Every word begs for its position, like the silver in a cupboard, knife next to knife, a noise next to its echo. The spoon sometimes falls away. I stumble upon it under the table, covered with dust. Still it knows its shape. Grammar is nothing but a kind of mercy: we develop structure so the sentence won't drown. A poem has its own punctuation: commas of foam, an em dash against stone, words whose meaning litters coastlines like the dark calligraphy of driftwood, altering us continually into definition.
Thank you for restacking this poem, @Don Boivin. I had no nostalgia for my hometown after I left it and when I returned after 40 years, I still have no nostalgia for it.
Where would that be, Paul? My hometown is Taunton, Massachusetts, which is only an hour away, but I only go to visit my parents and then get the heck out of there! :-)
I grew up near a small town in Arkansas. I lived in the country but went to school in in the small town. At 2500 it seemed to always be busy. Today it is around 800 and a sad sight of empty buildings and burned down homes. Like you I would go back to see my parents, but they have passed away and most of my friends have moved out also.
My hometown could have been a beautiful and historic tourist town, with its Native American and colonial history, but for some reason, it was not to be.
I was gone for 40 years and the population increased by only 8,000. The world is not beating a path to our door. The city was once proposed as the capitol of Wisconsin, but lost out to Madison due to some real estate finagling.
This poem is incredibly sensitive, Paul. I really liked it, because I know that words are a gateway that gives us access to our emotions. Thank you very much
Good morning, Simone, and thank you for reading and commenting. I like the idea of driftwood, scattered along the coastline, forming a sort of calligraphy, dark messages read only by the seagulls.
Then my house-wife-mind stumbles over the word 'cupboard'...
In our home all the silverware lives in drawers — the drawers slot into a 'sideboard' in the dining room, or a 'dresser', if it's in the kitchen — as the same silver has done in the sideboards and dressers of our parents and grandparents. Or did they call them 'buffet' or 'closet'?
Of course, all these terms will have developed their own lives in different parts of the world, cup-boards being introduced in the 16th century, when European noblemen and women needed storage space for cups and all dining paraphernalia used at their banquets, followed by side-boards in 18th century England where the servants could 'side' the dishes before serving them at a fancy dinner.
Funny how one word can trigger an unexpected trip down memory lane...
Perhaps the silver deems itself worthy of a position in the cupboard, together with fine crystal and china, instead of a drawer. My parents used to keep silver in a mahogany chest stored in the dining room buffet.
sounds familiar. I have one of those mahogany chests too, filled with silverware, but without the dining room or the buffet to house it... it's all open plan living and dining and inbuilt cabinets these days with little or no allowance for fine dining accessories.
I have no silver left except for a spoon collection in the attic. My dining room has a built-in cabinet with glass doors and wood drawers. I store CDs behind glass and towels in the drawers.
I was going to write something like that, Portia. If anyone ever overused that punctuation device, she would win easily. I wrote a poem thinking of her this morning—no em dash included.
I once worked 10 hour days with a half hour for lunch in a potting shed; ate at a table with spider webs on the side and some mouse droppings on the floor. Occasionally, a skunk gets stuck in a trash can looking for scraps. The days were long but I did this so I could have 3 days off in the week to do landscaping.
I dreamt of illegal immigrants signing contracts they could not read and agreed to 6 days a week with Sunday off. One man asked to work Sunday so he could report to the labor relations board the company for slave labor abuses. The owner gets fined. The whistle blower returns to work with 15 minutes for lunch break.
Pardon me while I wiggle my way between your conversation with Veronica Bond. My parents evidently had the syntax when they left me the silver and china. I, on the other hand, could not find the proper grammar to tell them I had no use for either. Now they take up space in a cabinet that could have been a great storage place for books. Alas, they are too formal a fit for the syntax of my life. Maybe if I leave the cabinet open, they will escape. Truly, Paul, it is a wonderful poem.
You remembered that? I only remember the cow jumping over the moon. Good memory!
Please do tell the story of the dish running away with the spoon. Maybe I could recite it to the cabinet to see if I can get them to leave. I can’t even give them away.
Thank you for sharing this, @Portia
My pleasure, Paul.
Thanks to Diane and @Blue Citizen 77 fir this restack 💙🦋💙
Good Friday, @Connie J. Casella, and thank you for sharing this poem.
Thank you for restacking this poem, @Don Boivin. I had no nostalgia for my hometown after I left it and when I returned after 40 years, I still have no nostalgia for it.
Where would that be, Paul? My hometown is Taunton, Massachusetts, which is only an hour away, but I only go to visit my parents and then get the heck out of there! :-)
My hometown is Fond du lac, WI. I left for California in the mid-‘70s and returned in October 2016.
Just looked it up. Lakeside town! But you’re still in California now, right?
No. I’m here for good it seems.
I grew up near a small town in Arkansas. I lived in the country but went to school in in the small town. At 2500 it seemed to always be busy. Today it is around 800 and a sad sight of empty buildings and burned down homes. Like you I would go back to see my parents, but they have passed away and most of my friends have moved out also.
