There that evening
like gravestones in a series
for the new moon alone
a new southern lady
for a heart and a home
In the morning
and grass green in sunlight
our thoughts for the war
All so young
they drift through our memories
in our thoughts we will hold
On the hillsides
a stark replication
with eyes closed
the past it is gone
they call out to guide us
in times without hope
I have always been drawn to cemeteries. Mainly because they are usually very quiet and, well, you can feel alone, but not exactly alone (k, that sounded a bit...off, but ya get what I'm saying). Can I say that the dead are the best company sometimes or is that callous? My home town has a beautiful and interesting cemetery (old cole-mining town) and New Orleans is, of course, quite the place for them.
Blue Monk said "I could feel the haunt" and I have to ditto that. And Jenn Flynn mentioned something about a civil war era feel, and so I'm going to ditto that as well...
I really enjoyed what you did with the language here. It's bold and takes a second to catch on to, but once caught works very well and appeals to my enjoyment of language. It also brings this sense of communion to the forefront, this we we we. Communion between who is not made explicitly clear, but implicitly it does feel of love or camaraderie, that unification that comes from a mutual experience.
And then there is that starkness, certain references, that bring in a historic aspect to this -- like how a sepia tint does to photographs. Sadly, that starkness and those references are still applicable today (insert some old adage about history repeating itself).
I suppose too, with cemeteries, they hold a glimpse to what will be and a hope that we will go to the grave reconciled, though so often than not we don't.
So...yeah, no nit-pickery/suggestions/etc. Just responding. I enjoyed reading this, both by emotion and the technique used to write it.
And this is a bit off/on topic (of cemeteries, but not your poem, which is only partially cemetery'd anyway...). A response to your photo if you will (which is a lovely juxtaposition.)
This is in central Angola, Africa. This particular cemetery is easily the size of two football fields, and full. This photo shows the more affluent population's graves and was taken toward the entrance. As you walk further back (and not much further, as the rich are extremely few) you get into the common folk and then unmarked graves. Unmarked graves are very disturbing, especially when there are so many of them. Just numbers, and whole sections divided between "youth" and "adult".
At first I thought typing errors, yet I went back, read it aloud, and really appreciate what your saying and the people you are honoring. I must say sadly I don't think of our soldiers daily, this poem made me. So thanks, and keep rocking it out!!!!!!
I really want to favorite this James. Like hard. But then you'd be breaking a record and I'm frankly fed up of feeding egos these days so... maybe at a later date.
I'm kidding. I'll favorite it anyway. I'm not fed up of your ego yet.
So, yes, I "dig" this. Is that with 2 g's? I don't speak Southern here. Anyway. Sounds kind of folkish/hip-hop, with the "we be" combination. Sometimes though, not always. Sometimes you're white. Just the way I like it.
The picture is beautiful. I live near a cemetery myself, about 5 minutes from my house. I used to go around in there and copy the inscription (you know, take a paper, get a pastel and what's the word?). I loved the stylized writing on these graves. And it's such a small graveyard. I think there's barely 100. It's mostly French family graves. So everytime someone from that family dies, their name and dates and inscribed on the stone. There's one tiny uh... I'm not sure what those are called. It's just like a small house in the cemetery that the family owns. Anyway. I never took pictures because everything's so grey. Wouldn't make a nice picture. Not even in autumn.
I'm not very informed when it comes to death and dying terms. I rather not be. But I like this.
I'm getting a Civil War vibe from this. And some forbidden love. Like an interracial relationship. The black guy would be narrating (sorry, I'm stereotyping. I'm sure there was a white girl who spoke like that back in the day. But he's talking about a girl. And Lesbians didn't exist. DEFINITELY. That's such a hippy thing).
In a more introverted deep-dark-secret-hiding-place side of me, I can feel this. And feel like this. This constant trying to love someone and knowing full well you'll never be loved like that. You'll question why you want them so much when all you do is stroke their ego, feed them more and more love. But it bears nothing. Just empty gratification, I guess. But that's what that is, that type of one-way love. They play around with it and love you back just because you love them. It's insecure. And if they do love you, it's because they love your surface appeal- whatever you say, whatever you give them. Nothing deeper.
That has nothing to do with your poem. Okay.
I guess this is just young love. A jovial, (trivial?) kind of love that every old couple tries to reignite. The past. Do you believe people stay in relationships, hoping to get back those few months that they were happy? It's barbaric.
Okay James. I'm going to favorite your poem.