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Poetry
and Genealogy
Compiled by
Jim Richards, Poetry Editor
In April, National Poetry Month, we celebrate the rich
history of American poetry. This year we are particularly celebrating
Langston Hughes's 100th birthday. One of my favorite
works by Hughes is his simple, tender piece entitled "Poem":
I
loved my friend.
He went away from me.
There's nothing more to say.
The poem ends
soft as it began—
I loved my friend.
Like Hughes's
poem, the poetry selected for Meridian Magazine this month celebrates
loved ones who have gone away. The first poem, "Barefoot," by Charles
E. Ridley has a wonderful, down-home American sound, and evokes
sentiments of spring in the rural mid-west. The second poem, "Solid
Rock," by Karla Burkhart, explores the "stones" of her English heritage.
I hope you enjoy them, and I hope they inspire many of you to pick
up a pen and write your own poem about your personal history or
genealogy.
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Barefoot
Gee ain't it great when you happen to find
The first dandelion of spring?
'Cause Ma says I kin go barefoot
When to her the first blossom I bring.
Afore that she says that the weather's too cold
And afraid of the ole wind that blows,
But when she sees the first blossom
Of the dandelion she knows
That it's time for us kids to go barefoot
And throw shoes and stockings away,
That summer is near and vacation will be here
Almost any day.
And say, ain't it great when you're barefoot
To wade in the mud by the road,
Or wiggle your toes in the deep brown dust
Till they look like a big hop-toad?
Some kids go hunting for flowers,
For honeysuckle and such,
And pass by the old dandelion,
Thinkin' he don't amount to much.
But now every spring I keep lookin'
Till I find a dandelion gay,
Take him to my Ma who says,
"Sure son, you kin go barefoot today!"
About the
Poet
"Barefoot," by Charles E. Ridley, was submitted by his grandson,
Charles W. Bell. Brother Bell writes of his grandfather: "He was
a prolific poem writer on many subjects, but mostly on the outdoors
and hunting and fishing. The poems were given to me before
he died. The poem 'Barefoot' reflects his childhood in Iowa
in the 1880's."
------
Solid Rock
I have climbed
on rocks, carried rocks, listened to rocks
since I was first able to wrap small fingers
around a solid, rough shape, choosing a rock as my own,
until over time and days it is lost from a torn pocket
or caught up with the trash.
Rocks hold my universe in place.
Nearly two centuries ago my father's ancestors
built rock walls in Keady, Armagh.
My father tells me a little
of the father he hardly knew.
It is all I know of them—
a line planted in Ireland's rocky green
by John, or was it Sean? The stories
come to me slowly, like eroding rock.
I know a few things—John Orr came first,
settled in Eureka to work the mines, break the rock,
find the sparkle of silver ore. His long, slim hands poor,
but his lilt rich with brogue and song. He left
Ireland's salt mist for Scotland's coal pits,
cruel work until he met his bonnie Jessie.
They made beautiful music, soprano and baritone
harmonizing the ocean, to settle in dry desert hills—
faith in God buffering the harshness.
I imagine meandering stone rows, cobbles lifted into place
by slim, rough hands, my family hands,
to make criss-crossing lines around a farm nestled
on green, Irish hills. My long fingers reach out
for the next granite cobble to edge my flowerbeds.
I sit against rough stone on a desert hill
where sagebrush and cactus out-grow the taters.
Sparrows in scrub-oak pipe a Derry air.
I hold a rock in my hands, feel its strength,
its lasting, smell its grounded safety.
Rock is warm in my hands. Blood warms my veins.
About the Poet
Karla Burkhart recently wrote this poem about her own genealogy;
she has an affliction where poems pop out every so often, usually
at the most inopportune times. Karla has published one book of poetry
and hopes to publish another some day.
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© 2002 Meridian
Magazine. All Rights Reserved.
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