Your poem and the gravestones whose stories it tells reveal the meagerness of these lives. From what I understand, they lived in small communities amongst themselves, worked hard making simple furniture for which they are famous, and were not allowed to have sex ... not even to procreate. Their religion literally died out because there was no growth from within. That front stone looks like it is protesting in anger.
This reminds me of when my husband and I went to look for my relatives in South Dakota. We went to the graveyard that were supposed to be there, and there was nothing to read. The same thing happened to us when we went to Ireland to look for his family in Ireland they couldn’t afford the great gravestones so what was probably there was already disintegrated.
KILLER LAST LINE!
Thanks, man!!!
You’re welcome.
Your poem and the gravestones whose stories it tells reveal the meagerness of these lives. From what I understand, they lived in small communities amongst themselves, worked hard making simple furniture for which they are famous, and were not allowed to have sex ... not even to procreate. Their religion literally died out because there was no growth from within. That front stone looks like it is protesting in anger.
That’s what cults do. Forbid life in the name of control.
Perfect
This reminds me of when my husband and I went to look for my relatives in South Dakota. We went to the graveyard that were supposed to be there, and there was nothing to read. The same thing happened to us when we went to Ireland to look for his family in Ireland they couldn’t afford the great gravestones so what was probably there was already disintegrated.
Thank you Joseph. Very good.
"Five years have past; five summers, with the length
Of five long winters! and again I hear
These waters..."
Nice crib. Nice synaesthesia. Nice poem. Also congrats on your book!
Thank you!