A Treasure Rediscovered

Ceylon Elephant Sculpture - Designed by Carolyn Kinder
Image - Amazon.com

Both of my parents were avid readers. As far back as I can remember, there were always shelves full of books in our homes.  As soon as we children learned to read, we were given full access to the family bookshelves, and were allowed to read anything that was there. If my parents had any books that our mother didn't think quite suitable for us to read (yet), she kept them in her cedar chest or another 'off limits' place.  Most of my father's books were theological, mathematical or scientific; however, his collection did contain a number of volumes of classic literature.  Mother's books were fewer in number, and tended to be books of poetry, literature, and current fiction.

Among the family books that I loved to read when we lived in New Mexico was a volume containing a collection of prose and poetry.  I don't remember if my mother started reading aloud to us from this book and thus piqued my interest, or whether, when I was a young teenager, I just picked it up one day and started to read.  The book contained many amusing stories, poetry (some of it of the tear-jerker variety,) and many writings of an 'inspirational' nature.  One of the poems I especially liked, and read it again and again, until I had memorized it.

When we moved to Arkansas in 1950, the book came with us.  It stayed on my mother's bookshelf after my father died, and eventually came to have a place on the bookshelf in my own home. I read from it many times over the years.

It came as sort of a shock to me when one day several years ago I was looking for this book and I couldn't find it. I looked in every nook and cranny where a book of standard size could have been. No book. After a few days, I quit searching, and the loss of the book gradually faded from my mind. (I still have no idea where it might have gone; I'm quite sure I would not have given it away.)

A couple of weeks ago, the poem that I had loved as a teenager suddenly popped into my mind. That made me want to have again the book that I no longer possessed.  Truthfully, I had forgotten the title of the book, but not the first lines of the poem.  What to do?  Answer: Google!  And, there they were!  With the title of the book in which the poem was contained and a helpful link to Amazon.com, as well.  (Have I told you how much I love the Internet?)

Click. Click.  The book,  Ted Malone's Scrapbook (used, but in 'good' condition with slightly damaged dustcover) could be mine for a few paltry dollars.

Click. Click, again. The book is paid for and on its way to me.

It arrived this past Saturday.  I learned from examination that it was first published in February, 1941 and had its tenth printing in March, 1944. The material for the book was selected from Ted Malone's radio programs and a feature column in Good Housekeeping Magazine, both of which (radio program and feature column) bore the name of "Between the Bookends."

I could hardly wait to find 'my poem' (which I did; it's on page 181). I'm going to copy it below.  As you read it, please keep in mind that I was only 13 or 14 years of age, and probably in the angst of my first infatuation with a member of the opposite sex, when I read and memorized this poem.
 
You've been champing at the bit to ask me, I can tell.  Just what does the photograph of an elephant have to do with all this?  It will become clear; read on.

BITS OF LIFE I'VE MISSED

While walking down an avenue, I came upon a shop;
'Twas small, exclusive, quiet, dim, what could I do but stop?
I saw an ivory elephant up high upon a shelf,
"I'd like to have that elephant," I murmured to myself.

I priced the ivory elephant and sadly sighed to see
That little ivory elephants were never meant for me.
Sometimes I pause before the shop and there upon the shelf
The lonely little elephant still stands all by himself.

For you, O Unattainable, my love is much the same;
I know I dare not love you, but I thrill to hear your name.
I dream of your lips pressed to mine, although we've never kissed.
You... and my ivory elephant ... are bits of life ... I've missed.   ~UNKNOWN

Tomorrow is also a day.

A Poem

RESURRECTION SONG

We were buried in the dark, rich earth,
Our bodies covered with the fragrant soil
Of Kansas plains. We slept,
And within us, life stirred,
Impatient to be born.

In due time, we burst from our shrouds,
Thrusting our heads through disappearing snow
Which sheltered us from bitter cold
And from wind which would have ripped us from the womb.

The sun warmed us; Earth nourished us;
And for a season we grew tall,
Bending our golden heads to gentle rains and summer winds
Gaining strength that we might meet our destiny.

Then, it was time.

They took us from our birthplace.
They set us free to fulfill our purpose,
To begin our journey into a world where men
Have treasured us, long before recorded time.

We were dispersed to the corners of the world,
Welcomed by peasants and kings; then crushed,
Never again to exist in previous form.

We were joined with water, proved by fire,
Then broken and consumed. The dust of our bodies
Became men's flesh. We received life from Earth;
Our deaths returned life as a gift to man.

But, some of us were saved, and in the fullness of time
Will repeat the cycle of death and birth;
Will be buried, then spring to life again.
The soils of nations far from our beginnings
Will be the tombs from which we rise.

Patricia Phillips, 1992

For the background of this poem, and how it came to be written, I invite you to read yesterday's post.

Photo taken from Kansas Wheat * Kansas Wheat Commission

What Starts Out One Way Ends Up Another

In my blog profile, I state that I am an amateur poet, and that I am: a gross amateur. I don't think in poetry like some folk do, and never (or almost never) have written a poem just because I wanted to write a poem; I usually have to be inspired, and it can be years between inspirations.


