This Town (group poem, long)

At long last - here's the Group Poem from the recent Sunflower Writing Workshop. Please see Dale's introduction. "This Town" follows its performance structure, with part i-iv made up of stanzas or "rounds" by individual poets. You'll notice that some write about their own towns: not every specific reference is to Mountainair. Yet, these rounds tie their towns to this town (Mountainair) while connecting "this town" to other small towns everywhere. Breaking the "this town = Mountainair" pattern reinforces it all the more. I hope Mountainair readers will also recognize

I considered illustrating "This Town" from my collection of Mountainair digital images so reader could see specific local images mentioned in poem. A good idea, but the poem is already long - pushing blog length limits - and late. Maybe somewhere on the PWP web site. Or go all hypertext with links to images. Another good idea - but one that might delay getting this online. When I get to it - whether as illustrated web page or same blog post with hyperlinks embedded, I'll blog you a notice + link.

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This town

(by Maureen Hightower, Karin Bradberry, Dale Harris, Sylvia Ramos, Shirley Blackwell, Susan Paquet, Terry Sedal, Nadine Lockhart)

I

(Maureen)

This town –
Between missions
Containing crossroads
Eccentric hotel –
“Pueblo Art Deco” –
I love it!

This town –
Small shops
Funky houses
No golden arches –
Pre-generica America

This is my town

(Karin)

This town celebrates its history on walls
Trains run through buildings on Broadway
Puffing between red rocks, mountains
and the Enchantment Salon.
An eagle swoops to pounce on its prey
Peeling paint and sly trompe l’oeil,
This is my town

(Dale)

This town
has faux store fronts
businesses that open & close before you know they’re there
there are bullet holes in some of the buildings
crosses with plastic flowers at the bend of the road
too many dead teenagers
This is my town

(Sylvia)

Strewn around this town are reminders of the past
Skeletal farm vehicles rust in weed-choked lots
Stone houses, their apertures boarded, stand solid and silent.
Hardware store window displays a riot of inventory-
All I might want, from archery set to zoot suit.
I grew up in a far away town, yet this is my town.

(Shirley)

In this town, directions to a place include landmarks that used to be there.
Street names and precise distances are irrelevant to all but strangers
We take our bearings from milepost markers, water tanks, and blue metal roofs.
We turn left at the “Old Caldwell Place,” which has seen
Four owners and thirty years since Pop Caldwell died
And look for the hippie-painted mailbox by the gate. This is my town.

(Susan)

In this town

You might see
A pair of thousand dollar cowboy boots with a
Trophy blond hanging like a puppy on his side

You might hear
Janglin spurs scratching up a brand new maroon SUV

But he ain’t from here
Mountainair got real cowboys

This is my town.

(Terry)

In my town today,
the Cayadotta Creek
still has remnants
of red, white & blue,
has dead water
and fish with no eyes.
Empty broken
buildings line Main
Street and a Wal-Mart
Distribution Center now
Resides where
“made in the USA” used to be.
Is this my town?

(Nadine)

In this town, sheet metal horses gallop
toward the old Baca building –
where chevys were sold instead of real estate
where working cowboys leaned on lampposts
instead of their replacements in metal
silhouettes. The greyhound station was running
not a leftover from a movie set.
This is my town.

II

(Karin)

This town sports pressed tin ceilings,
elaborate copper gates.
A fake Greyhound Bus Station
that won’t get you anywhere,
animal pelts its only contents.
The real Rosebud Saloon,
Sundries and novelties galore.
This is my town.

(Dale)

In this town
trains go by on the hour but seldom stop
jobs are scarce, pay is low
there’s ranching nearby, even an ostrich farm
beans were big in the thirties, forties,
gone by the fifties, too dry
a wind farm is under construction
that may be the best crop yet

This is my town

(Sylvia)

This town is deserted as I walk around
in twilight just before my poetry writing workshop.
No one waits for the bus at the Greyhound Station.
The sinewy canine leaping from its wall
reminds me of my mother’s trips to family in D.C.
All at once, this town is populated and feels like my town.

(Shirley)

This town understands the economy of barter:
Home-baked, whole grain bread for a dozen fresh duck eggs,
Putting in a well for putting up a barn,
A jar of organic, analgesic salve with comfrey & lavender
For a painting of a sunflower in a green Mason jar
Done by arthritic hands. This is my town.

(Susan)

In this town

There are cowboys everywhere
Chamber of Commerce even ordered up
A street full of dark handsome men of steel

If you look long enough
You might even see one
Raise his silhouette hat. Nod his head
And shyly say,
Howdy Mam

Every store and storefront got cowboys
Painted, sketched, framed
And hanging from the wall
Looking all handsome
And givin you a slight smile
While you eat your full enchilada, tamale, taco plate
Never once saying you might not need the extra pounds

This is my town

(Terry)

In my town kids
play basketball at Briggs Field,
owned roller skates with keys on strings,
had Miss Gruwén for French class and
walked to church on Sunday.

This is my town

(Nadine)

This town dips its schoolchildren in water
paints and tissue paper, turns them into
Sunflowers hanging in vacant store windows.
A train rounds the red rock mural on Ripley,
clickety clacks for real in back of P & M –
a converted livestock long house – tongue & groove,
tin roof, broken brick chimney
This is my town.

III

(Karin)

In this town folks struggle to stay afloat
Tom at the Town & Country Market
gives me a free cuppa joe
grouses if he had to make his living on coffee
doesn’t know how those other folks do it.
This is my town.

(Sylvia)

In this town ghosts lodge at the old hotel
I heard them late last night – giggling
ladies and whispering men outside my door.
I wondered what the fun was all about
but was afraid to ask
My little country town also had
phantasmal guests.
As I floated back to sleep, I thought,
This is my town.

(Shirley)

This town understands the value of a trade:
An hour’s massage therapy to ease a strained back
For an hour’s tractor work on intractable weeds,
Neighborly hands to clean the house, prepare food for the wake,
Stroke sobbing shoulders -- in trade for the tears
Of grieving parents. This is my town.

(Susan)

In this town

Cowboys are not just painted or leaning on main street

We got the real thing strong and breathin
Able to wrestle a steer, tie a fence and stretch their
Last ten dollars to the next pay day

They’ve rode a bronc, rode a bull, cracked
A rib when they hit the ground

This is my town

(Terry)

My town was once
a thriving mill town
streets lined with
neat & tidy houses,
and sidewalks with no cracks.
“The Glove City” was a
melting pot of Slovak
immigrants & whoever
else jumped in along the way.

This was my town.

IV

(Karin)

In this town elegant monkeys in fancy dress
Get married on Main Street
Next to dusty mounted Big Horn sheep
Beaver, bobcat, antelope, raccoon
Parade through storefront widows
But the barbershop is gone (closed?).
This is my town.

(Sylvia)

This town is not deserted. The evidence
of life is everywhere. A realty shop
opens its door right next to Clifford’s
where men line up for Saturday morning ablutions.

Construction paper sunflowers exhibit
names of nascent artists,
the town’s inhabitants of tomorrow. Just
like my town.

(Shirley)

In this town, first graders are preceded in the classroom
By their siblings’ reputations.
In this town is much headshaking and doubt
When a ragged, quiet bookworm from Shantytown
(Whose parents never read bedtime stories to their
flock of children)
Becomes class valedictorian and wins the Kiwanis
Scholarship. This is my town.

(Susan)

In this town

Our cowboys are the real thing, strong and breathin
Sweet whispers against my waiting skin

This is my town