A Man in a Room, and other poems - 3. heart

Number 5 is a cry and a protest in pain against the tide of so-called progress. We cannot junk our history, nor toss away that part of ourselves that makes us who we are. That way lies pathology. Yet our towns are sometimes socially like that...you write this compellingly, and insistently. I stayed in such a town in California once, just to the north of SF some years ago. A busy four lane road had been gouged through what must have been a pleasant town, robbing it of community and vitality, filling it with noise and smell. The B&B was charming, but how to enjoy it in isolation from its surroundings?

Sigh...precisely why I won't go back to my hometown. One major two-lane street, lined with huge trees north and south of the town center's pair of railroad tracks. South of them, two blocks of old brick and wood buildings of stores, north of them, the vacant one-storey depot, long closed, then more Victorian houses and huge trees. At the south edge, a three story brick Town Hall, holding, jail, auditorium, offices, a movie theater and at one time, the town library where I'd find books on the lower shelves I could reach.
A marble-facade bank with a corner two-sided clock, a small drug store with candy and comics, a garage and a small family markeet across from the hardware store's plate glass windows.
No traffic lights, until you got to the north edge and ran into Route 16, or south way out of town when you got to Route 40.
The century old depot went first, no one cared...the hardware later, no one wanted it once the family owners died...the drugstore and market went thanks to a chain store built north of Route 16, and the Post Office moved from the side street with it's musty brass boxes and gold numbers, to the east side of town in a new brick featureless building.
I moved just as the town became the site of low-income housing on the east side--no more leaving your doors unlocked at night, knowing all your neighbors in town, and the highschool that had served since 1956 was turned into a middle school in 1978, the year after I graduated...replaced by a white prison-like structure with almost no windows.
My only consolation is that all the farms and fields around my house on the west side, were bought up by a wealthy man who grew up there and inherited his grandmothers farm across the street. He uses all the land for farming, horses and stock raising, and has no plans to ever sell.
I'm told most of the ancient trees on Main Street are gone now, and the buckeyes around my elementary school, though that is still there and in use...no, I never want to go back. I'll cherish my memories over reality, thank you.

Progress isn't always a good thing or a pretty one. And somethings don't make sense and doesn't always sit well with us. We don't like change especially when it comes to where we came from, our home. or home town. It messes with what's right with our world.
They say you can't go home again, well sometimes we just don't want to.
Great poems, AC.

On 09/11/2016 07:52 AM, Parker Owens said:

Number 5 is a cry and a protest in pain against the tide of so-called progress. We cannot junk our history, nor toss away that part of ourselves that makes us who we are. That way lies pathology. Yet our towns are sometimes socially like that...you write this compellingly, and insistently. I stayed in such a town in California once, just to the north of SF some years ago. A busy four lane road had been gouged through what must have been a pleasant town, robbing it of community and vitality, filling it with noise and smell. The B&B was charming, but how to enjoy it in isolation from its surroundings?

Yes, Parker, I agree. It's a cry, a bit of a frustrated rant, and a desperate hope that the world will see things more as I do. "That way lies pathology" is a fascinating way to put it. Steinbeck wrote: "How will we know it's us without our past," and I'm sure I knew that quote at that time.

Thanks for your review. I was not sure how people were going to respond to these poems about a traffic light, but it seems I have found kindred sentiments about 'home town' and I'm pleased.

On 09/11/2016 08:38 AM, ColumbusGuy said:

Sigh...precisely why I won't go back to my hometown. One major two-lane street, lined with huge trees north and south of the town center's pair of railroad tracks. South of them, two blocks of old brick and wood buildings of stores, north of them, the vacant one-storey depot, long closed, then more Victorian houses and huge trees. At the south edge, a three story brick Town Hall, holding, jail, auditorium, offices, a movie theater and at one time, the town library where I'd find books on the lower shelves I could reach.

A marble-facade bank with a corner two-sided clock, a small drug store with candy and comics, a garage and a small family markeet across from the hardware store's plate glass windows.

No traffic lights, until you got to the north edge and ran into Route 16, or south way out of town when you got to Route 40.

The century old depot went first, no one cared...the hardware later, no one wanted it once the family owners died...the drugstore and market went thanks to a chain store built north of Route 16, and the Post Office moved from the side street with it's musty brass boxes and gold numbers, to the east side of town in a new brick featureless building.

