Earl J. Wilcox, a retired university professor and author of four books on Robert Frost, has published poetry in SOUTHERN GOTHIC, LUNAROSITY, THIRD LUNG REVIEW, STRANGE HORIZONS. An avid baseball fan, he writes poetry and fiction about the national pastime.
“I Want to live Forever, Learn how to Fly”
Once Upon a Road to Derry
“I Want to live Forever, Learn how to Fly”
Johnny Cash had more demons, than most,
excepting those who aspire to write his life
in poetry. The time has passed from our culture
when readers want poems by angst driven poets.
Confessional verse is out of style, out of place.
out of time. With JC on his mind, what’s a writer to do?
Disguise the poem as if it were a lyric about Jesus
Christ. Integrate into complex lines some richly
textured symbols, mix with multi-layered tone.
Tattoo into the text those forever famous initials
charming readers to assume the song’s about
the carpenter from a little town somewhere in the Middle East
If the poet is astute enough, rather than allusions
to grapes, loaves and fishes, doves, temples,
a nomadic family, or hints of a king and future
kingdom, the poem could blend images of the
American South. Country up the piece with cotton
picking, mockingbirds, catfish, sharecroppers living
in shotgun shacks, and family life in a little town in Arkansas.
Who knew JC sang bass, wore black, got married, and played guitar?
Once Upon a Road to Derry
For Robert Frost
Some say September seems the best time,
a fallow month ripe with leaves and rime,
when seeds are shed, and autumn’s pall
reminds us faintly of that other Fall.
Walking paths worn down by summer seekers
bid us here to join all the leaf peepers
for glimpses of ancient trees and churches---
or you---amidst spires and arching birches.
Down lanes near Derry we search for brown
apple trees or by some fluke, your chicks,
long ago pluck’t bare by poets or rustics,
who little care that you would have known
they were trespassing on soil you might
have wanted to keep for a future hiking
trail or softball field. It is our liking
you, whose words and sounds we know by sight,
your voice, calling from the pasture or lone
path deer may find in pairing off to mate,
or standing face to face with us when, late
from the world, we draw near you here at home.
