Poetry Captures Essence of Place

Poetry is one of the best ways I know to capture the essence of Place. In this wonderful poem by George Ella Lyons, I can feel my own homeplace in her intimate details.

Where I'm From
I am from clothespins,
from Clorox, and carbon-tetrachloride.
I am from the dirt under the back porch
(Black, glistening,
it tasted like beets).
I am from the forsythia bush,
the Dutch elm
whose long-gone limbs I remember
as if they were my own.

I'm from fudge and eyeglasses,
From Imogene and Alafair.
I'm from the know-it-alls
and the pass-it-ons,
from perk up and pipe down.
I'm from he restoreth my soul
with a cottonball lamb
and ten verses I can say myself.

I'm from Artemus and Billie's Branch,
fried corn and strong coffee.
From the finger my grandfather lost
to the auger
the eye my father shut to keep his sight.
Under my bed was a dress box
spilling old pictures,
a sift of lost faces
to drift beneath my dreams.
I am from those moments -
snapped before I budded -
leaf-fall from the family tree.
George Ella Lyons

A Clearing: A poem about Place by Levertov

What lies at the end of enticing
country driveways, curving
off among trees? Often only
a car graveyard, a house-trailer,
a trashy bungalow. But this one,
for once, brings you
through the shade of its green tunnel
to a paradise of cedars,
of lawns mown but not too closely
of iris, moss, fern, rivers of stone rounded
by sea or stream,
of a wooden unassertive large-windowed house.
The big trees enclose
an expanse of sky, trees, and sky
together protect the clearing.
One is sheltered here
from the assaultive world
as if escaped from it, and yet
once arrived, is given (oneself
and others being a part of that world)
a generous welcome.
It's paradise
as a paradigm for how
to live on earth,
how to be private and open
quiet and richly eloquent.
Everything man-made here
was truly made by the hands
of those who live here, of those
who live with what they have made.
It took time, and is growing still
because it's alive.
It is paradise, and paradise
is a kind of poem; it has
a poem's characteristics:
inspiration; starting with the given;
unexpected harmonies; revelations.
It's rare among the worlds one finds
at the end of enticing driveways.
Denise Levertov
This Great Unknowing: Last Poems

Poetry, Like the Land . . .

"Poetry, like the land, asks us to pay attention to beauty."

Wendell Berry

Photo courtesy of Digital Agent

Mad World Lyrics Reveal Full Meaning of No-Place

The lyrics for Mad World, the 1980s song by Tears for Fears captures the incredible loneliness and sorrow that our suburbanized, busy-busy, No-Place world creates. Here are the opening two stanzas:

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, worn out faces
Bright and early for their daily races
Going nowhere, going nowhere
And their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, no expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, no tomorrow . . .

The version performed by Gary Jules (worth listening to/watching!) goes even further to capture this sense of placelessness and alienation. Through brilliant vocals and moving images, Jules' rendition brings us into the full meaning of No-Place. Photo Mad World courtesy of cube2.

Frost Captures Essence of Place

A Time To Talk

"When a friend calls to me from the road

And slows his horse to a meaning walk,

I don't stand still and look around

On all the hills I haven't hoed,

And shout from where I am, 'What is it?'

No, not as there is a time to talk.

I thrust my hoe in the mellow ground,

Blade-end up and five feet tall,

And plod; I go up to the stone wall

For a friendly visit."

Robert Frost

Soon a Matchbox Town Appears

In response to my "Welcoming Entry" post, jc from Scotland sent this lovely poem which she wrote upon observing what was happening to her village in the Highlands.

INCOMERS

They come in search of blackboard skies and tinsel stars
and land stretched out like patchwork quilts,
they leave behind the mortice locks and glass secured by metal bars,
they find a place where kids can play,
where even if they roam or stray,
it causes not the heart to miss a beat.
And still more come to find this dream
and soon a matchbox town appears,

to eat the land and light the skies.
Now once again the bolts are placed above the doors,
high fences mark the boundary lines of mine and yours,
designed to keep out prying neighbours' eyes.

jc, Scotland