[thisisgood]
Great post.
Roots That No Storm Can Dislodge
I am from the eastern madlands,
from the outskirts and the margins
where the tunnels now stand empty
and ghost stations are buried under
1970s shopping centres.
I am from the red post box
five doors down
whose featureless mouth swallowed
all my love letters to the world.
I'm from the crackle and hiss
of the shortwave dial,
from foreign tongues, iron curtains
and exotic stamps with strange postmarks.
From one Grandpa's Black Russian Sobranies
and another's rickety sheds.
From bike rides to the next village
to see how other people lived.
I'm from Dad's treasure trove in the garage,
all wood, wires and rust,
from Mum's blackberry and apple crumble,
and Grandma's old time and modern sequence.
From my other Grandma's crochet hooks
and swollen ankles in cosy slippers.
I am every book I devoured while
my sister took riding lessons,
every album behind closed bedroom door,
Mum shouting "Turn it down" up the stairs.
I'm from the school clock and the end room's
tales of Concorde, Earthsea and Star Wars,
from the adventures of renegade mavericks,
Daleks and regenerations.
From blonde and brunette Swedish harmonies
and capital cities calling
via impossibly glamorous satellites,
offering the promise
that life would one day be elsewhere,
far from those flat fields,
whose still and silent earth nurtured
roots that no storm can dislodge.
Inspired directly by this, indirectly by this (though I appear to have ignored the rules) and also by seeing something similar in one of my regular reads (sorry, forgotten who) a few weeks ago. All ultimately derived from the superb original by George Ella Lyons.
Posted by Hg on Wednesday 21 November 2007 at 10:49.
Received 10 comments so far.
Comments
Terrific poem, Hg. And this exercise always seems to reach in and bring really strong, specific, quirky memories and images to the surface. It was just having to have a go at this that made me start blogging, after reading other people's for a few months: http://andthistoo.blogspot.com/2005/02/where-im-from.html
Caroline & Karen - thanks :-)
Jean - thanks too, specifically because your recent post is how I came across Andy's blog. This poem probably wouldn't have existed otherwise.
Cheers Mike.
I don't write much poetry, but this one just poured out of me in about fifteen minutes flat this morning. It was almost like automatic writing: a gift from somewhere else entirely. (Except, of course, it could only have been written by me.) I immediately knew I wanted to publish it.
This is quite wonderful. I scrolled up to choose a few favorite lines to mention here, but find I can't; there's so much here that piques my interest, and the ending is just right.
Thanks Rachel. Would dissecting it take all the life from it? Possibly. But if there are any particular references in there that you want to ask about, feel free. Predictably, given that these are the things that formed me, I've written about some of this stuff before. If you want a little more background info, you might want to have a look at these (two are recent):
Train Of Thought - for the tunnels and ghost stations
Hailing On All Frequencies - for the shortwave radio and the foreign tongues
Layers, Cells, Constellations - for the iron curtain (recent)
The Passing Of Time - for the school clock and the end room
All My Love To Long Ago - for the renegade mavericks (very recent)
What The Fuck's Going On? - for the blonde and brunette Swedish harmonies
Helsinki Calling... - for the capital cities and the glamorous satellites
Love it; and I'm so glad to have been part of the magic of linkery which caused you to write it. So many things in there I recognise, too (like that unusual one of connecting to the world through short wave radio).
Interestingly, my version too appeared apparently from nowhere in the space of half an hour or so, even though I almost never write poetry. Curious how such apparent trivia are so fundamental to who we are...
I'd been having a conversation with someone, the day before I wrote it, about my pre-teen years. I think that stirred up quite a lot of memories. There's really nothing in this poem about what I got up from from 13+ until I left home at 18, apart from the too-loud music.
Then again, that's probably just as well :-)
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