I suggested a few days ago in a response to Vicki Lane's comment on NIGHT FISHING that I might post a poem a bit darker than the earlier ones, "Night Fishing," and "Glorified," from my new manuscript DESCENT. This is the first poem from my sonnet sequence titled SOUTHERN FICTIONS. It first appeared in CALLALOO: Confederate Flag Issue.
Southern Fictions
...human kind
Cannot bear very much reality.
T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton
My father drapes his battle-flag across
a backroom window. If I tried to tell
him why I wish he wouldn’t, I’d have hell
to pay. Or else I’d end up sounding crass
and smug. It’s just not worth it. Let it pass.
I squelch my fury at this flag and all
it means, the stubbornness, the pride, the gall
of my own people trying hard to pass
the buck, as if what happened never did
exactly, or even if it did, it doesn’t mean
what “they” think: something awful-- racist swill
and all that liberal junk. I know the truth hid
out those days in silence, but, what does it mean,
this flag? Refusal to admit our guilt?
5 comments:
I winced when I read this piece. That flag and the images it evokes inside of me, still makes me shiver. My father once said that displaying that flag is just like re-nailing Jesus to the cross, "Folks act like they ain't learned nothing." But there it was at his parents house, forever hanging there above the fireplace but Dad always just let it go. I guess he didn't want to be the one to "re-fire the first shot".
Can't wait for your new works to be published! I sincerely love your work (and mentioned you on my latest piece)! Bravo!
Thanks, Lynn! I like "re-firing the first shot." A phrase to think about and take to heart.
Kathryn, This is bold. I like the way you end with a question. Nothing neat and all figured out, you leave us to grapple with the mess we love to call home. This a poem for a southern audience.
Helen, the key line, to me at least, in this sequence is--this story isn't over yet. (In a later sonnet.) And maybe it never will be, like most stories. Thanks so much for your comment. This tight form seemed the only way I could deal with the material--and I did it while I was laid up with a broken ankle a few years back. Sometimes we have to be brought up short and made to sit still and work on these stories. These issues. Being "Southern" asks a lot of us, and I'm still trying to figure out what the questions are--and I 'd not even dare to try to offer any answers. I guess that would shut the poetry down?
I think pat answers do shut down thought. And really life presents more questions than answers. The point of any question is, think about it. I think that one goal of poetry is to make us think about life.
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