Wow. I have been waiting to write a poem that really encompasses my homesickness since I got here, and finally, 3 weeks before I'm headed home, I've written it. But I love it :)
So yeah. Questions for critique:
How do you feel about the dialect? Too strong? Not strong enough?
Plot: is the "story" cohesive enough?
How do you feel about the words themselves? Does it get too close to prose?
I'm also concerned about the beginning of the "David" stanza - does it make sense, or do I need a better transition in there?
Thoughts on imagery in general, or any other comments are definitely appreciated!
"Psalm for the South"
Momma gave me a quilt when I left home
so I could lie me down in green pastures,
jus' like her black book says.
I learned to read
in a town where the churches got porches
jus' like everybody else.
Taught myself astronomy
with cogon grass ticklin my bare legs n'feet
n'ticks on the backsa my knees.
I couldna shown you
the long necklace'a stars
people say is a dragon,
but I could hunt down rabbits n'hazelnuts
on their way to Heaven.
Since I left
I've seen long plains a' steel buildins
that crowd out the sky
n'shine their own stars.
Grandaddy Solomon still sings to me in my sleep
in Grandma's old wicker rockin chair,
still reads to me from Momma's black book.
I like him better'n God.
My first music lesson
was the wind in the blue grass,
my breath vibratin the green ribbon
crushed between thumb-joints.
Since then I've learned from voices jus' as sweet.
I read lots more than the black book, these days.
I've walked through lotsa valleys,
dryer'n salt or wet as an afternoon in March—
walked there myself
with a cane I cut from the oak tree out back.
Sometimes Grandaddy Solomon
sings me the songs David wrote.
I don't like David much.
His graspin hands
never reached for anything,
jus' begged to be filled.
He ain't strong as Grandma,
with her hands knotted like wood,
n'he ain't strong as me.
I've got more time on Sundays now,
but I dress up anyway.
It's a holy day,
sure as the summer brings pollen
to paint the screened porch yellow.
Whether God says it's holy or not.
I shoulda known
you gotta get everything for yourself.
I shoulda known
I could study a universe
in the hickory trees along the driveway.
The bricks for the tall, new city buildins
may be baked in the sun, just like ours.
But I'm gonna build my home
from wood n'stone first.
I still know when a thunderstorm's comin
n'when it's gonna break.
I know the shape'a clouds
n'the way they fill with heat.
It's something in the air's smell,
the way the electricity gathers on your skin
n'pulls you towards Heaven.
So yeah. Questions for critique:
How do you feel about the dialect? Too strong? Not strong enough?
Plot: is the "story" cohesive enough?
How do you feel about the words themselves? Does it get too close to prose?
I'm also concerned about the beginning of the "David" stanza - does it make sense, or do I need a better transition in there?
Thoughts on imagery in general, or any other comments are definitely appreciated!
"Psalm for the South"
Momma gave me a quilt when I left home
so I could lie me down in green pastures,
jus' like her black book says.
I learned to read
in a town where the churches got porches
jus' like everybody else.
Taught myself astronomy
with cogon grass ticklin my bare legs n'feet
n'ticks on the backsa my knees.
I couldna shown you
the long necklace'a stars
people say is a dragon,
but I could hunt down rabbits n'hazelnuts
on their way to Heaven.
Since I left
I've seen long plains a' steel buildins
that crowd out the sky
n'shine their own stars.
Grandaddy Solomon still sings to me in my sleep
in Grandma's old wicker rockin chair,
still reads to me from Momma's black book.
I like him better'n God.
My first music lesson
was the wind in the blue grass,
my breath vibratin the green ribbon
crushed between thumb-joints.
Since then I've learned from voices jus' as sweet.
I read lots more than the black book, these days.
I've walked through lotsa valleys,
dryer'n salt or wet as an afternoon in March—
walked there myself
with a cane I cut from the oak tree out back.
Sometimes Grandaddy Solomon
sings me the songs David wrote.
I don't like David much.
His graspin hands
never reached for anything,
jus' begged to be filled.
He ain't strong as Grandma,
with her hands knotted like wood,
n'he ain't strong as me.
I've got more time on Sundays now,
but I dress up anyway.
It's a holy day,
sure as the summer brings pollen
to paint the screened porch yellow.
Whether God says it's holy or not.
I shoulda known
you gotta get everything for yourself.
I shoulda known
I could study a universe
in the hickory trees along the driveway.
The bricks for the tall, new city buildins
may be baked in the sun, just like ours.
But I'm gonna build my home
from wood n'stone first.
I still know when a thunderstorm's comin
n'when it's gonna break.
I know the shape'a clouds
n'the way they fill with heat.
It's something in the air's smell,
the way the electricity gathers on your skin
n'pulls you towards Heaven.
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