I moved just as the town became the site of low-income housing on the east side--no more leaving your doors unlocked at night, knowing all your neighbors in town, and the highschool that had served since 1956 was turned into a middle school in 1978, the year after I graduated...replaced by a white prison-like structure with almost no windows.

My only consolation is that all the farms and fields around my house on the west side, were bought up by a wealthy man who grew up there and inherited his grandmothers farm across the street. He uses all the land for farming, horses and stock raising, and has no plans to ever sell.

I'm told most of the ancient trees on Main Street are gone now, and the buckeyes around my elementary school, though that is still there and in use...no, I never want to go back. I'll cherish my memories over reality, thank you.

Thanks, ColumbusGuy. I could go on in a similar vein about all the changes that have happened to my home town, but for 'us' there was a turnaround. It seems I was not alone in feeling the removal of the light was one step too far. That, and our glorious City Hall being struck by lightning. Built in 1894, it featured the original clock, with three lit glass faces, and a delightful clarion whose music had wreathed the town at noon at six pm everyday for a hundred years. But after the lightning there was talk of altering the tower, ripping out the clock, boarding up the holes, and gripes that money was tight. However, the local historical society was at-last successful in a venture and raised a million dollars to restore all to perfect working order. At the same time, a local businessman bought up the principal properties around the town square to restore and keep safe from demolition.

And I'd say it's not too late to restore the 1914 traffic light too. I'm sure it has not traveled far, and even if it has, with the internet, a replacement model could be located if the desire and funds were there. Fingers crossed.

Thank you for the review and personal connection with the poems.

On 09/11/2016 10:57 AM, Mikiesboy said:

Progress isn't always a good thing or a pretty one. And somethings don't make sense and doesn't always sit well with us. We don't like change especially when it comes to where we came from, our home. or home town. It messes with what's right with our world.

They say you can't go home again, well sometimes we just don't want to.

Great poems, AC.

Thank you, Tim. I like your take on change being the least welcoming when it comes to notions of home and community. I think you've gotten to the heart of my poems here, and I appreciate your comments.

Cheers again!

You posted this while I was away.

It's ironic too, because we always drive through Vermont and New Hampshire on the way to Maine, avoiding the Mass Pike like the plague it is. One thing the big road does, though, is remove all the truck traffic from our route, which passes through quaint small towns. The traffic on our route is minimal. All the SUVs and vans are on the Pike too.

In a way, it's saved many of these towns. I'm not old enough to remember them from long ago, but it sure seems like nothing much has changed. Near where I live, are the two towns I've patterned Euphoria and New Glory after. And there you have it. Your poem describes a situation similar to the vandalism of small communities by developers who build one strip mall after another. Blessedly, we have a hidden 'New Glory' which has stayed pretty much untouched. I can't name the town, because I'd have to shoot you.

Sorry. Here I am rambling on in your poems territory--but it was the poetry which made it all flash through my head in the first place!

Well done, AC!

On 09/24/2016 01:50 PM, skinnydragon said:

You posted this while I was away.

 

It's ironic too, because we always drive through Vermont and New Hampshire on the way to Maine, avoiding the Mass Pike like the plague it is. One thing the big road does, though, is remove all the truck traffic from our route, which passes through quaint small towns. The traffic on our route is minimal. All the SUVs and vans are on the Pike too.

 

In a way, it's saved many of these towns. I'm not old enough to remember them from long ago, but it sure seems like nothing much has changed. Near where I live, are the two towns I've patterned Euphoria and New Glory after. And there you have it. Your poem describes a situation similar to the vandalism of small communities by developers who build one strip mall after another. Blessedly, we have a hidden 'New Glory' which has stayed pretty much untouched. I can't name the town, because I'd have to shoot you.

 

Sorry. Here I am rambling on in your poems territory--but it was the poetry which made it all flash through my head in the first place!

 

Well done, AC!

Wow, the poems about the traffic light seem to touch more people than I expected. That makes me feel amazing. Although it was a very long time ago, I remember my mom reading the longer of the two and saying I should send it into the "North County News," our local paper. I did not, feeling it was too strange a subject.

Anyway, thanks for the support and wonderful comments. You're a star!