I have always like history and I especially like the family-tree kind. I still have yet to track down a relative who came here via Ellis Island. I would love to one day.
The Sitting Chair
Violent in odors of past pioneers, it's
Pitched strangely to one side in rocking motion
It bears age and lacks favor for it's company.
And yet it pulls itself off with a masked blanket of
Promise.
How many others stayed their turn in anxious,
intense wonder?
Hours of white-knuckling and teeth-clenching,
bothered with intense heat and sweat in a humid, drab
and horrifying room,
on an island made for prospects.
As if drowned out by her own fears
of what was to come,
she missed echoes of begging,
denials, renaming.
Nursing wounds of yesterday, she wraps herself
in the sweet song of her childhood in
A land left in turmoil, left in drought.
A chorus of protest dipped in praise
engulfed her burning ears.
Whimpers of want mixed with shaming
mockery, and yet
with a trust, a hope, a
measure of welcome by
the colossus that which
stands tall in robe and crown.
And in shackles.
Regardless, I was just thinking today about the absolute fear and excitement an immigrant had looking for hope and work with their eye on the statue of liberty as they came in through the harbor. They wanted a different life and they came here looking for one. So I tried to put myself in a young girls' shoes from Ireland after their potato famine. What was she and those around her thinking?
Bear with me.
Another poem.
The Sitting Chair
by Amy Naron
Violent in odors of past pioneers, it's
Pitched strangely to one side in rocking motion
It bears age and lacks favor for it's company.
And yet it pulls itself off with a masked blanket of
Promise.
How many others stayed their turn in anxious,
intense wonder?
Hours of white-knuckling and teeth-clenching,
bothered with intense heat and sweat in a humid, drab
and horrifying room,
on an island made for prospects.
As if drowned out by her own fears
of what was to come,
she missed echoes of begging,
denials, renaming.
Nursing wounds of yesterday, she wraps herself
in the sweet song of her childhood in
A land left in turmoil, left in drought.
A chorus of protest dipped in praise
engulfed her burning ears.
Whimpers of want mixed with shaming
mockery, and yet
with a trust, a hope, a
measure of welcome by
the colossus that which
stands tall in robe and crown.
And in shackles.
Broken thought brings her back
to her abrupt and lisping name.
Taken aback, she stands away
from the broken chair she clung to
so fiercely.
She walks away with all her
hopes and dreams in one
sweeping breath.
Where will she go now?
Where does her future now lie?
2 comments:
Beautiful. Hauntingly beautiful. I've never been to your blog before, but I sure am coming back for more!!
Wow, thank you! :) I will try and keep 'em coming as they come to me. Lord, help us all. :)
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