06/18/2016
It has been awhile
since Laura Swearingen-Steadwell e-mailed my wife, Libby, asking permission to
publish my poem, “Sedimentary,” in a
literary journal. Of course I said yes. It is an honor to be considered for
publication by PEN America,
whose august members have encouraged and mentored my writing career for over 30
years.
This week I
received a copy of the book, “PEN AMERICA,
A Journal For Writers And Readers, #19 HAUNTINGS,” and I’m taking my time
slowly reading all the selections of poetry, fiction, memoirs and essays,
enjoying the works of internationally-known writers and poets.
I was intrigued by
the journal’s theme, “Hauntings,” and
how my poem fit in. I wrote “Sedimentary” a couple of years ago (March, 2014),
and had to re-read the poem a few times to refresh my memory. And I could see
some connections, subtle, not overt, memories of childhood, which I’ve been
writing about for years.
Some of the
writers talked about ghosts, and their experiences with ghosts, a topic I’ve
explored, still feeling close to so many of the dead who affected me in life,
and continue to affect me in death. I’ve written about them in my poems,
perhaps the only way I can express my feelings of loss, and desire to keep
their memories alive, not to be forgotten. Thinking of those other poems, I
realize that there are probably better ones, more applicable to PEN’s theme,
but “Sedimentary” is the one that made the cut, I’m proud to say.
SEDIMENTARY
Years
before we moved into the little white house
on
the hill a road construction crew sliced off
the
hillside edge to make way for the highway
as
easily as Mama cut a loaf of sourdough bread.
Rains
washed down the hillside and flowed into
a
drainage ditch beside the road, revealing layers
of
soil, sand, clay and limestone rock that provided
endless
hours of fascination for three little boys.
Standing
back and taking in the colored layers before me,
digging
into interesting hues with a teaspoon, I uncovered
a
broken chipped flint arrowhead crafted by
some
hunter forgotten and long-dead, transporting me back
to
a prehistoric Florida
wilderness untamed by the
white
man’s machinery, imagined hunting with the Creek
ghosts
for deer and squirrel, leaving behind no evidence
of
their passing except for that sharpened arrow tip.
Another
day I dug into a deeper orange clay and
found
fragments of petrified wood lying where the
tree
fell onto the forest floor eons before men came.
Then
came ancient seashells embedded in a
mysterious
layer of sand that tasted salt on my
tongue,
tiny white periwinkles, clams and scallops
still
perfect in their symmetry, sleeping
next
to a darkened, stained sharkstooth I saved.
Our
miniature Grand Canyon never failed
to
reveal hidden treasures to my digging,
mementos
I saved in a cigar box with old coins.
One
day as I silently pondered my life and events
from
childhood, digging deeply for lost memories,
I
realized that my life was like that hillside, composed
of
layer upon layer of sedimentary experiences
waiting
for me to scrape away the sand with my spoon.
Ordering
information: www.pen.org/issue-19-hauntings
or phone 646-779-4816
$10.00 per copy;
also available for Kindle, Nook, and iBooks
Hope you enjoy the
read,
Charlie
