Please Note: Let's Build a Town!

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William Haskins

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note: please post poems here and feel free to discuss. i'll cull them and add them, with attribution, to the Blue Rock Poems thread so we have a clean version.


so, this is something i've been thinking about recently, and i'll begin with the caveat that it might take and it might not. hopefully, some of you fine folks will join in.

one of the "concept" collections of poetry that has really had an impact on me is edgar lee masters' brilliant work spoon river anthology. basically, it's a collection of poems about the people of spoon river, written from their graves. it was published in 1916, so i thought, near a century later, that it might be fun to do something similar, but updated.

so, here's the idea: based on a fictional smallish town (say a population of 500-1000), let's contribute poems that share the stories of some of the townspeople. write about the mayor marrying off his daughter, the sheriff with the drunk wife, a girl's high school graduation, whatever you like.

please note an important difference from spoon river: there is no rule that you have to write them post-mortem. the person can still be alive. also, you don't have to write about "yourself"; you can be one townsperson and write about another.

the only rule is that you title the poem with either the subject's name or their "role" (in other words, it could be "Elmore Childs" or it could be "The Town Drunk")

there are no restrictions on form or style.

about the town: while i want you all to have as much freedom as possible, it's counterproductive not to have a consistent setting. so, to that end, the town will be called 'blue rock'. as noted above, it's got a population about 500 to 1000 people, which means it'll be of the "one-stoplight" variety.

it's slouching into the 21st century; in other words, it's contemporary in terms of technology and culture, but still has an antiquated, smalltown feel. let's imagine it in a place that gets its share of all kinds of weather (hot summers, winter snowfall) and assume that it has a functional infrastructure—a sheriff, a mayor, a cafe, a church, a school, a doctor, dentist, etc.

okay, sorry this was so long; just wanted to head off any questions that i could answer in advance.

so... have fun and play along if you like. if no one is interested, we can just let it fade into the archives. my feelings won't be hurt...

i'll start it off. in the interest of full disclosure, this is not a new poem, but it'll fit the concept so i'll throw it out there to hopefully get the wheels turning...

by the way, if you'd like to see spoon river, here's the table of contents with links to all the poems.
 
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William Haskins

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The Widower

After Old Man Pitchford
Buried his wife,
He went back to the house
And coughed three times,
Sat down in his favorite chair
And cried,
Smoked a cigarette,
Said his prayers,
And died.
 

Godfather

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My God William, I love you.

This is... brilliant!
Just what I need to get going.

Hmmm... can the town be built on the border of two timezones?
 

Godfather

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Excellent.

Can it have a town legend in ballad form? Something like John Henry or something?


I'm giddy as a school girl (not to say I'm not a schoolgirl)
 

William Haskins

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as long as it follows the bare-bones criteria in the original post, you're free to run wild. my hope is that the town legends, customs, social structure, everything will be built from the ground up by the poems themselves.

obviously, writers get "dibs" on the niches they carve out.
 

Godfather

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Ok.... I'm writing a folk songy poem at the moment... could be the town legend.

I can't wait to see this in some sort of totality or off-its-feet-ness
 

drachin8

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Hope this is kind of what you are looking for (and that you don't mind me hijacking Mrs. Pitchford a touch)(I can easily change the name if you have other plans). In memory of my dad (names changed), here we go:


Willard Munsen

We always stopped for coffee
at the corner store
to start the hour drive north.
Maggie Pitchford loved her caffeine
despite the doctor's orders;
the hospital was more bearable
with a cup and conversation
on the way.

Everyone knew me as a careful man,
but it only takes one mistake.

I lie here now in memory
of my failure:
no car is invincible
when pulling in front of
a semi-trailer.



-Michelle
 

William Haskins

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ah! great poem.

yes, interconnecting the people is definitely a wonderful thing about this exercise, so thank you for taking on mrs. pitchford.
 

Bret

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Sim City! If I were prone to such expressions, this would be where I said

What cheerful happenstance!

I've been reading Spoon River intermittently for the last couple weeks. Good call on the character being alive or dead. I can't see this failing to be a long lived thread. The Spoon River Anthology is a classic. (I'll bet its in everyone's local library...) How fun to get to build a community line by line. Having multiple contributers rather than a single author makes it even more fun.


