The Erl-King

This is one of my very favorite poems. I can just imagine my German ancestors living in fear of the Erl-king. What better way to celebrate All Hallows Eve than with the German folktale/song/poem, The Erl-King?

Der Elrkonig (The Erl-king)
by Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

Who's riding so late through th' endless wild?
The father 't is with his infant child;
He thinks the boy 's well off in his arm,
He grasps him tightly, he keeps him warm.

My son, say why are you hiding your face ?
Oh father, the Erlking 's coming apace,
The Erlking 's here with his train and crown!
My son, the fog moves up and down.

Be good, my child, come, go with me!
I know nice games, will play them with thee,
And flowers thou 'It find near by where I live,
pretty dress my mother will give.

Dear father, oh father, and do you not hear
What th' Erlking whispers so close to my ear?
Be quiet, do be quiet, my son,
Through leaves the wind is rustling anon.

Do come, my darling, oh come with me!
Good care my daughters will take of thee,
My daughters will dance about thee in a ring,
Will rock thee to sleep and will prettily sing.

Dear father, oh father, and do you not see
The Erlking's daughters so near to me?
My son, my son, no one 's in our way,
The willows are looking unusually gray.

I love thee, thy beauty I covet and choose,
Be willing, my darling, or force I shall use!
Dear father, oh father, he seizes my arm!
The Erlking, father, has done me harm.

The father shudders, he darts through the wild;
With agony fill him the groans of his child.
He reached his farm with fear and dread;
The infant son in his arms was dead.

Winter Sets In

The slate gray abyss presses down upon
my mountain home,

It forces an uneasy feeling upon us
And causes Maw to snip at us.

“Was you born in a barn?”

“Don’t track in that mud!”

“Deed in God, ain’t you got a lick of sense?”

My wisecracking brother can’t help himself and responds:

“I don’t know, Maw, was I?”

“If they ain’t no tracks, how will it find its way back outside?”

“I reckon not, why do you keep asking?”

A glance out the kitchen window confirms
what is already known. The cold spell isn't letting up.

“I sure wish this ol’ weather would break,” Maw says,
as she returns to kneading her bread dough.

Wintertime Realization

Germany Valley, Pendleton County, WV. Photo courtesy of R. Jason Burns.

"These Dark & Dreary Days"

by Matthew Burns

These dark, dreary days of winter,
Press down upon my soul,
And leach the life from me,
Like a succubus in the night.

Once I was like a seed in the ground,
Waiting, germinating, hopeful.
But the bitter, lifeless days have surrounded me.
And cloaked me with their siphoning darkness.

The light on my path is extinguished.
I realize now with maudlin clarity,
It was these dark, dreary days of winter,
That incubated my soul.

The First Snow

Though every year it comes back anew,
And wears out its welcome all too soon.




Something magical begins to take place
That rekindles memories across time and across space.




There's nothing like it so far as I know,
That wondrous sight of the very first snow!

===================================

Special thanks to Cousin Heather for sharing these photo's with us.

Come Visit October

"October" by West Virginia poet, Grace Yoke White, from her 1953 book "Unhoarded Gold".

What does it matter if my house is not swept,
Or my beds placed to air in a hygenic way?
For in through my window a birdcall crept,
And a red-throated songster hopped near to say:

"Come, share the joy of the fine autumn weather;
The goldenrod gleams near bypaths and roadways;
While tall, flaming asters, like purple heather,
Keep time as they nod at the birds through the day."

Come stand 'neath the trees, let the leaves drift around you--
The red and the brown, the crimson and gold;
Come, roam out of doors, in the sun and the dew;
Come, forget that time passes, that days will grow cold.

Come out in the sun and the soft autumn moon;
Let's enjoy the bright days and nights as they pass;
Come, gather the beauties that fade all too soon;
Come out in the open while the season lasts.

Thunder in the Eleventh Hour

The Eleventh Hour Thunder

by Matthew H. Burns

I was awakened by thunder in the Eleventh hour.
I opened my eyes to a wondrous new world.
The air was crisp, and a bird was singing
A song I had never before heard.

