sold a lot still came back
from peoria
with a bunch of stuff but the real
boat-anchors went home
with someone
else our whole street is having
a yard sale soon I may drag out
all the techno-gizmos
anti-gravity generators
spacial distortion analyzers
tachyon field suppressors
quasi-pseudo-random
transmogrifiers
and my absorbatron and
see if I can
snag some unsuspecting teenager
to buy
something and haul it to his
room before
his mom finds out what
happened then
I close up shop and deny
everything
gawd I love taking advantage
of kids
© Jacqueline Jackson 2006
Theodore Roethke’s The Far Field is a staple of English classes, and deservedly so. He combines vivid sense impressions with the sort of deep pondering that’s bound to appeal to thoughtful readers. Jim McKee has entered into a dialog with Roethke, sharing how his own experiences are similar even though his philosophical conclusions differ. His far fields are among abandoned farms in Missouri, yet he shows a similar passion for nature and eye for detail. McKee is also one of those rarest of creatures, someone who actually buys books of poetry and reads them for the sheer enjoyment of words. (I once saw an article that said more poetry manuscripts are submitted to publishers every year than the total number of books of poetry sold.) I admire a guy — and an architectural engineer, no less! — who eagerly opens The New Yorker and the Atlantic Monthly to read the poems first. — Lola L. Lucas, guest editor
Exploring the Far Fields of Missouri
Roethke’s field’s end is different from mine
With its flower dump — whatever that is —
But it reminds me of seeing a mound
Of discarded tulips, uprooted in April or May
To make room for early-summer flowers.
My childhood recollections are of overgrown
Ruins of old farms in the woods,
Missed by the mower for 50 years.
I’ve always thought they were the remains
Of the Dustbowl and the Depression,
But the woods of Missouri
Are (and were) full of foundations
Of buildings and barns, fallen fences, with
Outhouses sometimes still standing
Deep in forests far from usable roads.
Now those places are weekend homes
And hobby farms, but I spent many hours
Poking about the rubble for bottles
Or bits of crockery that escaped destruction
And I’ve seen that dead rat
In its native habitat.
I have always collected memento mori,
Skulls and bones, turtle shells and whatnot,
Even before I knew the phrase.
Yet recognizing the inevitability,
The place of death in the natural cycle,
Does not, for me, translate into welcome.
Jim McKee is an architectural engineer who lives in New Jersey but still visits family and friends in St. Louis and Springfield.
Send submissions to Jacqueline Jackson Presents People’s Poetry to [email protected] or to Illinois Times, P.O. Box 5256, Springfield, IL 62705
