Lifelong home of the old maid librarian,
her hundred year old house
senses the finality of this invasion.
The front door snubs
the knocks of unwelcome visitors.
The back porch broods over the long line
formed by antique dealers and the curious.
Through its open door the hallway
sniffs a whiff of greed.
The bedroom blushes at the excited man
who disassembles her bed.
China and silverware sold,
the dining room sets the table with silence.
One by one her things
accept their final leave-taking,
a lifetime’s collection uncollected.
The introverted kitchen gazes out its small window.
Even the half empty coffee can
forgotten in its dark corner
mourns, too, her absence
this chill morning.
I love the emotion of the hundred-year-old house, the personification. You give it voice and character and depth of feeling. Sad to think how someone lived their life so privately in a home they loved with the 'things' they loved surrounding them, only to have it all put 'on sale' once there are gone. Sad to think there was no one to leave it all behind to, no one who loved the old librarian and would love her house as she she ... sad how it all came down to the dollar. I really enjoyed this piece and the feelings behind it. ~Best, Elizabeth
Wow, your poem sends chills down my spine. What a brutal realization of the fact that one day, all that we hold so dear would be auctioned off without us having any say about it. Vanity upon vanities, all is vanity.
Oh wow, the final epitaph for so many of us that live a long life like the old made librarian. When my mother died a decade after my mom, my job was to sell the house and see that my brother and sister each got a share (although my mother didn’t want either of them to have a cent--after all, they were my brother and sister and I wasn’t the one that was mad at them.) My son took some of the furniture along with the refrigerator, washer and drier and I have no idea if he still has it since he has lived more like a gypsy since turning eighteen. My brother took the rest and sold it at garage sales. Sad to say that the material things that make up a life become something less once we are gone unless we are a Getty.
Estate sale or The Day of the Vultures?
Doesn't make you sad that America is going backward towards 1929 and another recession, with abandoned homes, dry-out deserted farms and soup queues?
This is my absolute favorite of yours. I love the house-- how can I help myself? It's beautiful. You display in vivid imagery its details, feelings, heart... I love it. --Charlie
Reviewed by Deborah Munson (Reader)
Reviewed on July 3, 2008
Wow David, what can I say? I used to go to garage sales and an occasional estate sale. I never felt quite right walking through someones private home, like I was invading their privacy in the deepest of ways. I could almost feel them in the sadness of hidden closets and corners. You've captured it expertly! Well Done, Deborah
David, you have such a fantastic way of making your stories come to life. I could feel myself moving through this house...to be a witness to the greed.
David, I totally agree with Dawn. A perfect 21 lines of poetry.
And what lines: the dining room sets the table with silence...
captures the essence of your poem for me. -gene.
Lines like these, "The front door snubs the knocks of unwelcome visitors, "China and silverware sold, the dining room sets the table with silence, "One by one her things accept their final leave-taking, a lifetime’s collection uncollected," and "The introverted kitchen gazes out its small window" are what set your work apart. And those last four lines...incredible. This poem, David, is written to perfection.
Using Calgary as a backdrop the author satirizes the self-serving nature of the public as it continues to fatten itself, not only physically, but egotistically as well.
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Outstanding and inspiring composition.
In admiration,
Andre Emmanuel Bendavi ben-YEHU
Doesn't make you sad that America is going backward towards 1929 and another recession, with abandoned homes, dry-out deserted farms and soup queues?
Georg
Cheers,
Dan
And what lines: the dining room sets the table with silence...
captures the essence of your poem for me. -gene.
make us respect "her".
Axilea