The scent of Calla Lilies permeated my bedchamber
Carried by a gentle breeze through my open window.
The eiderdown pillow beneath my head
Was fluffed to perfection and beckoned me to rest.

Though the taste of regret lingered upon my tongue,
It was overshadowed by the perfection of the moment.
The sweet solitude of calm and relaxation
Came upon me and granted a long-sought gift.

Had it not been for the thunder of the Eleventh hour,
I would have been asleep when the lightning struck.

The Homeplace Remembers You

The Old Homeplace

A stoic representation of the past

Forged out of the wilderness.

The blood and sweat of past generations

Mixed amid my rocks and soil.

As generations came and went

I generously provided life.

The symbiotic ties strengthened

and bound us as one.

Though I kept you, and you me,

It was not enough to hold you,

When the hard times came

and a new way beckoned.

Now hopes and dreams have all gone away

Fallen by the wayside,

Passed by on the road to progress.

Nothing left here of anyone

Who remember the old ways

In this Eden of the wild mountains.

Though I’m still here and I still remember,

My fields now lay fallow,

And I watch as the cedars reclaim my pastures.

I am but a memory,

Instilled in the flesh of my flesh.

I hold the secrets,

And share them to those who listen,

With each passing season I whisper louder and louder.

But no one listens or seems to care.

I remain it seems,

Forgotten.

Come Have a Look

From "Have-A-Look Poems" by Elkins, WV, native, B. Wees

The Old Store

'Tis three score years and maybe more
Since father started this old store,
A little "shack" not long nor wide--
So folks about the country side
Could "Have a Look."

And to this "shack" planked up and down,
Located seven miles from town;
And from the rail road thirty six--
The folks would come, talk politics
And "Have a Look."

And underneath that clapboard roof
He sold 'em calico's and snuff;
Kentucky Jeans and cow hide boots--
Some with high heels for gay "galoots"
To "Have a Look."

From Webster, through the muddy roads
The good were hauled by wagon loads,
And sold at prices fair and square
So people came from far and near
To "Have a Look."

And there on rainy days and nights
On nail kegs 'neath the smoky lights
Would sit a gang of gray haired boys
And chuckle o'er their old time joys
And "Have a Look."

Then Vig and Amby would come in
And "chune" up the old violin
And play some old toe-twisting tune--
'Twould start a hoe-down might soon
Then "Have a Look."

And old "Black Pete" and old "Black Jim"
Would tell ghost stories, ghastly and grim,
'Til all the gold in land and sea
Would not induce a boy like me
To "Have a Look."

And when the woods with music rang
Aunt Mime would bring a poke of "sang",
A cautious trader was Aunt Mime,
You bet, she always had the time
To "Have a Look."

The old store suited the old ways
But now new people and new days
Demand a store that's more complete
You'll find one here that's hard to beat,
Just "Have a Look."

Eggology 101

The following poem is from the book "Have-A-Look Poems" by B. Wees dated 1946 in Elkins, West Virginia.

Egg-ology by B. Wees

Old Farmer Corn Tassel remarked to his wife,
As he hung up his hat on a peg:
"I'll be jiggered if I can see, for my life,
How a black hen can lay a white egg!"

Said Mrs. Corn Tassel: "Just take my advice,
Your question's both silly and vague.
When you hear the hen cackle, just remember the price,
And go fetch home the egg!"


Chicken Coop at Granny Sue & Larry's Homestead.

My Heart's in the Highlands

My Heart's in the Highlands

by Robert Burns

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go.

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North

The birth place of Valour, the country of Worth;

Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,

The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow;

Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;

Farewell to the forrests and wild-hanging woods;

Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here,

My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer

Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe;

My heart's in the Highlands, whereever I go.

Old Seneca stands as a Sentinel.

Seneca Rocks

by Grace Yoke White from "Unhoarded Gold"

Old Seneca stands like a great gray hall,

With steeples and turrets and gables of granite;

It stands majestic, gigantic and tall

In the snows of winter and the breezes of spring.

