I am going to do something different in this blog. Truth be told, I don't really read too many blogs, so I'm not quite sure how to write one. I think that my postings have been rather random. There is no theme that really ties this blog together other than the fact that each post is supposed to be one more step toward alleviating my paralyzing fear of letting the things I write be read by others. These posts are the products of the really random meanderings of a bored mind. If you are actually faithful about reading this blog, I applaud you. You have more stamina than I do.

The different thing that I am going to do with this blog post is to post a poem. I am not a poet, but I did take a few poetry workshops in college. I bet that sentence really made you cringe, didn't it? That's what someone says (or, actually, it's probably the thing they don't say) at open mic night at the coffee shop right before they read something wretched. And you can't laugh out loud at them, because that's rude. And that's the worst part of being at open mic night at the coffee shop. But, if you laugh out loud at this poem, I won't know the difference because you're far away and I can't hear you.

Anyway, putting all the slap-happiness I feel tonight aside, this poem is one that I wrote for one of those poetry workshops. It's a persona poem, (meaning: I found a picture of a human being that I thought was interesting a wrote a poem that is supposed to give a voice to that silent human in the photo).

I like pictures of people that capture their humanness. I am a fan of Shelby Lee Adams and would love to someday write a piece to accompany one of his photographs. This poem, however, gives a voice to a picture taken by Dorothea Lange, entitled (I believe) Texas Panhandle 1938. Printed just below the picture is a quote: "If you die, you're dead - that's all." A persona poem, my workshop leader told me, is more about projecting something of your own voice onto the picture. It must be about the silent human, but what you write will not be human if it is not personal to you. Thus the mention of Appalachia, a place I earnestly wish was my home.

It's not a poem that is in league with Dickinson, Plath, or even the worst of William Wordsworth. Probably not even that stupid James Wright poem about the Indian ponies. But, it's what I've got to share.

I will post some questions you can feel free to answer in a comment at the bottom.






Dirt Men

Oil fields. Corn fields. Wheat fields.
Flat as a new checkerboard.
I look down the long dirt road
And I can see all my neighbors.
Each plain white house like each new day.
I look down the long dirt road and I can see all
The days of my life, lined up straight, plain and white.

At home, we could not see our neighbors. We could not see the horizon
No matter where we turned. The foothills and distant mountains of Appalachia
surrounded us like the walls of Jericho. Like the monstrous water walls
of the Red Sea. My only bright hope in coming here was to see that horizon
all around me. That thin bright strand - the meeting of heaven and earth.

But here, the dead grass kills us.
The unruly earth takes to the sky to fill our mouths, our throats, our hearts
with such despair. And we are offered up openly to an angry God.
He punishes us for our sins.

My little daughter died, crouched on her hands and knees.
My fingers were not so nimble that I could pull the dust
from her throat. Ashes for ashes. Dust, Lord, dust.

I think of my mother's bones joining themselves
with the Greenup, Kentucky mud. And my father's bones,
and his father's bones. And so on.
My bones will be devoured by this sandy, barren ground.

"If you die, you're dead - that's all," Richard keeps saying. But
not even he believes his lies.

"Woman," he said to me as we left our home for this place, "you'll be salt
if you keep looking backward."

I am not salt. Not salt or sand
or wild prairie dust.

I was made from the dirt of the foothills.
I have been the muddy river clay.
I am the lonesome rock breaking
the waters of a dying mountain stream.
These question are copied word for word from the assignment sheet handed out by my workshop leader. Feel free to answer them, or ponder them.

1. You've read about diction, image, rhetoric. (okay, so you, the readers of my blog haven't read about them from the assigned text, but let's pretend...) Which element seems to be primary engine in the poem? Is it used to its best effect? How could it be improved?

2. Did the writer create a believable character? Why or why not? Is the character convincing in speech?

3. Does the poem incorporate enough imagery? If so, why? If an image can be developed further, how can it be developed further?

4. Do you thing the writer went as far as possible in exploring the possibilities of the photograph? If not, what might you suggest?