288th Virtual Poetry Circle
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Welcome to the 288th Virtual Poetry Circle!
Remember, this is just for fun and is not meant to be stressful.
Keep in mind what Molly Peacock’s book suggested.
Look at a line, a stanza, sentences, and images; describe what you like or don’t like; and offer an opinion. If you missed my review of her book, check it out here.
Today’s poem is from Etheridge Knight, recited by Josae Martin:
The Bones of my Father
1 There are no dry bones here in this valley. The skull of my father grins at the Mississippi moon from the bottom of the Tallahatchie, the bones of my father are buried in the mud of these creeks and brooks that twist and flow their secrets to the sea. but the wind sings to me here the sun speaks to me of the dry bones of my father.
2 There are no dry bones in the northern valleys, in the Harlem alleys young / black / men with knees bent nod on the stoops of the tenements and dream of the dry bones of my father.
And young white longhairs who flee their homes, and bend their minds and sing their songs of brotherhood and no more wars are searching for my father’s bones.
3 There are no dry bones here. We hide from the sun. No more do we take the long straight strides. Our steps have been shaped by the cages that kept us. We glide sideways like crabs across the sand. We perch on green lilies, we search beneath white rocks... THERE ARE NO DRY BONES HERE
The skull of my father grins at the Mississippi moon from the bottom of the Tallahatchie.
What do you think?