

She liked the colors of fresh fruits and vegetables,

especially the oranges. He would hand her one

and she would feel the pebbled rind.

She could eat only pureed food.

She watched and listened to the children

count their coins at the candy counter.

A stroke prevented her from talking.

He bought her a piece of chocolate fudge

that she could melt in her mouth.

By the coffee grinder, she was drawn

by the aroma and the dark brown of the beans.

She used to be so independent.

He brought her to the fish counter

to look at whole red grouper,

magenta slices of tuna, and

bright orange claws of cooked lobster.

Before he helped her into the car,

he bought for her to eat that evening

a pint of coffee ice cream.

She smiled at him broadly

and placed on his arm her hand.

© Sherman K. Poultney  21 February 2010

“news from a country we have
never yet visited”
C.S. Lewis


From a Country Not Yet Visited

From a country not yet visited,
we received news,

received the echo of a rare nightingale
yet to be heard,
received the glimpse of an unusual orchid
yet to be admired,
received the whiff of a mysterious perfume
yet to be inhaled,
received the taste of a delicious flavor
yet to be savored,
received the touch of a cool breeze
yet to be refreshed by.

“From a country
we’ve not yet visited,
we received news.
Our longings rose up
and so we stopped
our searching in
books, videos, ipods, and
Reality TV,
stopped what we were
busy doing,

and set off to
travel there.


© Sherman Poultney 17 April 2007



Note: Derived from a sermon by C.S. Lewis as described by P. Steinfels in New York Times religion article December 3, 2005

Ticketmaster to the Great Beyond

“We cannot conceive of ourselves as not existing.”
Miguel de Unamuno


Ticketmaster to the Great Beyond

Call for the ticketmaster,
offer him all that I have.
He and I know my body will return to dust
to be scattered over the earth
as the winds blow and the rivers flow.
Know that my prior sentient existence,
all my thoughts, memories and dreams
will evaporate like vapors into a vacuum,
except those in the minds of others and
those on the pages I have written.
I need to prepare for my death.
Bring to me now the
ticketmaster to the great beyond.

Hear, oh ticketmaster,
a one-way ticket to the great beyond
where the molecules of my body,
from the dust of my cremated and
pulverized body and brain,
can be released and dispersed
to be blown outwards by the sun’s rays
out past Jupiter and Pluto into intergalactic space.
To drift forever or to be
caught up by new planets and stars.
To be incorporated into and contribute to
new forms of being.
Ah, thank you for loosening my earth’s bond,
ticketmaster to the great beyond.


© Sherman K. Poultney 6 March 2007

Ringmaster of the Circus Parade

I went to the funeral parlor that evening
to find the coffin sealed.
A photo of her with characteristic smile
sat on and sealed the lid.
She had died a lingering death at 90.
No need for an open coffin and the
crying and weeping for one taken suddenly in full life.
Family and church friends gathered apart from the coffin
and its sprays of pink and white flowers.
In small clusters, they talked cheerfully about
her contributions to them and to the church
as if she still lived as they knew her then.
How I envied her when I was eight and she was made
the Ringmaster of the Church Fair Circus Parade.

Beneath the closed cover,
I pictured her dressed in her
polka-dotted clown’s costume and white wig.
She and her husband had made the circus animals
with the help of her kids.
They used chicken wire and burlap.
An ostrich, an elephant, even a giraffe,
a long pole serving as its neck.
She led the parade to the church and
showed the animals how to prance
around the vestibule and into the hall.
She allowed me to walk her tightrope
that was a piece a rope she placed on the floor.
Ringmaster of the Circus Parade.


© Sherman K. Poultney 9 Feb 2007


Note: Written after reading “The Emperor of Ice Cream” by Wallace Stevens

Apple Picking Time in Leominster.

Apples loaded every bough,
I could never pick them all myself.
McIntosh, Red Delicious, Macoun,
the best were out of reach.
Even a careful leap
was sure to bring a shower down.
Newton could hardly have been missed
in the carpeted circle underneath.
I buffed a Mac bright red against my jeans
and savored the crisp crunch between my teeth.
A misstep brought an even sweeter smell
of earlier drops ready for the cider heap.
Hesperides' apples fill these trees,
yet no one else is here.
Gone the narrow-pointed ladders,
the stacks of bushel boxes,
the horse-drawn cider wagon,
retired insurance man with big cigar,
Fitzgerald's tam-o'-shanter,
Johnny Chapman's house,
grandma's applesauce,
the accents, weathered skin, and slept-in clothes
of itinerant Quebecois.
Sacre-Bleu! Gone!
A solitary crow calls out,
you'll not get a second chance.
I rush to fill my baskets full,
using cool morning to get set for colder night.
Fast sailing cumuli modulate the azure sky and warming light.
The sun transfigures first a distant pasture, then me,
then a genuflecting apple tree.


© Sherman K. Poultney 9 October 1989

Dust of the Earth.

after Abu’l-‘Ala’ al-Ma’arri
973 to 1057 A.D.


Dust of the Earth

Walking here at ground zero
of the collapsed Twin Towers,
I step carefully;
afraid my feet will tread
the dust of a smiling face
or a clenched fist.

During the ceremony at the pit,
the wind rises in gusts and
carries dust high above
us survivors to release the
spirits of the dead from these
their earthbound ashes.


© Sherman K. Poultney 24 October 2001 and 11 September 2002