Linda Muscatelli

Always the bridesmaid...
I never could get a man
to ask the right questions
or make a declaritive statement
about his feelings for me

But your husbands were willing
if I let them know I was lonely
Everything all of you had,
your homes, your cars, your kids
I had only in my dreams

Dreams that ended
In a dead heat the night
The Pick and Shovel burned down
I saw the flicker of flames
from my rented room

Where I lie down at last
a pint of peach brandy
the rest of the tranquilizers
orange light dancing on the ceiling
like my torment to come

At my funeral
none of you, or your men
men who'd wept in my arms
about the burdens they bore
as much as shed a tear
 
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Godfather

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Two Hoboes

Two brothers,
Jack "Frost" and Bo,
Old hobo's from Mississippi.
the one gone gray,
the other with his hat pulled low.
Jack would talk
or tap out a beat,
and Bo's wailing harmonica
would fill Blue Rock's streets,
until the street lights went off.
 
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NeuroFizz

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Speed and Ella


My uncle Speed
grew through his hair
before I was born
so says my dad,
and long before
Mom and Dad
moved away from
Blue Rock.

Ella is Speed’s friend
they’re always together
she, with the torpedoes
on her chest,
that make her hugs
an education
for a thirteen year old
like me.

Speed and Ella
always laughing
no rings on their fingers
but touching in ways
that suggest more
than what they say,
so says my dad
his eyes on Ella’s torpedoes.

Speed and Ella
know every dirty joke
and act them out after
we kids go to sleep.
Or so they think.
And my dad drinks his beer
and laughs until his eyes
tear up, still on Ella’s torpedoes.

But after Speed and Ella
go home to wherever
my father talks about
how perfect they are
for each other,
but the way he says it
doesn’t make it sound
so perfect.

Back home from vacation
my dad tells my mom
how lucky they are
to have left Blue Rock,
and how Speed and Ella
are just typical.
Whatever
that means.

And he tells her
that Speed
can’t be that happy
or he’d marry Ella
and have kids
like us, but I know,
just like Speed, I’d settle
for torpedoes.

Yet all I see
in Speed and Ella
is happy back and forth,
his eyes on her eyes,
not her torpedoes.
And it makes me wonder
if my dad
was adopted.
 

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Gladys Barnes

The Spinster - Gladys Barnes

Coffee mugs on a wooden rack
each from a place
someone else visited.
A piano
she'd never learned to play
justifying, "it was mother's"
mismatched China -
five patterns in all.
Gladys looks at her puffy hand;
"I wish it still fit."
while she strokes her cat
Her eighth cat in a row
"My truest love, Bernie,
he went off to war
he proposed before he left.
Daddy wanted us to wait
til Bernie got back."
But he never got back.
The yellow envelope arrived
at 4:56 on a Wednesday
afternoon made it look orange in
falling light.
Since,
she still hates
Wednesdays
she never leaves the house
without a hat - black.
answers the door in a housecoat
denture-free -
ever after
known as the witch
to neighbor kids.
She sits alone
and strokes her cat,
each cat,
every cat,
in succession,
named Bernie.
 
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Godfather

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Just to the west of Blue Rock,
there stands
an old abandoned house.
The house is said
to be haunted
by the ghosts
of old townsfolk.
Nobody knows who lived there,
But some say it was Tommy Oak.

Speed and I went down
to the little place.
when we were young,
and called for
the supposed ghosts
living there.

We said we'd bury something,
and dig it up
when we were older
So we carved
into a piece of stone,
Ghosts of the abandoned house,
come out,
we mean you no harm!
And in the hole that we dug up,
we found the skeleton
Of someones left arm.
 
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William Haskins

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trish, i'll swap out the old version with the new.

godfather, i need a title on your last one.
 

Shiraz

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This so reminded me of the town my sister lives in. We just returned from there a couple of weeks ago. The postal clerk asked my sister how her family reunion had gone, and my sister told me how she had never mentioned it to her.

It's not that good, but if it works for you, it's all yours.

The Post Mistress

Numbered boxes in a row
Letters sorted
Parcels stacked
But not before a close inspection

The town bulletin board
A satiated sponge
And broken spigot
That can’t turn off

She rules her domain
A public servant
Insisting it’s her duty
To be well-informed

False concern and
Counterfeit care
Feeds her cache of minutiae
To spew on the locals

Come evening, the door is closed
The small building empty
Preparing for tomorrow’s flurry
Of town folk needing their fix
 
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