209 Nostalgia poems

I came from Alabama wid my ban jo on my knee, I’m g’wan to Louisiana, My true love for to see, It raind all night the day I left The weather it was dry, The sun so hot I frose to death Susanna dont you cry. Oh! Susanna Oh! dont you cry for me I’ve come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee. I jumped aboard de telegraph, And trabbelled down de riber, De Lectric fluid magnified, And Killed five Hundred Nigger De bullgine buste, de horse run off, I realy thought I’d die; I shut my eyes to hold my breath, Susana, dont you cry. Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me I’ve come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee. I had a dream de odder night, When ebery ting was still; I thought I saw Susana, A coming down de hill. The buckwheat cake war in her mouth, The tear was in her eye, Says I, im coming from de South, Susana, dont you cry. Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me I’ve come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee. I soon will be in New Orleans, And den I’ll look all round, And when I find Susana, I’ll fall upon the ground. But if I do not find her, Dis darkie ’l surely die, And when I’m dead and buried, Susana, dont you cry. Oh! Susana Oh! dont you cry for me I’ve come from Alabama wid mi ban jo on my knee.

Somewhat back from the village street Stands the old-fashioned country-seat. Across its antique portico Tall poplar-trees their shadows throw; And from its station in the hall An ancient timepiece says to all, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" Half-way up the stairs it stands, And points and beckons with its hands From its case of massive oak, Like a monk, who, under his cloak, Crosses himself, and sighs, alas! With sorrowful voice to all who pass, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" By day its voice is low and light; But in the silent dead of night, Distinct as a passing footstep's fall, It echoes along the vacant hall, Along the ceiling, along the floor, And seems to say, at each chamber-door, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" Through days of sorrow and of mirth, Through days of death and days of birth, Through every swift vicissitude Of changeful time, unchanged it has stood, And as if, like God, it all things saw, It calmly repeats those words of awe, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" In that mansion used to be Free-hearted Hospitality; His great fires up the chimney roared; The stranger feasted at his board; But, like the skeleton at the feast, That warning timepiece never ceased, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" There groups of merry children played, There youths and maidens dreaming strayed; O precious hours! O golden prime, And affluence of love and time! Even as a miser counts his gold, Those hours the ancient timepiece told, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" From that chamber, clothed in white, The bride came forth on her wedding night; There, in that silent room below, The dead lay in his shroud of snow; And in the hush that followed the prayer, Was heard the old clock on the stair, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" All are scattered now and fled, Some are married, some are dead; And when I ask, with throbs of pain, "Ah! when shall they all meet again?" As in the days long since gone by, The ancient timepiece makes reply, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!" Never here, forever there, Where all parting, pain, and care, And death, and time shall disappear, — Forever there, but never here! The horologe of Eternity Sayeth this incessantly, — "Forever — never! Never — forever!"

My lost sister used to try the trick with the tablecloth, waiting until the wine had been poured, the gravy boat filled, before snapping the linen her way smug as a matador, staring down silver and crystal that would dare move, paying no mind to the ancestor gloom gliding across the wallpaper like clouds of a disapproving front—no hutch or bureau spared, no lost sister sure the trick would work this time, all those she loved in another room, nibbling saltines, or in the kitchen, plating the last of the roast beef. How amazed they would be to be called to the mahogany room for supper, to find something missing, something beautiful, finally, they could never explain, the wine twittering in its half-globes, candles aflutter, each thing in its place, or so it seemed then, even though their lives had changed for good.

I have had playmates, I have had companions, In my days of childhood, in my joyful school-days, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have been laughing, I have been carousing, Drinking late, sitting late, with my bosom cronies, All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I loved a love once, fairest among women; Closed are her doors on me, I must not see her — All, all are gone, the old familiar faces. I have a friend, a kinder friend has no man; Like an ingrate, I left my friend abruptly; Left him, to muse on the old familiar faces. Ghost-like, I paced round the haunts of my childhood. Earth seemed a desert I was bound to traverse, Seeking to find the old familiar faces. Friend of my bosom, thou more than a brother, Why wert not thou born in my father's dwelling? So might we talk of the old familiar faces — How some they have died, and some they have left me, And some are taken from me; all are departed; All, all are gone, the old familiar faces.

