Poet David Parkinson   

Our poet: You have met David Parkinson in this column before, but just to refresh your appreciation; David is a retired gamekeeper from northern England, in the Border country. He spent his life outdoors, and still takes his dogs on a daily walk in Ferrisburg. He was a pigeon racer, but I think he has given that up. Much of his time now is spent writing poetry and working in his yard, in this lovely Vermont climate (which reminds David of England...it rains a lot there, too.

I find his poetry surprisingly sensitive to the joys and tragedies of the people. His forte is not Nature, but observations of the denizens of Nature, us.

 

The poem: A poem can be written about anything, Tennyson composed a ponderous history of King Arthur, Milton did an enormous work on man's misbehavior in the Garden of Eden, and the consequences, and Lear wrote a bunch of limericks on mostly nonsense.

 

Poems can be clear or confusing. Intellectual poets are disappointed if the common reader understands them: Hallmark poets are chagrined if their message is not perfectly clear. We must be charitable, since a poem is the outpouring of the poet's soul, and every soul should be respected, even if poorly communicated.

 

With this poem, we have no confusion, and we have a terrible depth of feeling expressed. This is the message no parent wants to get, but too many, today, do.

We do not have "fronts" anymore. Our soldiers are "embedded", surrounded...but they die just the same.

 

This Quibble appeared in Len Gibbs' monthly column in The Addison Independent.

ML_Len@Quibbles.org.

 

Letter From the Front

 

I want to say- not a cloud in the sky

and everything in  the garden is lovely

but there is, and it isn't.

That I taste licorice, chocolate

and drink sweet white wine;

and things are as they should be

but I don't and they aren't.

I long to tell you of the haunting loveliness

of lilies, stephanotis-their heavenly scents,

but I can't-because of the funerals

they attend so solicitously, perfectly

poised in death-white stillness,

figures of wax, larger than life.

And I'm afraid to look you in the eye

as I bring you the news;

when the shining turns to tears

and the grief around your heart

transfers to me, like a gnome

with a hammer and a handful of nails

poised to drive them home

with no anesthetic at hand

for either of us.

Sorry seems such a useless word.

 

Copyright © 2010 by David Parkinson