Found, eh, Gary?
Who got bored in class and doodled in their library book?
I dunno about this. sometimes less is more
P-P
>From: Gary B <[log in to unmask]>
>Reply-To: The Pennine Poetry Works <[log in to unmask]>
>To: [log in to unmask]
>Subject: Found III: Women Bound
>Date: Wed, 20 Mar 2002 11:43:37 -0800
>
>Found III: Women Bound
>
>
>
>(The poet weaves words through a portion of Chapter 1 of John Steinbeck's
>Grapes of Wrath.)
>
>
>
>(Scene 1.) The woman leaned against a door jam. One thin arm across
>another. Clasped for protection. Two scrawny children clung to her faded
>shift. Grasped her hem for protection. He eyes were empty. Her face only
>a crowded may of thin lines. Wrinkles worn by dust. Sun. Work. The
>children did smile. With wax faces and shrunken cheeks. They may never
>have smiled.
>
>
>
>The people came out of their houses and smelled the hot stinging air.
>
>
>A wind rises. The woman says. "The dust comes. You better leave." She
>moves inside and closes the door. The wind rises. A cloud of dust moves
>across the county towards the farm. Barn. House. The dust sifts under
>the door. Around windows. Through gray clapboard slats and tired shakes.
>
>
>
>The children came out of the houses, but they did not run and shout.
>
>
>The woman stuffs towels and sheets around the windows. Shirts and dresses
>in the walls. Grandma's quilt. Only used for weddings. Against the
>door. The children help. But the dust continues its march through the
>house. Barn. Empty hog pen.
>
>
>
>Men stood by their fences and looked at the ruined corn.
>
>
>The woman waits. The men went to Haysville to sell what could be sold. To
>sell the stove. Beds. Plow. Wagon. Mules. Hope chest. To sell enough
>to escape the farm. The dust. They will return with a dime on the
>dollar. The woman waits and worries the men with be late unable to travel
>with the dust high.
>
>
>
>And the women come out of the houses to stand beside their men--
>
>
>The children wait for supper. Breakfast biscuit and chicory with molasses.
>The children wait and push rages in the walls.
>
>
>
>to feel whether this time the men would break.
>
>
>
>(Scene 2.) The woman stands at a machine set to drill quarter inch holes
>in medal plates to mount on B-52s. She dreams of when her man will return
>from the Pacific. Tojo defeated. She dreams of white picket fences.
>Bassinets. Rose gardens. The women at the machines drill and dream of
>when the men will return.
>
>
>
>The women studied the men's faces secretly.
>
>
>The woman stands behind a door. Afraid. On the porch. An officer stands
>in creased pants. Shined shoes. New haircut. His hand holds a yellow
>envelope. The woman stifles a cry. And head high reaches for the door.
>
>
>
>The children stood near by, drawing figures in the dust with bare toes.
>
>
>(Scene 3.) The woman stands in noonday sun. A hoe leans against her
>body. The woman waits for the children. The girl to fetch tea. The boy
>mail. The woman waits for a letter. With tickets and money to travel to
>Detroit to join her man in the City. The man. Tired of dollar per day
>cotton sweeps floors for Mr. Ford in The City.
>
>
>
>.careful lines in the dust with their toes.
>
>
>
>The woman waits. She takes in laundry. Sews party dresses. Bakes
>pastries for the children to deliver to the back door of big houses.
>
>
>
>The men sat in the doorways of their houses, their hands were busy with
>sticks and little rocks.
>
>
>
>(Scene.) The women wait. Wash. Cook. Garden. Nurse. Knit. The women
>wait for their men.
>
>
>
>GDB 3/2002
>
>
>
>Tina March guest and Gar tells tales at:
>http://gardawg.homestead.com/gardawg.html
>
>Poets for Peace. ¡Poemas sí, balas no!
>
Perpetua Pullman
_________________________________________________________________
Join the world’s largest e-mail service with MSN Hotmail.
http://www.hotmail.com
|