(Nous n'irons plus au bois) No more walks in the wood: The trees have all been cut Down, and where once they stood Not even a wagon rut Appears along the path Low brush is taking over. No more walks in the wood; This is the aftermath Of afternoons in the clover Fields where we once made love Then wandered home together Where the trees arched above, Where we made our own weather When branches were the sky. Now they are gone for good, And you, for ill, and I Am only a passer-by. We and the trees and the way Back from the fields of play Lasted as long as we could. No more walks in the wood.

Way down upon de Swanee ribber, Far, far away, Dere’s wha my heart is turning ebber, Dere’s wha de old folks stay. All up and down de whole creation, Sadly I roam, Still longing for de old plantation, And for de old folks at home. All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. All round de little farm I wandered When I was young, Den many happy days I squandered, Many de songs I sung. When I was playing wid my brudder Happy was I—. Oh! take me to my kind old mudder, Dere let me live and die. All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home. One little hut among de bushes, One dat I love, Still sadly to my mem’ry rushes, No matter where I rove When will I see de bees a humming All round de comb? When will I hear de banjo tumming Down in my good old home? All de world am sad and dreary, Ebry where I roam, Oh! darkeys how my heart grows weary, Far from de old folks at home.

W'en daih's chillun in de house, Dey keep on a-gittin' tall; But de folks don' seem to see Dat dey's growin' up at all, 'Twell dey fin' out some fine day Dat de gals has 'menced to grow, W'en dey notice as dey pass Dat de front gate's saggin' low. W'en de hinges creak an' cry, An' de bahs go slantin' down, You kin reckon dat hit's time Fu' to cas' yo' eye erroun', 'Cause daih ain't no 'sputin' dis, Hit's de trues' sign to show Dat daih's cou'tin goin' on W'en de ol' front gate sags low. Oh, you grumble an' complain, An' you prop dat gate up right; But you notice right nex' day Dat hit's in de same ol' plight. So you fin' dat hit's a rule, An' daih ain' no use to blow, W'en de gals is growin' up, Dat de front gate will sag low. Den you t'ink o' yo' young days, W'en you cou'ted Sally Jane, An' you so't o' feel ashamed Fu' to grumble an' complain, 'Cause yo' ricerlection says, An' you know hits wo'ds is so, Dat huh pappy had a time Wid his front gate saggin' low. So you jes' looks on an' smiles At 'em leanin' on de gate, Tryin' to t'ink whut he kin say Fu' to keep him daih so late, But you lets dat gate erlone, Fu' yo' 'sperunce goes to show, 'Twell de gals is ma'ied off, It gwine keep on saggin' low.

Year after year after year I have come to love slowly how old houses hold themselves— before November’s drizzled rain or the refreshing light of June— as if they have all come to agree that, in time, the days are no longer a matter of suffering or rejoicing. I have come to love how they take on the color of rain or sun as they go on keeping their vigil without need of a sign, awaiting nothing more than the birds that sing from the eaves, the seizing cold that sounds the rafters.

Aunt Martha bustles From room to room Between attic and basement, With duster and broom. Like an oven grenade, In cobwebby corners Her broom explodes A babel of wonders. Her summer crusade Havocs the bugs. Like an enfilade, She rakes the rugs. The sound and fury Of table and bed Whirs a panic of sparrows To the oaks overhead. Untenable grows The vast of the house For even the ghost Of Lazarus’ mouse. The fogies convert Back fences to staffs And sow their gossip With Pharisee laughs: Aunt Martha’s scowl Is a lithograph’s. As the fogies watch Her attic lairs Jettison the junk Of heirloom wares, She shouts: “Old houses Need cleaning upstairs!”

I Back in time car in yard shutters at windows paint on gray boards old man, old woman their children gone then man and woman younger with young children west wing not yet built on house one wagon, horse arrive untended land back too far young man, woman with eyes like bright baubles holding space one shutter closes on another. II Grizzled, unpossessed on the ledge of plains factional roof meager walls written upon like points of long prairie grass the house stares across the highway as though remembering a fir tree carried on horseback through blinding snow. III Survival of facade when content does not endure one part has nothing to do with the others all is hollow ramshackled but house still stands on prairie customs still leap on points of delicate prairie grass where the bright bauble of the eye blinked once too often.