My Origin

Origins, Listed

I’m from a tobacco barn,

from a long line of March lilies

and cockle-burrs. I hail from

the oak and maple trees and

the wrong side of the law.

From that box filled with tapes

of Beethoven and Chopin,

from battlements of Legos, a wall of mud graffiti.

I’m from that flit of Zorro’s cape,

the tightrope of railroad ties,

Prince Edward Island,

And behind the back

of a northern wind

From at least two acres of chamomile,

half a shelf of Philips commentaries,

and a collection of teacups—

there beside the pink one

my brother gave me.

I came from the snap and crack

of a thunderstorm,

a rivulet of rose quartz

veining through the heart of a black hill,

and a safe-hold for

the treasures of the snow.

The Southern Thing

I didn’t understand my Southern self

Until I moved to South Dakota—I

Was just thirteen, then. I was—you might say—

A novelty. Very nice, that. It gave me

A sense of place in being out of place.

Years later, at that college—How was I

To know there was guilt being Southern, that

A limit on my social standing—mind

So filled with culture notwithstanding. I

Did try to change, to smooth my talk, to make

Straight my meandering speech. Lost the cause.

My heart was cheered by my kind friend—he said

I was quite different from the rednecks,

Hillbillies, “good ole’ boys.” I did believe

Him. Got used to my rambling cadence, thought

I was okay to walk about and talk

In good society—You understand,

I think, now, why when she said, “I’m glad

I’m not a Southerner,” what I heard was,

“I’m glad I’m not like you.”

[This poem hurt to write more than I thought it would.]

Identity

B estMu

a                        d

r                             P

e                             i

f                              e

o                             C

o                          h

t                        e

e                    f

D a r i n g

R               B

o                  e

b                    e

I                       -

n                      F

H                     o

o                    e

o                  …

Dog-tired!

A historical background of Celtic poetry

"The high status of poets within Celtic societies is well attested and was maintained down to the seventeenth or eighteenth centuries. In Gaelic societies the name for a poet, file (or filid - plural), is derived from a root word meaning "to see". [sic] Celtic poets may be better known as bards and though the Irish and Scottish peoples poets also came to be known as either file or bard, originally there was a distinction in rank between the two with the hereditary file having the higher status and greater training." --on Celtic poetry from The Poet's Garret. The rest of the site is worth a read.

"I would build that dome in air, / That sunny dome! those caves of ice!" --Coleridge

Will my world of words prosper? or will it flutter down in ashes from the fire, the residue of the warring clash of dream and reality?

I'm just curious.