CREEK ROAD GANG
Your Subtitle text
Joe Quinton: 2 Poems
copyright 2009
DUNMORE CEMETERY
All'apparir del vero una tomba
(At the dawning of truth a tomb)
Leopardi
I.
Ancestors in granite fortresses
Repulse death.
They trumpet sound
"I am mighty and lord over all."
What countries do those
Within these castles rule?
They are no more than any other here
Dust fertilizing the green around.
Their children are more modest
Small plaques embedded in the ground
Arrogance replaced by ease of mowing.
II.
All is not still. Life shows.
A man runs across the green grass
Holding a child's hand.
The caring decorate with shrubs,
Flowers. Placing toys, dolls,
All marks of living on the plot.
Some have only nature as mourner.
Rough weeds and grasses
Supplant the loving flowers
Placed by those who now forget.
III.
Much has changed.
Where once were crosses,
Angels with stern warnings,
Now cars decorate the stones.
No Kublai Khan
Had pleasure dome
To match an auto
So that's the cenotaph.
Prettified monuments
Show the perpetual hope
That we will not succumb
To the reality of death.
IV.
Here are those
Who served in war.
Name, rank, service.
No joy of life.
War must be fascinating
Safely home
Still proclaimed.
Even life over.
Why not boast:
I was a person,
Citizen of right here,
Member of a family,
I rejoiced in me.
V.
There is no pattern to the names
Everyone an emigrant from
The geography of ancient maps.
They quested and found
This destination inevitable.
VI.
Philosophers say we die living
Facing death from birth.
Yet how surprised we are
When we arrive here.
“curiouser and curiouser”
“The Annotated Alice”
was on the bottom shelf
in the bookcase across from the windows.
Books were the only decorations,
no rugs, no curtains.
She said on moving in
“I don’t want any objets d’art.”
A friend said “you always looked
like you were camping out.”
The room was decorated with anger.
She sat on the sofa
I on a chair opposite
waiting to see who would start.
On the Grand Tour
we quarreled at every stop,
in Montelimar by the rosemary hedges,
we finally talked divorce
so many miles for what could be done at home.
The split was done in steps,
A moving out, a moving in.
Finally a long separation, then divorce..
That was it.
We have not seen each other since.
All'apparir del vero una tomba
(At the dawning of truth a tomb)
Leopardi
I.
Ancestors in granite fortresses
Repulse death.
They trumpet sound
"I am mighty and lord over all."
What countries do those
Within these castles rule?
They are no more than any other here
Dust fertilizing the green around.
Their children are more modest
Small plaques embedded in the ground
Arrogance replaced by ease of mowing.
II.
All is not still. Life shows.
A man runs across the green grass
Holding a child's hand.
The caring decorate with shrubs,
Flowers. Placing toys, dolls,
All marks of living on the plot.
Some have only nature as mourner.
Rough weeds and grasses
Supplant the loving flowers
Placed by those who now forget.
III.
Much has changed.
Where once were crosses,
Angels with stern warnings,
Now cars decorate the stones.
No Kublai Khan
Had pleasure dome
To match an auto
So that's the cenotaph.
Prettified monuments
Show the perpetual hope
That we will not succumb
To the reality of death.
IV.
Here are those
Who served in war.
Name, rank, service.
No joy of life.
War must be fascinating
Safely home
Still proclaimed.
Even life over.
Why not boast:
I was a person,
Citizen of right here,
Member of a family,
I rejoiced in me.
V.
There is no pattern to the names
Everyone an emigrant from
The geography of ancient maps.
They quested and found
This destination inevitable.
VI.
Philosophers say we die living
Facing death from birth.
Yet how surprised we are
When we arrive here.
* * *
“curiouser and curiouser”
“The Annotated Alice”
was on the bottom shelf
in the bookcase across from the windows.
Books were the only decorations,
no rugs, no curtains.
She said on moving in
“I don’t want any objets d’art.”
A friend said “you always looked
like you were camping out.”
The room was decorated with anger.
She sat on the sofa
I on a chair opposite
waiting to see who would start.
On the Grand Tour
we quarreled at every stop,
in Montelimar by the rosemary hedges,
we finally talked divorce
so many miles for what could be done at home.
The split was done in steps,
A moving out, a moving in.
Finally a long separation, then divorce..
That was it.
We have not seen each other since.
Biographical Note: Joe Quinton is a recent resident of
Chester County, Pennsylvania after lives spent in Providence, Boston, West Palm
Beach and Kingsville, Texas. He came to poetry after retiring and seeking
some form of expression. He finds it serves as a journal of life today
and a memento of what was once. Both themes appear and reappear in his
poetry.
