Chronicle of evolution

The persimmon tree quilted
the side yard with its hearts

of rotting orange, what we imagined
to be frostbitten pumpkins

turning to ectoplasm in our hands.
The allure of wild fruit was tainted

by the sickly sweet air lifting
from the earth around autumn

fruit cast like loose marbles to the ground.
And when I look back now, there are never

any birds at the edge of the memory
field there. Never any life beyond

the echoing clap of hands
trying to catch morning fog

one more time before returning
to the rigid lines of school,

or the reverberate squish
of fruit, immobile beneath

our shoes. When I drive by
the old tract now, four miles

outside the city where
I have settled, the tree

is gone. It is ghostly as the house
whose bones were rearranged

into small mountains for burning.
To make way for another world

Reviews

[SkinlessFrank]

There is a feeling of sadness in the observer about the way in which lives just goes on, whether it be our lives or someone else’s life in a place where we once inhabited. The objectiveness of the observer coupled with her deep memories heighten the sadness. Then there is the darkness, “It is ghostly as the house whose bones were rearranged into small mountains for burning”, which reminds me of something that Flannery O’Connor might have written. I have never stepped on persimmons, but there is a tall female Ginkgo next to where I work that is dropping fruit on the ground now. When you smell the rancid butter odour of the produce, it is not sickly sweet, but fetid. There is that connection between memory and odor that links us to a place and time. I also enjoy that aspect of this piece.

[Eilis]

I don’t think anyone has ever mentioned Flannery O’Connor to me. I don’t know if I’ve met another reader of hers. I have actually moved to the town where she lived out the last years of her life. It’s very much like the atmosphere of her work. Her house is still here preserved as a museum. She is a big influence on me intellectually and creatively. I enjoyed reading what you saw here. It was a pronounced sadness to me to see the house because it was the house my father lived in with his second wife and really those were the few years we had him in our lives before he divorced and moved on. He was always running on somewhere else. That second wife grounded him for a short time. Memories are like that mixture of festuring sweetness. There is that underside of sadness. Thanks for your thoughtful comment.

[SkinlessFrank]

I've read that there is a new film on her life. Not sure I want to see it though, as I prefer to imagine her time on earth through her own writings. She is one of my literary heroes.

[Joli Dy]

Oh, Eilis, you captivated me from the start with a juxtaposition of quilted hearts, tainted allure and decomposition. You write so beautifully.

[Eilis]

Thank you so much, Joli. I love your style too. Your work inspires me!

[Casey Truax]

Beautiful and haunting. The enjambment creates a disjointed feeling, but one clearly purposeful, suggesting the disjointed nature of memory.

[Eilis]

Hi, Casey. Thanks for your kind words. Enjambment is a well-used tool in my toolbox. It is always purposeful and meant to mirror some feeling or state but some do find it discombobulating. It’s nice to get comments where someone recognizes it as a positive, intentional aspect. Thanks for digging into my older work a bit and sharing your thoughts. I appreciate you reading.

[barleygirl]

I love this squishing fruit analogy that you've injected thru-out your poem. I found myself deeply immersed in the literal scene, the icky sensations of rot & decay, as a counterpoint to the beauty of autumn which most poets celebrate. But I was also entertaining the idea of "autumn-as-old-age" & how people tend to treat old people like a messy rotting persimmon to be side-stepped or if anything, to be cleaned up & made proper again *sigh!* This is one of your most deliciously vivid poems, from a sensory standpoint (((HUGS))) Fondly, Margie

[Eilis]

I’m really interested in what you see in this, Margie. It’s very cool when people see something different than me because I feel like it means I’ve put something out there that lets people see their own thing.

I’m glad you liked this one. Thanks for all the nice things you said. And for your visit. All the best.

[barleygirl]

I agree. Sometimes poets new to the cafe will explain their poems in their authors notes (a little bit of info is ok but don't re-write the poem in your author's notes!) I will often suggest that a poet NOT explain & then they get the fun of seeing all the different ways that people see the words they've written. To me, that's the ultimate. I feel sorry for writers who are so controlling that they have to say you've interpreted them wrong! There is no "wrong"! I love your attitude!

[barleygirl]

I ordered Pride & Prejudice . . .

[Eilis]

Thanks, Margie. I have always kind of liked hiding in my poetry, anyway. It makes me a little more comfortable with sharing. I love it if it can be more than one thing. I hope you enjoy the book!

[Samuel Dickens]

The scene you paint is familiar and so much like that which I once knew. The persimmons still fall on the damp autumn leaves, (crazy new weather permitting) but it's not quite the same, is it? Perhaps it's because we no longer ride the bus or possess the most sensitive of senses. Did you crack open the persimmon seeds and see the knives and spoons?
Silly me, always thinking. Autumn has a powerful allure all on it's own, but I have to wonder if the young me also associated it with a return to school and greatly improved chances for romance. Your fine poem has stirred my thoughts.

[Eilis]

I do enjoy your reviews, Samuel. The personal thought connections you share are meaningful to read.

I don’t remember opening a persimmon seed, but I have a few in my refrigerator and when I open the fruit I will open the seed as well.

I love the idea that our pace of life has changed how we view the world. Surely some truth to that. Thanks very much for your visit.

[gram linski]

the sadness of the ghost tree and the burning bones of the house tainting the youthful memories are overshadowed by no birds at the edge of memory, that for me was the saddest thing of all, great writing, and some great turns of phrase,

[Eilis]

I was just reading your new poem again. Good stuff, a lot of depth. My mind is working a way around it.

I think the no birds thing was what originally made me write the poem. It's weird how time alters our memories, or perhaps exposes our unseeing eye of the past. Not sure which it is.

Thanks, Gram. You always seem to pick up on the heart of a poem. I really appreciate that.

[CD Campbell]

Man, people are missing out. I guess the evolution and expansion of man knows no bounds or respects the past in any way. It's funny that when progress reaches out into the outer lands, the new suburban inhabitants like to think no one has been there before but them and their mcmansions. The wildlife is slaughtered wholesale under the tires of the herd of new land rovers. The new country folk.

I have a lot of persimmons on my place, (sand plums) and the deer love them. Too bad that lately I've been seeing more of them on the side of the road than on my property. Deer that is. This is great stroll down what can be good, but the aftermath leaves much to be desired. Oh well, progress. Right? Nothing to be done.

I like this poem a lot because it has many layers of fond and not so fond memories. It's a great poem that ends in a kind of sigh, which sometimes is all you can do.

[Eilis]

Manifest Destiny never dies, ha ha. Don’t know why I’m laughing. There will always be someone or something to push out. Gentrifying is another example. It’s depressing. But, also I’ve found that in the area I live in now there’s a resurgence of people trying to reclaim land. There are a couple of brothers who go around and ask people to use parts of their yards to grow food. The homeowner gets a share of the food, and the brothers make a living selling produce while also getting rid of some of that scourge of grass. There are more encouraging examples. So, I try to take heart in things like that.

This was my dad’s place when he was married to his second wife and they would have us stay fairly often. So it’s a vivid set of memories. Where the house was there was nothing but woods and homesteads. Now, thirty years later, the area has exploded. Traffic as far as the eye can see. Etc, etc. But, I drive by there and the ghost of those things are still there. Anyway. We have a lot of wild persimmons here, too.

And deer roadkill. The part and parcel of population explosion. Always seems to be collateral damage.

Thanks for another great comment, CD. Always appreciate your thoughts.