A nice clear picture, Arthur, and interesting. But the first word, Lord, I
find disconcerting, as the poem is not overtly religious and I probably
wouldnt respond to it if it was. i think that using a word like 'Lord' in a
strong place in the poem, you must be aware of all its possible meanings and
I don't feel that the religious interpretation of it leads well into the
poem, and if it is just meant as an ejaculation I feel that is unsuitable
for the beginning too.
Sorry to nit pick . Think the poem has a lot going for it
bw
SallyE
on 24/10/02 11:30 am, arthur seeley at [log in to unmask] wrote:
> This didn't seem to get through last time I posted it. If it is a second
> showing to you, forgive me. Regards Arthur.
>
>
> The Smoke of Evening Fires
>
> Lord, how many times have I climbed this hill?
> Firewood is heavier these days,
> the road stonier, steeper.
> How can that be?
>
> Iıll rest here a while,
> watch the low sun trail shadows
> over the rich bottom lands,
> blue scarves of smoke rise straight,
> the white church beyond the bridge,
> hear shouts and laughter,
> the angelus echo and re-echo, dogs bark.
>
> It should be a better harvest for us all this year,
> spring came early, the blossom
> thick and white as dancersı petticoats.
> I have a pebble in my shoe.
> How many times must I climb this hill?
>
> Smells of supper- bread and goat stew.
>
> I should have had good bottom land by the river
> not this stony hillside where nothing fat will grow.
> I should have had good bottom land,
> rich black earth, groves of olive trees,
> vines and lemons,
> a flock billowing like a cloud over the hillside.
> I might have been rich,
> drank each night in the taverna,
> laughed, sang to the bouzouki,
> wept for the troubles of lovers,
> given candles to the church.
>
> I might finish the wall this year,
> get a young back to help.
> It is no work for an old man.
> Two sons dead in the war,
> a third one gone away somewhere.
> Do I have a grandchild?
> Hah, who would have such sons?
>
> Time we caught the stallion in the salt marshes,
> his mane and tail draggled with mud,
> his hooves flailed and punched the air
> nostrils flared, teeth bared,
> the shrill cries of him, screamed like a woman,
> my sons tight on the ropes,
> how we laughed in the mud, hah,
> such sons.
>
> The stew smells good,
> rich, thick with meat and herbs,
> oregano, black olives,
> the sweet breath of new bread.
>
> I am weary and the hill is stony and steep.
>
> It is my daughter who waits for the firewood now
> sets bread on my table
> simmers stew over the heart of her fire
> brims the jug with retsina
> but my bed is empty,
> my blankets cold
> when my legs ache in the night
> I am sleepless
> and only the moon shares my pillow.
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