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At Night On Swan Creek
| Critical Analysis #1 |
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At Night On Swan Creek |
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Kirk T Walker Member
since 2000-01-13
Posts 357Liberty, MO |
At Night On Swan Creek by Kirk T Walker At night on Swan Creek Cows sleep standing. Coons stir on the gravel bars, Crawdads sleep-swim backwards, Their prey. Around a bend and up a hill The trailer sits near the road, A road traveled only in the summer By those few who know of Blue John Rock, And swim there. A brother and sister Share bunk beds and snore, Their prayers have been said and they sleep. They dream now of little or Nothing. If it were summer they would Feel the water swaying, Even before they slept they could feel The water they spent all day in Rocking them. In the paradise That is summer, June mornings bring their excuse, And they leave before lunch On foot. They walk a mile in their creek-shoes Wet from yesterdays last swim Down to Blue John’s with red-headed cousins Who spend the whole summer diving in The water. Not having learned to dive, They spend the summer As fat, imperfect cannonballs, Hugging their knees and smiling, Splashing. Parents bring the coolers with Soda pop and hot dogs, And start a hot fire on the creek bank That rivals the sun in its heat, Burns orange. They would be the last To be talked out Of the fresh running water, And onto the dry bank For food. They hold the stick over the fire ‘Til the meat is black or raw, And put their wet hands in to get a bun, And open the cooler for ketchup, Eat quickly. They eat quickly because They know that cruel rule And dread the wait in the hot shade. Thirty long minutes later, They swim. Holding their breath, eyes opened, They swim in clear water Like fish returned from bowls to the sea, Eyes strained wide, sparkling, mouth smiling, Paradise. They screech like young owls, Flying briefly, Then pummeling the water, Bursting through its surface Feet first. They run like lemmings to the edge. A dozen cousins splash down, Are buried deep underneath the flat plane, And they strike the graveled bottom with Their barefeet. They stand on the bank, beg With sunburned noses, For one last swim before they dry. But when they’re home, there’ll be the Rocking. But it is autumn now and They are not rocked to sleep. They have settled for the wind’s whistle, And the mournful howl of coyotes, And for sleep. |
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| © Copyright 2000 Kirk T Walker - All Rights Reserved | |||
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jbouder Member Elite
since 1999-09-18
Posts 2534Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash |
Kirk: I simply can't believe this has been sitting in here this long without a reply. My friend, this brought back many, many memories that I haven't entertained for years. Swimming all day long, eating hot dogs, wet hands reaching for hotdog roles, drinking soda, having to wait to get back in the water, sunburned noses ... I could go on and on. Thank you. You have framed the memory between the descriptions of the sleeping children like a dream. I thought this was particularly effective. Excellent work. Now back to the top with this one! Jim "If I rest, I rust." - Martin Luther |
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Ted Reynolds Member
since 1999-12-15
Posts 331 |
This is quite beautiful, and my memories are stirred also. I only have time right now to point out what this piece contributes to the prose/poetry argument which is going on nearby today. There is not a sentence, a phrase, a word in this that isn't right there as we use it in every day's speech, or in ordinary prose writing. Not a thing has been manuevered to make it "poetical". But would any of you out there say this *isn't* poetry? It surely is, and of a high order. Thanks, Kirk. |
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jbouder Member Elite
since 1999-09-18
Posts 2534Whole Sort Of Genl Mish Mash |
Hey again: Just my two cents (I think I'm the culpret who brought up the "what is poetry/what is prose" question). I don't think the lack of "poetical" language is an issue in determining a distinction between poetry and prose. Some (I won't mention Brad's name) might call "poetical" language "hyperbole" much of the time. What I would point out about this poem is the careful selection of language which gives it it's imagery that both Ted and I seem to be able to identify so well with. (Excellent job on that again, Kirk). Lastly, whether something is poetry or prose, I think, ends up being a moot point. What is most important to me when I read or critique something is that it is well written. If something is well written, why does it matter if it is poetry or prose? Just my opinion. Jim "If I rest, I rust." - Martin Luther |
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Willem Member
since 1999-11-18
Posts 139Inverness, FL, USA |
Kirk: It all came back to me, reading this poem. The summer days spent on "the" lake with my children and grandchildren. What a beautiful imagery! I learned a lot from Jim and Ted's critique as well and agree with all they said. Willem |
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Kevin Taylor Member
since 1999-12-23
Posts 185near Vancouver, BC, Canada |
Prose is just another form I use. Kevin "Poetry is, at once, what you get... and how you got there." |
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