Seneca Rocks was the home of the giants old

Who carved the peaks of Old Spruce Knob;

They lived and wrought on their fortress bold;

Now their spirit keeps watch at the twilight hour.

I heard the Spirit in the rustle of leaves

As the sunset gilded the tallest turret;

The Spirit whispered through the summer breeze,

"I still stand guard for my mountain people."

What a heritage to dwell where Old Seneca stands

And towers aloft to the rock-ribbed heights;

It stands to guard from all alien hands

The verdant hills and the peaceful vales.

Spring Came Last Night

A native of Lewis County, West Virginia, author Grace Yoke White wrote the book, "Unhoarded Gold: A Book of Poems" in 1953 . I am proud to include one of these poems, titled "Spring Came Last Night" in this post.

Spring Came Last Night

The sky is clear,

Spring birds are near;

I hear their calls

On low stone walls.

The winter left with lagging feet;

With summer warmth our pulses beat;

The snow is gone, the sun is bright,

The flowers are here-spring came last night.

The sky is blue;

All hearts are true.

Sorrow slipt away;

Joy's here today.

The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4

The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4, as found in Don Teter's book, "Goin' Up Gandy".

I was recently reading the absolutely fabulous book, Goin' Up Gandy by Don Teter. the book discusses the History of the Dry Fork region of Randolph County, WV. I had many ancestors who worked and lived in these logging camps and I am intimately familiar with all of the places mentioned in this book. However, it was Teter's brief mention of the wreck of the Dry Fork #4 train that really stuck with me. I remember my Granddad telling stories about this wreck, which were told to him by his father, which were in turn told to him by his father, who lived in the area around Jenningston, WV, the site of the train wreck.

People in the area still talk about this wreck, and many will point you to the exact location, even though it has been many decades since the last logging train departed from these mountains. So I was inspired to write down the story of The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4, incorporating some of the information provided by Don Teter but mostly based on the stories given to me by my Grandfather. It was a story that evidently needed to be told.

I'm still not sure if it is a poem or the beginnings of a ballad, but this is the way this story was given to me. I hope you enjoy it. After reading it, you may wonder what happened to the widow Booker? I surely do, but that part of the story was not given to me. For me to write something, I have to be given the story out of the blue and if I force it, it just seems to come out all wrong. Oh well, perhaps her story is best saved for a later date.


The Wreck of the Dry Fork #4
by Matthew Burns, 16 March 2009

Come gather around and I’ll tell you
Of the logging days of yore,
And of the day of that dreadful wreck
Of the Dry Fork #4.

The engine was brought in from the flatlands,
Where it pulled the passenger trains.
But it was no match for the twists and turns
Of the mountainous Dry Fork grade.

On the evening of the 20th of June,
In the year of 19 and aught one.
The time was nigh and the signal given,
For the Dry Fork #4’s final run.

Tales of the wreck became legend,
Up and down the Dry Fork line
Of Superintendent Booker’s orders
And his obsession with making up time.

He was running late for supper,
Or so the story is told,
Many miles yet to travel and
He’d be damned if he’d eat it cold.

Ordering Engineer Cromwell
To make all due haste
The Dry Fork #4 did hug the tracks
And was well upon its way.

Halfway home to supper,
They came to Jenningston grade,
Up and over the mountain they went
But the bridge they could not make.

They weight of the rushing engine
Snapped the railroad bridge.
The engine rested in the river,
The cars stayed on the ridge.

Three were killed in the madness,
That came from hunger and greed,
Booker, Cromwell and a man named Spillman,
Were all trapped underneath.

The work crew on the ridge above,
Riding in the cars that escaped
Shook their heads in dismay
At the wreckage and the watery grave.

They talked of Booker’s reckless ways,
And how he laid to waste,
The Dry Fork #4 and two good men,
At the foot of Jenningston grade.

The bodies were freed of the wreckage,
And taken to “the gateway of Hell”
Where the families of the three men
Began to weep and wail.

