Hi Gar,
A remarkable piece of work! It must be a hybrid form of poetry you're
developing between prose/poetry/short story/narrative. I love it! I hope
you're planning on sending this one out? <hint,hint>
CW, Mary :O)
--- Gary B <[log in to unmask]> wrote:
> 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!
>
>
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