Update

I have not added any new material for some time but have been writing, just not posting the new material. It would seem a good practice for me to log in once in a while and post something, just to stay familiar with the process. However, I do hope to post some material soon.

                On The Surface Of The Earth Somewhere
                I lived a thousand years in Asia,
                in Asia Minor, near the Caspian Sea
                dark red grape mashed with blue
                the rivers Don and Dneiper.
                Purple orange skins cover the herdsman's hut;
                black and smoothe stones click and beat to hoofs.
                Bearing down I can not say I see them, as ghost
                to me they are. Children rush to greet them.
                Lifted water freezes to limbs outside a tree
                and brush puts up at my door  as I step to see what this is.
                Colored blankets cover hides,
                beast of burden modulates
                between them and the sea.
                Meteors in the sky shower
                stillborn light in the distance
                above and reflecting in the face of men
                under clothing.
                Fair the children rushing storming
                undulate undulate recently left
                their mothers holding.
 
                On a Turkish moor the herd detects
                 a fresh and new oasis,
                 the vallies of the mountain passes,
                 they part from the cracked and barren land.
                 I can not remember when none of this was here,
                 certain that it wasn't.
                 Lying on my bed of slab
                 a thousnd years ago.
                           

                       On Getting Under The Lumberville-Raven Rock Bridge

           We ambled up the river
            without a raft pulled from shore
            -no tube of tire or plastic kayak
            we ambled-half swam against a current
            felt on my chest, felt on my legs
            or doubled when I held you.
            And so I learned you can push on a river
           and so I learned the current beneath
           is as the air above – just less whimsical.
           And so we endeavered to be under that bridge
           where we have when on it so many times kissed.
           And so I kissed you under the bridge and in the river.
          Lightly I floated downstream to where we started.
          Center Bridge was half way away but it didn't matter,
          love and you and the river would do.
          We paid our respects to the Stockton Inn
          as a sign at the entrance claimed 1710.

On Meeting Joe Burcher of South Cape May

        On Meeting Joe Burcher of South Cape May

   Under the sea and off the coast
   Under the sea off the coast
   Under the sea
   South Cape May built for us
   then tide made its advances.
   O families would their summers well
   So close to shore no biting insects dwelled.
   On Sundays families fishing took
   some farm some city
   married new and married long
   creatures of the sea,
   and on a pourch afternoons breezes touched
   the salt greyed wood, slowed
   to imperceptable mood, vanities
   silenced by glare & haze & thick sunlight,
   the plaster of these homes. Lordly prince
   and lovely princess of these lands
   to turn to meadow.
   In the winter one would walk it
   through the midnight at the shore,
   light breaking off the water, black eternal
   the frozen sand, his shoes would crack it.
   Joe knew that people lived away
   but sought the freedom frozen night
   and if in the silence a bird flew by
   the air would shatter falling down,
   steps later reassembled. Walking on
   mysterious he wondered: is there such a thing as life?
   On the road that to the Point we take
   South Cape May has been replaced.
   Meadows and nature taking over;
   Joe still lives there. If you see him
   stories may be told. He calls them lies.
   I recommend a morning visit.

A Cape May sunset in 13 photos

The Wills' Farm

The Wills' Farm

There was a time on Wills' Farm the cows on the hills,
In meadows late at noon
At salt licks soon.

Wills left.
The farm alone
Became a stone,
Wind-filled though it was;
In rotting places could be seen
What, when life is gone, it does.

And, what, is it fun
To walk on broken metal? Or twist one's foot
On poor Mrs. Wills' kettle?

