[Listen to an audio version of this blog here.]
I took a few different writing workshops in college, and the culmination of each workshop was assembling a short chapbook of poems. Each time I did this, I saw new patterns emerge, from poetry that examined my eating disorder, explored ideas of family, or investigated romantic relationships. Each short collection tells a story, and in a deeper way, gives me a bit of a looking glass into my mental and emotional state at a given point in time. I self-published a book of poetry in 2020, and ever since, I've been slowly but surely collecting a new set of poems that will be ready for the world whenever they're good and ready. You can't rush things like this.
Many of my newer poems are grounded in two things; nature (the sky, rain, thunderstorms, the sunrise, the ocean, etc), and home. They are softer and less angry than things I've written before. They are less emotionally charged and follow a more detailed narrative.
Home is a big topic, and the life I live now in Orange County, is very different than what my life was growing up. The divide between rural and urban America is something that people talk about when say, an election comes around, but I've lived both lives, seen and felt the pros and cons of each. I couldn't wait to leave my small hometown and explore whatever else the world had to offer. And now, I understand the lure of a small, quiet town and of living in a place that can offer some space. Most of all, I've experienced living in an urban/suburban place like Orange County to be both thrilling and exhausting. There are too many people, it's expensive as hell, and most of us wear our egos on our sleeves. But there's also art, the ocean, miles of mountains and running trails, and a whole lot of good people, too.
Paradoxically, there are people here who shun the idea of suburbia while living right in it. We all want to live a good story; to overcome some sort of heroic struggle and come out the other side. Here, we are chronically aware of our stories. Where I come from, most people don't even realize they're writing one, or that their stories are damn good.
So, this is a poem I wrote because there is something unsettling about home being two places at once.
Flyover States
I want to write a poem for the lilac trees that blossom each spring
lavender sandcastles burning beneath a pastel sunrise
my mother cut stems to bring inside
so the whole farmhouse was sweet for a day
and the Midwestern rains rolled like a train while my father yelled
come inside, come on in, do you hear me?
but I'd stay in the rain to run in the mud with our golden brown mutt
who had a habit of murdering rabbits and squirrels
and the whole bleak world was alive and shining
I want to write a poem for the place I call home
the flyover states where land is checkered and square
where nobody cares what you have but they know your damn name
the rugged, industrial flyover states
where the people are prideful and strong
but hate to admit when they're wrong
words are cheap and failure is mean
work and worry are etched in our faces like living calligraphy
we never claimed to be whole and unbroken
home is wherever you water yourself
and none of us here ever asked for help
but when (Judy) up the road was diagnosed with cancer
the terminal kind, that snaked through her body
then ate up her mind, the whole town turned out
made her casseroles and prayed, and on her funeral day
we laid daises on her casket promised her we won't forget
and goddamnit we won't, our promises are set in stone
later on we talked to God
asked him why a thousand times
but never got an answer
and the newly turned grave smells of regeneration
the preacher looks up and says looks like rain
and my mother brings the clothes in from the line
time is a sticky immutable thing
I want to write a poem for the farmers in spring
who rise with the sun to fight with the earth and grow beauty from dirt
who would feed the whole world if they could
who raise children to dream astonishing dreams
the bigger the better, failure just isn't an option they say
they have scratched and clawed their way here
and they're proud goddamnit why should they not be?
they chose to grow here and nurture a family and speaking of family
I want to write a poem for every man who has a daughter and doesn't leave
good men are a scarcity, and they grow here like weeds
like dandelions in ditches
sometimes we water the wrong kinds of pain
and it won't go away like the roses we planted on (Judy's) grave
that keep on blossoming spring after spring
tomorrow is a given until all at once, it isn't
I want to write a poem for the big cities and suburbs
who never think twice about the flyover states
the rough, redneck, ignorant flyover states
where we hate everyone who is different, they say
where our values are twisted, and our morals are crooked
and why aren't we bored with the sameness, they say
I want to write a poem so they know we're okay with misunderstanding
we misunderstood the lilacs this spring
turns out they don't live so well after trimming
they do better outside beneath a wide-open sky
in the heat of a mid-April afternoon sun
just like us
P.S. Buy my last poetry book here, listen to all my audio here, or check out Michael Perry, one of my favorite Wisconsin authors, here.
xoxo
Sarah Rose
Comments / 0