Except for one well-dressed woman
Who was Booker’s widowed wife,
Not a tear for her fallen husband and
On her face an almost smile.

Tales were told thereafter,
About her deceitful plans,
Of how she had plotted for many months
To be shed of her beastly man.

They told of how he came home every evening,
Full of hunger, anger and rage,
And took his frustrations out on her,
That read on her bruised up face.

She played the part of a loving wife,
Doing what she was told.
She cooked him his favorite meals,
Knowing it would rush him home.

It wasn’t just Booker nor his reckless ways,
That laid waste to the Dry Fork line.
It was deception, greed and a love turned cold,
That ruined so many good lives.

=======
So, what did you think of the story? Is it a poem or a ballad? Any idea's on what happened to the widow? I want to know the rest of the story.

Generations of Spring

My world abounds with life anew.
An anxiously awaited spring welcomes
A new beginning.

And the fat robins strut about with their red breasts shining,
They remind me of home and childhood,
“Little Robin Redbreast sat upon a tree…”

The cool earth has changed its scent,
The now pungent aroma permeates my senses,
And it beckons me to scoop it up to partake of the gifts.

The warm light shines upon my shoulders
Lifting my spirits. My mind turns to retrospection,
And to the generations that walked this land before me.

The present becomes the past
And the future becomes the present.
Promises are made, promises are kept.

Life continues. The Earth is full of the goodness of the Lord.

Appalachian Diamante

I've been playing around with a new (well, new to me) type of poetry, it is called Diamante poetry. I think it is pretty neat. Here is my first attempt at it.

Mountain
Green, majestic
towering, welcoming, providing
graceful, alive, barren, desolate
lacking, wanting, polluting
dead, forsaken
Mine

It is harder than it looks, here are the instructions in case you want to try it.

Line 1: Noun or subject
Line 2: Two Adjectives describing the first noun/subject
Line 3: Three -ing words describing the first noun/subject
Line 4: Four words: two about the first noun/subject, two about the antonym/synonym
Line 5: Three -ing words about the antonym/synonym
Line 6: Two adjectives describing the antonym/synonym

Line 7: Antonym/synonym for the subject.

I'd enjoy seeing any Diamante poems that you all can come up with. If you'd like to email them to me, kwahaddi@gmail.com , I'd be happy to include your Diamante poem (with your name) to this post.

March Awaits

Photo courtesy of Adam L. Cox.

March Awaits
by Matthew Burns, 2009

March awaits just over the horizon
So close but still a world away,
While I sit despondent in the bleakness
Of the land that time forgot.

Promises wear thin
As the wolf beats on the door,
And the dark February winter yields
Little hope for a brighter day.

I look to the past
With its silver bells and festive garments,
Now musty, dusty and old
And ponder their futility.

Signs point
To a new day dawning,
Though they remain barely discernible
As March awaits just over the horizon.

These Dark & Dreary Days

These dark, dreary days of winter,
Press down upon my soul,
And leach the life from me,
Like a succubus in the night.

Once I was like a seed in the ground,
Waiting, germinating, hopeful.
But the cold, lifeless days have surrounded me.
And cloaked me with their siphoning darkness.

The light on my path is extinguished,
I realize now with maudlin clarity,
It was these dark, dreary days of winter,
That incubated my soul.

Grandmaw's Water Bucket

The below poem triggers memories of my Grandmaw Mary. It conjures up visions of the old spring that rested upon the hillside above her house. It was always a great honor to be asked my Grandmaw to fetch her a bucket of water. I know I always took great care to dip the bucket way down into the cool, clear spring to get the freshest and coolest water. I remember there'd always be a chance that you'd pick up a salamander in the spring so you'd have take special care to avoid that. With the greatest of care, I'd heft the full water bucket to my side and inch my way down the hill on the old footpath, worn smooth by the generations of feet who made this very same trek. In the springtime, I'd usually stop and smell the apple blossoms on the Yellow Delicious apple tree that grew by the footpath.