I take it myself to be better
Among the reeds along their pond.
It is this, though far from
Manicured, I am fond.

copyright JJW 2012

The Dirt Eaters

THE DIRT EATERS

     The New York Times recently ran a story on dirt-eating, a dying cultural trait in some of our rural areas. Being an investigative journalist, I set out to find this phenomenon myself.
    Eventually the search led to a small house a mile north of the village of Center Moriches, out on Long Island. A young woman about 18 or 19 met me at the door. She had on a black sweater and a frumpy miniskirt, made of a bright blue materia1 like Christmas wrapping. The inside of the house was very hot and the furnishings were from a late vanishing era, mostly Woolworth’s, I presumed.
    I was offered a seat on a couch in the living room. An old woman, the young girl's aunt, came into the room. She looked at me strangely, wondering why I was interested in them. Meanwhile, the young woman brought in a pot of dirt.
    It was warm and something of the consistency of oatmeal.
    Playfully she inscribed the letters D-I-R-T in the dirt.
    The face of the old waman was deeply furrowed. I imagined the lines cut a quarter of an inch into her face. She asked me if I would like to see her eat dirt.
        “Please. Please do,” I said.
    She took a spoonful of the dark substance and put it to her lips. Shortly after swallowing, I saw a rush of vitality come over her face. Although the lines remained, she looked infinitely younger. The ingestion was taken, however, in complete aplomb. She took  more dirt and said to me,"I could teach you electrical-chemical cardiovascular treatment. I could teach you arthritic reduction therapy."
        With these words I retreated into myself, wondering if perhaps I was dealing with some kind of charlatan. The woman in the blue miniskirt was starting to feel left out. She reminded the old lady that she had invited the investigative journalist from the Columbia School of Journalism. She walked across the room. Her two legs, like elephant tusks, carried her to a seat between her aunt and myself. Her hair was pinned up, exposing her neck. Smiling as prettily as she could, she asked me if I thought it strange that she should be involved with dirt. I replied yes and prompted her to explain.
         "When I was very young I would see all the old folks eating dirt. I was very lonely then and sad. I said to myself, “if I eat dirt, someday a great man would come and save me. Kind of stupid, isn't it?"
         "No. No. Not at all,” I said. "That's your culture."
         Then the girl offered to show me where they get the dirt.
         We left the house and crossed the yard. There were chickens loose on the lawn. An old Plymouth had been put to rest in back of the garage. We walked along the road for a while and then reentered the field. The land started to rise until at the top of a hill we were looking down a cliff.
         "From down there is where we get the dirt."
         A path had been etched into the side of the cliff and we descended. I was thinking about the beauty of the day, the young girl, and my promising career. A large hole was cut into the bottom of the cliff. It was like a cave, and we entered it. I felt the sides of the cavern. They were soft and cold. In the dark I felt the girl coming closer to me. She put her hands behind my neck and looked into my eyes. She seemed so wonderful.
Soon we were on the floor, practically entombed in the spongy, clammy dirt. We removed articles of clothing and made love. When it was over, I felt ashamed to have taken advantage of a confidante.
           Her blue miniskirt was soiled. Those white legs of elephant tusks had mud on them. We returned to the house in silence.
           Back inside the aunt confronted us. I assumed she could put the pieces together. I started to make motions to leave, but the old woman insisted I stay for dinner.
          Not able to say no, I agreed. The woman went out, leaving me and the girl alone. Soon we heard the sounds a chicken makes when it gets its throat cut. I reached to touch the  girl, but she pulled away. l was a lonely journalist in a far outpost of Long Island, in a place called Center Moriches.
         The chicken was served half-cooked, so the meat near the bone was pink and oozed juices. My disposition became progressively worse as the meal continued. Noticing my discomfiture, the two hostesses suggested I have some dirt for dessert. A few ounces of dirt were brought out in a pudding cup. I could not say no. My first thought on placing the dirt in my mouth was, "Sphagnum!" Then I experienced the sensation of grit, and I thought about the chickens running around the yard picking up pieces of stone.  And finally, I was overcome by nausea and had to excuse myself from the table.
         In the bathroom I brought up  dinner. I looked at my face in the mirror.
        What was I doing here? A good career lay ahead for me.  I would tell the woman to forget all this dirt. I cleaned the sink, leaving no evidence of what I did and, with a new lease on life, returned to the women, offering my departing overtures.
        "And why not?” the aunt said.  “Why shouldn't you go?"
        But it was not so easy with the  girl. As I stood to leave in the doorway, she took hold of my hand and kissed me.
       “Come with me to the city."
       We parted lovers.

    Epilogue: The practice of dirt-eating is part of our rural culture, mostly past. Recently I came across reference of another people who ate fried dirt with fish fat.

copyright JJW 2012