Wow, it has fallen on hard times, hasn’t it?
My hometown could have been a beautiful and historic tourist town, with its Native American and colonial history, but for some reason, it was not to be.
I was gone for 40 years and the population increased by only 8,000. The world is not beating a path to our door. The city was once proposed as the capitol of Wisconsin, but lost out to Madison due to some real estate finagling.
I drove through Wisconsin on a road trip once, but I went across the northern side and never got to see the cities and culture.
Wisconsin has culture, but you have to know where to look for it. Most don’t.
Good Friday, @rena, and thank you for sharing this poem.
This poem is incredibly sensitive, Paul. I really liked it, because I know that words are a gateway that gives us access to our emotions. Thank you very much
Thank you, Rolando 🙏😊
What a great poem ✍️💙
Good morning, Simone, and thank you for reading and commenting. I like the idea of driftwood, scattered along the coastline, forming a sort of calligraphy, dark messages read only by the seagulls.
So do l 🙏😊
Fantastic:
Grammar is nothing but a kind of mercy:/we develop structure/so the sentence won't drown.
I tend to view grammar as a kind of principle that organizes every type of creativity there is.
I love grammar. There's no real freedom without structure and discipline.
You have the best definition of grammar in stanza 3!
I think it is true in a general sense, Diane. We need some sort of organizing principle to keep our words afloat.
And our lives! I think a need a syntax for living😎🦋💙
This poem makes my linguist-heart sing!
Then my house-wife-mind stumbles over the word 'cupboard'...
In our home all the silverware lives in drawers — the drawers slot into a 'sideboard' in the dining room, or a 'dresser', if it's in the kitchen — as the same silver has done in the sideboards and dressers of our parents and grandparents. Or did they call them 'buffet' or 'closet'?
Of course, all these terms will have developed their own lives in different parts of the world, cup-boards being introduced in the 16th century, when European noblemen and women needed storage space for cups and all dining paraphernalia used at their banquets, followed by side-boards in 18th century England where the servants could 'side' the dishes before serving them at a fancy dinner.
Funny how one word can trigger an unexpected trip down memory lane...
Perhaps the silver deems itself worthy of a position in the cupboard, together with fine crystal and china, instead of a drawer. My parents used to keep silver in a mahogany chest stored in the dining room buffet.
sounds familiar. I have one of those mahogany chests too, filled with silverware, but without the dining room or the buffet to house it... it's all open plan living and dining and inbuilt cabinets these days with little or no allowance for fine dining accessories.
I have no silver left except for a spoon collection in the attic. My dining room has a built-in cabinet with glass doors and wood drawers. I store CDs behind glass and towels in the drawers.
Careful with those em dashes. Someone will decry you AI
I did think of that, Earl, but I like the idea of the em dash breaking or poking against another word—plus I get to use the term in a poem. Thank you!
If they're good for Emily Dickinson and Paul, they're good enough for us!
I will think about it. It’s really not about her exactly, but thinking of her drew the poem to me.
She was your Muse, in a way.
A volume of her collected poems is never far away, Portia.
Reclaim the em dash!
Let's do that! – –
I was going to write something like that, Portia. If anyone ever overused that punctuation device, she would win easily. I wrote a poem thinking of her this morning—no em dash included.
May we read it soon?
Love it! So creative! So magical!
you're too good Paul..
It’s only taken 50+ years
all in the journey, IMO that's some good living
Trying to keep up, Rob
I'd say you’re setting the pace
Syntax. Depends upon how you see the exposition.
I once worked 10 hour days with a half hour for lunch in a potting shed; ate at a table with spider webs on the side and some mouse droppings on the floor. Occasionally, a skunk gets stuck in a trash can looking for scraps. The days were long but I did this so I could have 3 days off in the week to do landscaping.
I dreamt of illegal immigrants signing contracts they could not read and agreed to 6 days a week with Sunday off. One man asked to work Sunday so he could report to the labor relations board the company for slave labor abuses. The owner gets fined. The whistle blower returns to work with 15 minutes for lunch break.
Best laid plans…all part of the grammar of life, Richbee
Pardon me while I wiggle my way between your conversation with Veronica Bond. My parents evidently had the syntax when they left me the silver and china. I, on the other hand, could not find the proper grammar to tell them I had no use for either. Now they take up space in a cabinet that could have been a great storage place for books. Alas, they are too formal a fit for the syntax of my life. Maybe if I leave the cabinet open, they will escape. Truly, Paul, it is a wonderful poem.
What an idea for a poem. Remember the line from Hey Diddle Diddle , “the dish ran away with the spoon?” Hmmm!
You remembered that? I only remember the cow jumping over the moon. Good memory!
Please do tell the story of the dish running away with the spoon. Maybe I could recite it to the cabinet to see if I can get them to leave. I can’t even give them away.
The poem quietly shifts from syntax to existence, and that line is where it happens.
Thank you for noticing the shift, Antonio, and for taking the time to mention it. 😊