Saturday, December 13, 2014

Poetry Prompt #9: Going Back Home

The holiday's always remind me of how I sometimes wish I could go back.  Back in time, back to my childhood, backwards into a world where responsibilities were sparse and it was safe to walk yourself  home past dark.

So, since it was fresh on my mind, I thought we'd try our hand at writing about home.

The first home of my memory was a little farmhouse.  I couldn't have been older than three...but what I remember most is the trees.  So many trees plopped like green dew drops across hills that leaped for miles into the horizon.  And a long set of concrete steps across a hillside where I spent many a childhood day sitting, watching, playing.  And, of course, I remember the smell of my grandmother's country dinners.  The friendly, wet kiss of my Uncles family dog, and how his dogs were always 'coon' dogs, full with slobbery hello's, fat bellies, and long, dangling ears.

Of course, I was raised in the south.  I suppose coon dogs and country dinners is a sort of custom in these parts.  The hills are a given, as are the trees, and the magnificent view of wildlife that's always just outside one's window.

This song reminds me quite a bit of my home, and of my childhood.  The way it was to grow up, our lives as they were nestled into the valleys and hills alongside the Appalachia Mountains.  There were no busy city streets or lights.  No high-rise buildings and fancy boulevards.  And oftentimes, the sound of a thunderstorm was the music we danced to.

Below is a poem about 'home' written by Amy Clampitt:

On the Disadvantages of Central Heating

cold nights on the farm, a sock-shod
stove-warmed flatiron slid under
the covers, mornings a damascene-
sealed bizarrerie of fernwork
        decades ago now

waking in northwest London, tea
brought up steaming, a Peak Frean
biscuit alongside to be nibbled
as blue gas leaps up singing
        decades ago now

damp sheets in Dorset, fog-hung
habitat of bronchitis, of long
hot soaks in the bathtub, of nothing
quite drying out till next summer:
        delicious to think of

hassocks pulled in close, toasting-
forks held to coal-glow, strong-minded
small boys and big eager sheepdogs
muscling in on bookish profundities
        now quite forgotten

the farmhouse long sold, old friends
dead or lost track of, what’s salvaged
is this vivid diminuendo, unfogged
by mere affect, the perishing residue
        of pure sensation

Now it's your turn!  The challenge for you this week is to write about what 'home' means to you.  Where is home?  Is there anything, in particular, you are homesick for?  What/where is the first 'home' of your memory?

Have fun and enjoy yourself.

Write with me, or alone.  If you choose to write and share, add your link to the comments.