Poetic Samplings
by
Hugh Whitten
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Poems Excerpted From
Along The Way
Harvest - 1944
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Home: Eden
Abandoned Farmhouse
Poems Excerpted From
Piedmont Poems and Other Reflections
Family Farmhouse III
Balm In Gilead
Of Loss And Gain
Axle deep in crimson clover, a John Deere Diesel spatters still air with cylinder sound; the machine gun clatter of the mower blade cuts down swaying columns which shudder and stiffly fall. From the front door, Mom, passing the photo of her Pfc. son, hurries to get the mail knowing his note had flown to them from across the ocean. Instead a government telegram—"We regret to inform you . . . " Later that day, a butterfly, without landing, charts the crooked air over wilted stalks and stubble, remembering morning when soft blossoms had reached upward toward the kiss of its wings. Copyright (c) 2007 Hugh Whitten
White paint flakes in yellowed chips, a weedy gutter hangs at 45 degrees, a shattered window pane suggests a vandal’s rock on the kitchen floor in a splash of grass. In the yard an ancient oak stretches out timber-size limbs shading a half acre; one waist-thick limb, unable alone to resist earth’s invitation, is supported by a forked clothesline pole. The farmer has already answered earth’s call. Now, in the night, the wind talks softly to no one.
Eve and Adam wondered at all they saw. These child-adults, safe in Eden, had few words for things, none for home. From pain they learned not to grab a thorn, from taste and aches what plants to eat, slept when tired darkness laid them down. Each thing done taught them what it was. Eviction. Then they saw home beyond the fastened gate and turned away in despair to survive alone, holding Eden in their hearts. We, far removed children of Adam and Eve, sense their loss as ours. Are we blessed/cursed with nostalgia for a place to which we’ve never been?
GHOSTS In late summer the once-white farmhouse shields a widowed daughter, grows weeds in its gutters, the owner and father now lives in a rest home. A cicada’s tiny buzz saw, running down to die, cuts a limb off the day; honeysuckle vines pull down the panel fence. Outside at night a pole light probes the clustered shadows. Doors are bolted, window shades drawn; she takes a pill to sleep, tries not to hear whispers throughout the aging house during the night. Copyright (c) 2004 Hugh Whitten All Rights Reserved
BALM IN GILEAD Sore throat and early bedtime On a winter night. From a small Blue jar with a red triangle, I dip two fingers of cool salve, Rub it on the aching chest, Touch fingertips to my nostrils. The aromatic inhalation suffuses me; Eyes close and I become ten again. I lie on the daybed in the living Room of our farmhouse shortly after Shuffling down the lane from the school bus. Mom is saying, "You poor thing; No chores for you tonight. Lie right There and rest. Beef broth is heating." The same balm massaged into a sore Throat. Ah, the same aroma. The miserable, wonderful pain Bringing me the comfort of angelic Words, hot soup, no chores, and that Coolness of camphorated mentholatum: Balm coming only from Vicks Vaporub. Copyright (c) 2004 Hugh Whitten All Rights Reserved
OF LOSS AND GAIN Because of what is lost the heart will weep, The Sufi wrote about a life of trial; But the spirit laughs for gains that it can keep. At birth we left the peace and warmth of sleep, Have tried for years this loss to reconcile. Because of what is lost the heart will weep. Before the blunt scythe decides to reap, The joie de vivre lives vibrant in the child, And spirit laughs for gains that it can keep. When hard-won love is lost, the wound is deep. The self lies empty, sent into exile. Because of what is lost the heart will weep. From all this loss and gain, we scan a sweep So wide the soul’s ecstatic for a while, And spirit laughs for gains that it can keep. The failing flesh revives enough to leap Across the finish of the final mile. Because of what is lost the heart will weep; The spirit laughs for gains that it can keep. Copyright (c) 2004 Hugh Whitten All Rights Reserved