Thanks, Christine. I’ve had that phrase in my head for a long time because our crawl space is very tall. But I’d never found a place to use it until this poem.
Went about 65 years back to my Grandmother's root cellar. Packed dirt floor, always comfortable no matter the weather outside. She would send me down to get potatoes or a jar of fruit or vegetables for dinner. Always loved the smell of it.
As I read this amazing evocative poem, I saw in my mind the crawl space under the addition on the house my grandfather built. My father had done the addition, and the entrance to the crawl space was in our cellar. You could see the dirt and darkness. I was always afraid of that crawl space. It was years before I realized what it was, actually. Now it's been many, many years since I've been to that house==both parents dead now, my brother sold the house--but that crawl space is still vivid in my mind.
Wow excellent poetry. Before the After. Dropping from barren rafters. Whew. And it goes on to finish with laughter and cellars. . We had not too long ago a cold storage pantry in the basement. Seven foot ceilings in that basement. We miss that home so much. Great poem. Thanks.
I grew up in western Oklahoma, tornado alley territory, and seems like I spent a great portion of my childhood in the cellar... it was a community get together, many times in the season, and my memories of sleeping on the dirt shelf of the cellar area... the smell was damp and cool and comforting.. sleeping with the sound of neighbor's gossip and the wind whistling over the cellar door, held down by the Dads clutching the thick cellar door rope.... light faint and flickering from the kerosene lamps...surviving in the dirt of Hamel's back yard....
Everything needs dirt, grows in dirt. Sunflowers, piglets, saplings grabbing hold, a child making mud pies. Dirt is so eclectic, not like sand or rocks who birth sand, split by tough beach grass. Dirt will grow anything. Rumours, inuendo, that elusive Truth you've heard about. Cabbages, and those cicadas that take years down there, years. Thank you for getting me back in there, Sherman. Today, it's the air carrying it, the future dirt coming down from Canadian wildfires, so I stay inside, windows closed, locked in dirt of the present.
I always read Sherman Alexie's emails. His poetry nourishes the deepest parts of my soul. The metaphor of a root cellar suggests our deep connection and need to return to the earth, to the soil
Aye.
Good one buddy…
Thanks, Jack.
I love this poem. It’s evocation and healing in both earth and maybe forward.
Thank you.
Enjoyed reading this
Thanks, Karen.
Oh, wonderful! Love this; it must sound great read out loud! And were you in FFA in high school? Or "just" basketball?
I was President of my high school’s FFA during my senior year but I was in the FFA for parlimentary procedure and extemporaneous speech competitions.
God you're good
Thank you!
Beautiful!
Thanks, Nina!
Incredible
Thank you.
My tears line up at this line: “you don’t need to crawl in this crawl space.”
Shell yes! 🐚 Time to stand and share the squashes and fruits of our labors down in the dirt (where the bones of our ancestors fed us their secrets).
Thanks, Christine. I’ve had that phrase in my head for a long time because our crawl space is very tall. But I’d never found a place to use it until this poem.
Went about 65 years back to my Grandmother's root cellar. Packed dirt floor, always comfortable no matter the weather outside. She would send me down to get potatoes or a jar of fruit or vegetables for dinner. Always loved the smell of it.
Lovely memory.
As I read this amazing evocative poem, I saw in my mind the crawl space under the addition on the house my grandfather built. My father had done the addition, and the entrance to the crawl space was in our cellar. You could see the dirt and darkness. I was always afraid of that crawl space. It was years before I realized what it was, actually. Now it's been many, many years since I've been to that house==both parents dead now, my brother sold the house--but that crawl space is still vivid in my mind.
Beautiful!
Wow excellent poetry. Before the After. Dropping from barren rafters. Whew. And it goes on to finish with laughter and cellars. . We had not too long ago a cold storage pantry in the basement. Seven foot ceilings in that basement. We miss that home so much. Great poem. Thanks.
Thanks, Bernie.
I grew up in western Oklahoma, tornado alley territory, and seems like I spent a great portion of my childhood in the cellar... it was a community get together, many times in the season, and my memories of sleeping on the dirt shelf of the cellar area... the smell was damp and cool and comforting.. sleeping with the sound of neighbor's gossip and the wind whistling over the cellar door, held down by the Dads clutching the thick cellar door rope.... light faint and flickering from the kerosene lamps...surviving in the dirt of Hamel's back yard....
Everything needs dirt, grows in dirt. Sunflowers, piglets, saplings grabbing hold, a child making mud pies. Dirt is so eclectic, not like sand or rocks who birth sand, split by tough beach grass. Dirt will grow anything. Rumours, inuendo, that elusive Truth you've heard about. Cabbages, and those cicadas that take years down there, years. Thank you for getting me back in there, Sherman. Today, it's the air carrying it, the future dirt coming down from Canadian wildfires, so I stay inside, windows closed, locked in dirt of the present.
I always read Sherman Alexie's emails. His poetry nourishes the deepest parts of my soul. The metaphor of a root cellar suggests our deep connection and need to return to the earth, to the soil
Straight to the heart.