Once upon a time, I did consciously decide to write a poem, but it didn't turn out all like I had intended. The background story (I'll try to keep it succinct) is as follows:


I worked in downtown Little Rock, in an area filled with businesses and a variety of eating establishments which catered to the lunch crowd. One of these, quite close to my work place, was called Your Mama's Good Food, run by a married couple. He was the cook; she was the server/front person. They specialized in "home cooking" and their yeast rolls, made by the husband, were, as they say, "to die for," the best I think I have ever eaten. I often would ask for a half-dozen extra rolls to take home with me for supper that night. One day, after consuming a roll, or maybe two, with my lunch, I said to the wife, "These are so good someone should write a poem about them. I think I'll do it."

And so I did.


To keep this story brief, suffice it to say that it took me quite a while to give birth to this particular poem -- more than a year, actually, through many strike outs and re-dos. The end result was not about their yeast rolls at all; the idea "morphed" into something completely different. I will leave it to my readers to decide whether or not it is actual poetry.


The title of the poem, Resurrection Song, was given to it by a lovely, lovely man by the name of Harding Stedler. Mr. Stedler, Professor Emeritus of Shawnee State University (1995), is a member of the Executive Board of the Poets' Roundtable of Arkansas and vice-president of the River Market Poets (information I found on the Internet after Googling his name tonight.) In 1996, he lived in a nearby town, and sponsored a poetry class at the local library for "interested persons." I was privileged to participate in his class for a brief period, but this poem had already been written. When I submitted it to him for his critique, he helped me "clean and polish" it a bit, gave it a title and added it to a few poems he published in the local paper at Easter that year. So -- I am a published poet, be it ever so humble a publication.

I have some trepidation about posting a resurrection poem that is not about the resurrection that most Christians around the world, myself included, will celebrate on this coming Sunday, although I believe that, if one sort of reads between the lines, it does have a spiritual meaning.

I will post my poem tomorrow, Saturday, April 11.

Odds and Ends

I was reading Jinksy's Napple Notes last evening. Jinksy is no mean poet, and I enjoy reading her verse, and her prose. Her most recent post, March 1, titled "Move Over February," contained a lovely poem she has titled "Timing."

Jinksy's poem reminded me of one of my favorite poems, "April Out of Stone" by Laurence Pratt. Many years ago, I copied Pratt's poem into a tiny notebook I carried around with me, which notebook, much the worse for wear, I still have. (I've been known to keep a variety of things far beyond the level of their importance, or usefullness. "Mama Pack-Rat" is my nickname.) Be that as it may, since I knew where the notebook had been deposited (upper left hand junk drawer of my desk) I burrowed through the plethora of odds and ends to find it so I could refresh my memory.

Pratt published "April Out of Stone" around 1939. I am too lazy today to look up the copyright laws which might pertain, but will err on the side of caution by not reproducing his words here except to say that it contains a reference to lichens, thus the photograph above. Suffice it to say, I love this poem, which has now been read, again, several times today, and reinterred in its messy resting place.

The poor little notebook now contains only three wrinkled and yellowed pages, among which I found the following (this is where the pack rat comes in):

Expenditures, June, 1967

Cash on hand $2.86

Coffee, .10

Coffee and cookies, .10

Coke, .10

Dinner, $1.03 (includes .10 tip)

Coffee & cookies, .10

Cashed check, $5.00

Lunch for 2, $2.58 (a splurge, I'm sure)

Coke, .10

Fritos, .10

Parking lot, $6.00 check

Baby sitter, $34.50 check

Kids' Sunday School money, .65

Coke, .10

That's all the entries I made; probably it was too depressing to note how little money I had. At the time, I was a single parent of four children, living with and sharing household expenses with my mother. Daddy had died in 1965. Although I have no absolute recollection, I think the parking lot and baby sitter were weekly expenditures. I do remember how small my monthly income was at the time, and the baby sitter, in particular, took a large percentage of my take home pay.

This page also has been reburied; I just can't bring myself to throw it away. I'll leave that task for my executor.

Broken toes and other stuff - Post 99

Note: this photo of a branch on my maple tree has nothing to do with the text below. I just think it's pretty.

(Click to enlarge)

I try to read Rose Swall's blog, Pics and Pieces, every day. In her most recent post, in addition to showing some beautiful photos of a golden-leaved cottonwood tree, she discussed her husband's broken toe and resulting surgery. My sympathies to her hubby; I've broken the 'little toes' on both feet many times. In an attempt to avoid these painful events, I hardly ever go without hard-toed shoes anymore, inside the house or out.

Her discussion of broken toes reminded me: the last time I broke a toe, I composed a poem (ha ha) to commemorate the event. The words actually have nothing to do with broken toes, it's just what popped into my mind at the time. The poem is SO bad, it reminds me of authorblog's Verse and Worse (you won't believe some of the "rhymes" he constructs.)

Kicked Around (Ode to a Broken Toe)

If we're 'kicked when we're down' we don't have far to go.

A chicken in a breadpan can 'kick up the dough.' *

We can get 'kicked upstairs.' We may 'kick up a fuss.'

As we travel through life, we may 'kick up some dust.'

Kids pay 'kick the can.' We 'kick tires' on our truck; it

Seems we're always kicking --and then we 'kick the bucket.'

* for anyone not familiar with "chicken in the breadpan kicking up dough," it's a square dancing term.

It's a glorious day outside today. I may have to take the camera and go scouting.