Grandmaw would always meet me at the back porch and take the water bucket from me. I know now that she most likely done this to keep me from slopping water on her kitchen floor, after all, how steady could I have been, I was only a little boy carrying a 2-gallon bucket full of water. After taking the bucket from me, she would heap praise upon me and give me a cookie or a piece of pie that she always managed to make appear as if out of thin air. She'd then sit the water bucket up on the water stand beneath her cabinet near the back door.

Grandmaw Mary in her kitchen.

She usually had two buckets and kept one full of fresh water, and used the other bucket of "dead" water to heat for washing dishes. Grandmaw said that once water set overnight, it became dead and people shouldn't drink it. I do know that fresh water tasted better. Grandmaw always kept cheesecloth over her water buckets to keep flying insects out of it, and she had a little metal dipper that you could dip down into the bucket and get out a drink. Nobody ever thought anything of it then, but nowadays people would think this unsanitary. You'd drink right out of the dipper, and toss the rest out the back door. You were never allowed to put the water you didn't drink back in the bucket, but you could dip a second dipper if you were still thirsty.

I remember a little shelf behind the water buckets. Grandmaw had two little teacups there, no doubt gifts from some of her children on one of their travels. Grandmaw typically didn't go anywhere, her extent of travel was limited to Franklin and the Bartow Flea Market. I was always fascinated by those teacups, one said "Paw, Come git yer coffee" and the other said "Maw, Come git yer coffee". On the Paw cup, it showed a hillbilly man sleeping outside on the door stoop, and on the Maw cup there was a mountain woman plowing a field and the man was standing in the door way hollering out at her in the field. I found a "Maw" cup in an antique shop right before Christmas and bought one for my mother. I need to get her a Paw cup now. They have them on Ebay, where I found the below picture.

It's amazing how a poem can trigger all of these precious memories of Grandmaw Mary, one memory triggers another, and so on. I could sit and talk about my Grandmaw Mary all day long.
===========================
The Old Oaken Bucket

by Samuel Wordsworth

How dear to this heart are the scenes of my childhood,
When fond recollections present them to view !
The orchard, the meadow, the deep-tangled wild wood,
And every loved spot which my infancy knew;
The wide-spreading pond, and the mill which stood by it,
The bridge and the rock where the cataract fell;
The cot of my father, the dairy house nigh it,
And e'en the rude bucket which hung in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hung in the well.

That moss-cover'd vessel I hail as a treasure;
For often, at noon, when return'd from the field,
I found it the source of an exquisite pleasure,
The purest and sweetest that Nature can yield.
How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing !
And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;
Then soon, with the emblem of truth overflowing,
And dripping with coolness, it rose from the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket arose from the well.

How sweet from the green mossy brim to receive it,
As poised on the curb it inclined to my lips !
Not a full blushing goblet could tempt me to leave it,
Though fill'd with the nectar that Jupiter sips.
And now, far removed from the loved situation,
The tear of regret will intrusively swell,
As fancy reverts to my father's plantation,
And sighs for the bucket which hangs in the well;
The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,
The moss-cover'd bucket, which hangs in the well.

Anderson's Lament

For my great-great-great Grandfather Anderson.

Anderson's Lament

A man of privilege born into a good family,
He had all of the makings of greatness.
His loving Dianna and the children all looked to him as a hero
And their expectations took him to stand for the Cause.
Four years he honorably served a nation destined for failure,
And with it his livelihood.

The thinly disguised looks of pity and disgust
Cut his soul to ribbons as childhood friends
Watched him open his land to sharecropping.
Better to starve with dignity, they said,
Than to do work that is beneath you.
They didn’t realize the old society was dead.
He was determined that his children would have better,
In this new world in which he had no place.

He signed it all legal with the attorneys that morning
Knowing full well that he was not strong enough
To stand idly by as the land was sold off, piece by piece.
Land that belonged to his father, and his father before him.
None of that mattered now; it was thoughts of his sweet Dianna
That filled his mind as the rope snapped taut
And the eternal darkness washed over him.

Snow

The Snow Man
by Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.