As I mentioned to bigjac, I'm going to use this space to work on my series of poems about places I lived growing up. I may experiment with different techniques and styles of poetry, and my ideas and impressions will probably come from a variety of psychological angles. So, there may be some surprises here: even, and maybe especially, for me!
Kalliope
Means "beautiful voice" from Greek καλλος (kallos) "beauty" and οψ (ops) "voice". In Greek mythology she was a goddess of epic poetry and eloquence, one of the nine Muses.
Join us every Tuesday afternoon at the Daily Kos community political poetry club.
Your own poetry is always welcome in the comments.
Bongos, berets & turtle neck sweaters optional.
The keyboard is mightier than the sword.
I'll start with a review of the two poems I've published here so far that I consider part of the series, for those who may have missed them the first time, or just want to get a sense of where I've been so far with these.
Palouse (This title is new, I originally wrote it from a prompt, without a title)
I praise the Palouse country, those
Voluptuous hills, curvaceous as a woman,
Golden with wheat, rich brown/black earth, dust
Devils kicking up their heels.
Sledding those hills in winter, Christmas tree
Hunts in the snow. Once in first grade,
Blizzard wind so fierce, a bigger girl sheltered
My face so I could breathe down the hill to home.
Oh, little town of Farmington! So close
To Idaho, just walk up the road and over
The hill, past the railroad tracks, past the
Alley by our house.
The trains don't run by there no more, even
The tracks are gone.
"This town's been dying since the Civil War,"
My father's words linger like ghosts....
He's gone too. And the cottonwood trees
In front of the house; how I remember the scent
Of them, and the cherry tree in back I sometimes climbed;
The day I made friends with a gopher in the
Back yard, donating wallpaper scraps for
Nesting material. It all belongs
To the Seventh Day Adventists now.
Touchet River
You were the boundary
When I would run away.
Sometimes, I'd get angry
Or scared of being in trouble.
Like the time I forgot to go
To my piano lesson.
I took my sister with me, that time.
(I guess I knew she'd make me
Go home eventually.)
If I ever crossed the bridge
Over your cool water
I could never go home again.
I only crossed it once
Looking for an “adopted” pet.
(I adopted lots of wandering critters
Of someone else's, in those days.)
That time didn't count.
I wasn't running away, then.
Simpler times, innocence long lost
Boundary water of youth.
So, here is a new one. I hope you enjoy it.
The Day of the Three-Foot Snow Storm
“Put your bike away!”
Said my mother as I ran
Out the door toward the bus stop.
“If I do, I’ll miss the bus!”
I yelled at her in reply.
I sure didn’t want to be in trouble
For missing my school bus!
By the time I got to the bus stop
It had started to snow.
And it snowed
And snowed....
We all played out in it for awhile.
The bus didn’t come.
It kept snowing.
We all got cold:
I, my two sisters that were in school with me at that point,
All the other kids from Camp Draper,
Waiting for our school bus.
The neighbor lady
Whose house was by the bus stop
Invited us all in to get warm.
It was crowded, though.
I and Kennedy Hills, my next door neighbor
Decided we were tougher than the rest.
We went back out in the snow.
It was still coming down.
The school bus still wasn’t coming.
But, it just so happened
That Kennedy Hills’ mother, taking his sister, Margaret
To her kindergarten class, did.
Since we were out and she saw us,
She stopped and we got in–
To the warm car, and a ride to school.
Ahead of all the other kids at the bus stop
Who hadn’t wanted to go back out in the snow.
So, though I was late to school anyway
Even though I didn’t stop to put my bike away
I was still there, ahead of
All those other kids at our bus stop that day
Who didn’t come back out in the snow
With me and Kennedy Hills, and get a ride
With his mom and little sister,
The day of the three-foot snowstorm.
As the first poem was set in the Palouse country, a composite of the places I lived in the first six years of my life, and the second was set in the Walla Walla area where I spent the next two years, so this latest one is set in the vicinity of Glenwood, WA, where I spent the subsequent three years. Camp Draper was a logging establishment three miles outside of Glenwood proper, set up by the J. Neils Lumber Company, which was later acquired by Louisiana Pacific. The area is now called Draper Springs, and most of the houses that were there in my childhood are now gone. I think the one we lived in was actually one of the few that remained, the last time I was out that way. Glenwood is in the vicinity of Mt. Adams, in Klickitat County, not far from Trout Lake, on (I didn't actually realize this, until I checked on Wikipedia) the Yakama Indian Reservation, and near White Salmon and Bingen, with Hood River, OR just across the Columbia. I think I really fell in love with the forest there, and I'll write more about that later on.
Readers & Book Lovers Series Schedule
We have a volunteer (yep, it's me, Kit RMP)
for the third Tuesday
of each month.
Three more such volunteers,
and I (bigjacbigjacbigjac) can relax!
So,
aside from any third Tuesday,
such as the 17th of September,
aside from those,
all the other Tuesdays
are opportunities for you.
You have the poetry in you;
I can feel it!