In going through a box of papers I came a cross a pile of old old poems written in late 60’s, early 70’s. So having no shame I’m resurrecting them with minimal editing. I was using a cheaper, yellow copy for many of these – the paper hasn’t yellowed with age. Enjoy 🙂
Ghost Town 1972
1
I wanted to catch that feeling
of stars tossed by the wind
a fistful clutched of glass
twinkling sparkling stars
suddenly flashing so fast
through the blackest night sky
that wind
feeling its caress
its warmth
scurrying flurries of fragment silver
across an evergreen tree
take that wind
moan it through a saxophone daydream
through empty shuddered grey-wooded saloons
stables jails & whorehouses
through the dry dust bowl of a ghost town
I wanted to taste that surge
of power released by the sun
a mouthful savoured of laughing
bubbling flooding power
suddenly bursting so loud
through the brightest sunrise
that taste
feeling its lingering
its invitation
escaping teasing lure of memory
in a black oaken cask
take that sun
moan it through a clarinet daydream
through empty shuddered grey-wooden saloons
stables jails & whorehouses
through the dry dust bowl of a ghost town
catch that wind & sun
then let them drift away
softly into your treasure trove
gently into your everyday
take them before they return
to the ghost town
2
calico bonnets & wooden sidewalks
a street turns to mud in the rain
some youngold prospector with gold in his socks
& a boy who talks of cotton & grain
a good old town
small getting big
caught by the sudden boom
discovered down by the lake
or in them were hills
the word flashed around
thousands to dig
so little to take
stomachs aching with greedy ills
calico bonnets my mother wore
jars of candy in the everything store
gone all gone never even mine
just an image I found just in time
of a bustling deal come to shore
landing firmly in this ghost town
a shoot out at noon
cattle drive by night
smokey kitchens baked beans
hand clappin’ revival
& other church picnic scenes
grabbed up for survival
for some pleasure of mine
movie over too soon
leaving traces of flight
across the rocket ripped room
slinging gun so low
red Indian moonshine glow
buffalos moved to make room
with little babies waiting for birth
coming across tv screen dreams
hazy & grainy & end of the show
turn it down
who wants any sound
in this dust windy ghost town
3
flies buzzing into windows
stumbling through the street
horse drawn wagons & stages to meet
widows starving on
childless fathers drinking on
shadows flickering into the night
hoping for the sheriff or the cavalry
to save them from the Indian fight
speak softly now
lights down so low
nowhere better to be
no need to go
linger & long
in this dust windy ghost town
About this time I was collecting the Time-Life series on the Old West. The set had wonderfully embossed covers & I’d get a new volume every other month. Wonderfully illustrated & unexpectedly detailed they fuelled me with a sense of the real West, as opposed to the TV & movie version. I was a fan of the books, not of the movies.
Though such of the imagery here comes from tv & movies, with that dash of surrealism i.e. ‘saxophone daydream.’ The ‘I’ speaks from being there, of having experienced this place using the accumulated details to sound more authentic. Then the reveal ‘just an image I found’ – so the piece is about imagination as an escape. Imagining one ghost town to escape from another ghost town. Sydney, my home town, being the real ghost town.
Going though this now I enjoy the images, even the use of alliteration isn’t as heavy handed as it got is some pieces – ‘scurrying flurries of fragment silver’ has a nice flow.
I have been back to Sydney, & will be there again this summer. It has pretty much become a ghost town – most of business exists for the many cruise ships & liners that stop there for the ‘quaint’ factor. “Ooo look beer fudge.” I look forward to visiting my old haunts.
Hey! Now you can give me $$$ to defray blog fees & buy coffee on my trip to Cape Breton – sweet,eh? paypal.me/TOpoet
