Hi,
My maiden name was Reed and my great grandfather was a drinker.I have
written poems of him maybe I will post one soon
Carol Reed Sircoulomb
http://sircoulombpoeticphotos.homestead.com./newindex.html.
----- Original Message -----
From: "Sally Evans" <[log in to unmask]>
To: <[log in to unmask]>
Sent: Sunday, March 17, 2002 4:06 PM
Subject: Re: new poem: Around the Table
> I find this a bit creepy, Sue, but interesting as a story. I think there's
> rather a high ratio of description to development, for a poem. Well
written
> of course, I'm being hyper critical. Sally E
>
> on 17/3/02 8:52 pm, Sue Scalf at [log in to unmask] wrote:
>
> > Around the Table
> >
> > Where the house stood,
> > trees have come back
> > one by one, maples, elms.
> > Sweet is the shade of memory.
> > Shades walk there now,
> > in shapes of spirits that come
> > when evening returns.
> > Hear the pat pat of a rocking chair,
> > see my grandfather's brogans
> > tapping the floor,
> > his hand cupped over the finial
> > at the top of his chair.
> > Far in the back Grandma rattles pans,
> > warming supper, heating the oven,
> > despite summer heat, the stifling kitchen.
> >
> > The icebox door slams.
> > Over the sink a triangular mirror
> > just where it has always been,
> > blurred and chipped, cheap.
> > Cretonne on the sofa, the fireplace painted red,
> > a radio from a bedroom playing jazz. And Mother
> > adjusting her dress over slim hips;
> > pelisse and chenille cover the beds.
> > I am wearing a playsuit, sandals,
> > and a satin bow, reading the comics
> > from a paper that says "Roosevelt Dead."
> > Grandma calls, "Supper."
> > while night beats against the screens,
> > and evening breathes,
> > sliding with fog over the mountain.
> >
> > Light is tallow yellow, the color
> > of the oil cloth on the table.
> > Wartime steak, pounded to a pulp,
> > is still tough to chew, though flavorful.
> > Gravy is rich as laughter, light as the biscuits
> > that seem to float in air. We are all there.
> > Daddy Reed slightly drunk,
> > Aunt Effie mad at someone,
> > Grandma's head bent in prayer--
> > now all are gone: those bright hours.
> > I pour sorghum syrup, play with my fork, draw
> > in my mind a circle of light against the dark.
> >
> > Sue Scalf
> > http://www.members.aol.com/poetscalf
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