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Sunshine
Administrator
Member Empyrean
since 1999-06-25
Posts 63354
Listening to every heart

0 posted 2002-03-17 08:30 AM



Sheraton on Canal St.

The diary says we arrived safe
to our room, here at the
Sheraton.
Small room, 24th floor,
but OK, as we
are only to be
tourists here.

Mississippi flows long
and lean outside our window,
busy with ship's traffic,
with memories
only a river can
lay claim to.

Christmas Day.
N'Orleans.
Tourists.

Bourbon Street on Christmas Night
is not a typical evening in
the French Quarter.

Only the architecture remains
in focus of what once
was grand

and eloquent.

Too many niceties of the day
bring about the fake realism
of history's once-was.

But the food is good.

The chronicled data indicates
we did a lot of window
shopping there
on Royal Street

and admired the
St. Louis Cathedral

finding Faulkner's home.

But what I recall in my spirit,
and no notes required,

was where the steamboat
paddled us to, a
location of civil strife,
where heart's blood gave
life to the ground,
in a very small field

in a very important moment

for love of country.

Where the past curled tendrils
around my feet
planting me in yesterday...

For in this very month
184 years ago

Andrew Jackson met a victory
at Chalmette's field

and as my gaze swept the
battlefield

it was far too, too easy to
see the men in uniform,
and not in uniform,
running,
trenching,
readying weapons,
spilling blood,
laying their lives down

under the winter sun of 1812.

Flags raised, drums drummed,
yells, curses, screams,
smells of blood
smells of powder spent
sounds of things other
than life.

Orders given, "March, March"
into
death.

So,
there was a crossing there,
a space of time where, for a moment,
my feet were planted in
the past,

the sounds roared in my ears
the visions of men against
men
on a small plot of acreage,
for a large political reason
resounded desperately in my soul

memories which have not let go,

nor have I stopped hearing
yesterday call,

as I turned and returned to

Sheraton on Canal St.



~*~

©Karilea Rilling Jungel
29 July 2000
repost, revised 17 March 2002




© Copyright 2002 Karilea Rilling Jungel - All Rights Reserved
Rex Allen McCoy
Member Elite
since 2000-01-30
Posts 2863
Sippin a Timmy's in London
1 posted 2002-03-17 08:44 AM


Wonderful story Karilea ... well worth the second read

Mark Coburn
Member
since 2002-01-24
Posts 71

2 posted 2002-03-17 09:25 AM


sunshine......tis the place that
sparks....our whole being lifted
as if in a dream....feeling the
place...the triumphant grace that
freedom brings......mark

Enchantress
Member Empyrean
since 2001-08-14
Posts 35113
Canada eh.
3 posted 2002-03-17 09:34 AM


...Remarkable...

Mistletoe Angel
Deputy Moderator 10 ToursDeputy Moderator 10 ToursDeputy Moderator 5 Tours
Member Empyrean
since 2000-12-17
Posts 32816
Portland, Oregon
4 posted 2002-03-17 02:02 PM




(smiles) BRAVO!!! Oh my gosh, this is wonderfully crafted, sweet friend, I have only been to new Orleans once but I desire going back there so much to walk along the French Quarter and row on the bayou! (kiss on cheek) This is an excellent poem with both a narrative view from you and a historical interpretation! We all love you so much, sweet friend, this is outstanding! You have such a beautiful heart, sweet Karilea, thank you for sharing!



May love and light always shine upon you!

Love,
Noah Eaton

ShadowRider
Senior Member
since 2001-07-14
Posts 1038
USA
5 posted 2002-03-17 02:33 PM


Sunshine:  I absolutely was mesmerized by the coming-alive descriptions of N'Arlans
as you experienced it.  This was and is a beautiful write, but the choppiness made
it hard to read.  I hardly ever do this:  suggest that someone change any part of their poetry, but i sincerely put some thought in this and think the poem benefits from
putting them together, and changing just a few of the 'helping' words a bit.
I printed this out, came up with 5 sheets; too long for a four-word line poem
and the last thing you would want to do is visually aggravate the reader when
you are after asthetic imagery.  Pared down, it comes down a little over two pages, same content.

Please, if i offended you, forgive me.  This poem was just toooo good
not to offer some assistance.  In my humblest of opinions of course.
Complaints can be sent to menofpause@hotmail.com.   *smiles*
Please accept my offering as the most sincere form of flattery!
This could be publicized, and probably should  be!
Jeff

Sheraton on Canal St.

The diary says we arrived safe to our room,
here at the Sheraton.
Small room  - 24th floor,
but OK,
as we are only to be tourists here.

Mississippi flows long and lean
     outside our window,
    busy with ship's traffic,
    memories only a great river
    can lay claim to.

Christmas Day.
    N'Orleans.
    Tourists.

Bourbon Street on Christmas Night:
not a typical evening in the French Quarter.

Only the architecture remains in focus
    of what once was
   grand
   and eloquent.

Too many niceties of the day
bring about fake realism
of history's
once-was.

But the food is good.

The chronicled data attests that
we did a lot of window shopping there
on Royal Street;
admired the St. Louis Cathedral;
found Faulkner's home.

But what I recall in my spirit,
with no notes required,
was where the steamboat
paddled us to
a location of civil strife,
where heart's blood gave life to ground,
    in a very small field
    in a very important moment
    for love of country.

As the past curled tendrils
around my feet
planting me in yesterday...
    for in this very month, 184 years ago
    Andrew Jackson met a victory
    at Chalmette's field

and as my gaze swept the battlefield
it was far too, too easy to see
the men in uniform,
and not in uniform,
running,trenching,
readying weapons,
spilling blood,
laying their lives down

under a winter sun of 1812.

Flags raised, drums drummed,
yells, curses, screams,
scent of blood
smells of powder spent
sounds of objects
other than life.

Orders given,
"March, March"
   into death.

So,
there was a crossing there,
a space of time where, for a moment,
my feet were planted in the past,

the sounds roared in my ears
    the visions of men against men
    on a small plot of acreage,
    for a large political reason
resounded desperately in my soul

memories which have not yet let go,
    nor have I stopped hearing
    yesterday call,
    as I turned and returned to

Sheraton on Canal St.



[This message has been edited by ShadowRider (03-17-2002 03:03 PM).]

JamesMichael
Member Empyrean
since 1999-11-16
Posts 33336
Kapolei, Hawaii, USA
6 posted 2002-03-17 10:08 PM


Excellent writing Sunshine...James
ThisDiamond
Member Rara Avis
since 2002-02-22
Posts 9353
Michigan, USA
7 posted 2002-03-17 10:18 PM


Powerful and specific. I like this. ThisDiamond
Tracey
Member Elite
since 2001-08-29
Posts 2808
where insanity meets breeding
8 posted 2002-03-17 11:37 PM


I’ve stayed at that Sheraton, though I must confess, I was more interested in the beer and bourbon street, than the history the city had lived through. Thanks for reminding me of the parts I always miss when I visit New Orleans. Think I’ll take a better look next time Karilea.

If she who dies with the most toys wins, then can I have some toy boys please?

Abe
Senior Member
since 2003-05-28
Posts 694
Looks like Vero Beach, FL until the end!
9 posted 2003-09-21 10:09 AM


Great write and read.  Thanks for sending.
Abe

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