nostalgic poems

October 4, 2013

“Cubs on Allatoona” by David BottomsPosted by

David Bottoms

CUBS ON ALLATOONA

We unrolled our bags around the gasping fire.
My first camping trip, and the woods
were anything but silent. I tried to pretend I was brave.
Though two dads still clowned in the boat, flailing the water
with jitterbugs and spoons,
we shed our shoes and zipped ourselves in.

When the Scout masters doused the fire,
the stars, as promised, went electric above the lake.

Suddenly the sky seemed
one great puzzle. If I could only connect
those dots all the great questions
might be answered. The voices in the trees were ominous,
but if I could only connect those dots … No.

Still, something might be revealed,
and I listened into the night to those hissing woods,
to the muffled chatter on the lake,
and to those Scout masters
in the cabin
swearing over whiskey and cards.

—from Rattle #39, Spring 2013
Tribute to Southern Poets

__________

David Bottoms: “Now on the spot where my house sat there’s a Kentucky Fried Chicken, and the K-Mart parking lot is covering the place where my grandfather’s house and store were. When my daughter was a kid we’d drive by and I’d say, ‘This is where we lived, right here,’ and she’d say, ‘Kentucky Fried Chicken?’ But you know, a lot of times at night when I try to go to sleep that old landscape plays over in my mind and it’s just sad, in a way, to have lost that, to have lost that connection and know that I’m one of the few people left who has any sense of that place, what it was and what it meant to folks. Maybe it didn’t mean so much then, but right now it means a lot. It means a whole lot.” (more)

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October 3, 2013

“Jayus” by Michael BlainePosted by

Michael Blaine

JAYUS

On a long stretch of road, we once
collected them in brown paper bags
drove them home in the back seat
and released them around our yard.

We would count them
counting until finally
none could be counted.

My childhood friend
would light Black Cats
between their wide lips.

He would somersault some
slam others against trees
count Mississippi’s as few
staggered back conscious.

He would call me later
after his daughter sidestepped
into a car and was thrown forward.
She passed there on the roadside.

After late summer showers
we drive along glossy roads
eyes and jumps in headlights.

We don’t get out anymore;
it feels dangerous enough
swerving around them.

My daughter once asked
why they cross the road.

But when did toads
ever get a fair shake
except in fairy tales
or with little girls?

—from Rattle #39, Spring 2013
Tribute to Southern Poets

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