The Poetry of R.E. Slater: Mar 24, 2021

"Autobiographies of great nations are written in three manuscripts – a book of deeds, a book of words, and a book of art. Of the three, I would choose the latter as truest testimony." - Sir Kenneth Smith, Great Civilisations

"I must write each day without fail, not so much for the success of the work, as in order not to get out of my routine." - Leo Tolstoy

I have never believed that one should wait until one is inspired because I think the pleasures of not writing are so great that if you ever start indulging them you will never write again. - John Updike

"The life of every man is a diary in which he means to write one story, and writes another; and his humblest hour is when he compares the volume as it is with what he vowed to make it." - J.M. Barrie, Peter Pan

Poetry is the shadow cast by our streetlight imaginations." - Lawrence Ferlinghetti

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Wednesday, March 24, 2021

R.E. Slater - Nightshades

Nightshades

by R.E. Slater

Evening was falling as I scrambled up onto the granary

roof gaining the lower elevation of its backside before

stepping up onto the upper level careful not to slice my

hands or legs on the rusted corrugated steel or loose-

headed nails fixing the panels down to the upper beams.

There I sat listening to the evensongs of nightbirds some

swaying on barbed fence lines, others on well weathered

wooden posts, singing away their cares across the grassy

fields having endured another windy day before settling

down into their scented beds of wheat, hay or alfalfa.

Before me the sunset blazed across western skies dipping

its last winks under the horizon then flash our a few red

rays a moment later as dusk stole across in rear guard and

I climbed down onto the lower roof to sit under the upper

eaves silent in the quieting earth watching and listening.

At last I rose in the dark to jump down into long grasses

below - sometimes mowed flat to stubble, sometimes filled

in by deep snowy drifts - as my hiding spot was used in all

weathers and seasons where solitude or contemplation

might be required nestled within a dying day's breaches.

I next skirted along the upper barnyard ridges circling

around the marshy hollow below hearing blackbird and

robin, thrush and lark, in last serenades as I gained the

front buildings of the family homestead cutting through

mowed country yards to our tiny house lit next door.

Chains rattled as I sidled by under tall tree canopies

as I spoke quietly to our hunting dogs held under their

watchful eyes knowing my habits and watching my furtive

shadow flit along the gathering darks across the dewy soils

to choruses of marsh songs by crickets and peepers below.

Day was done, as was I, and what few moments I gained

from a walk across evening fields or rolling hillsides was

but brief reprieve to the next day's early black mornings

after a long night's last hours of study and homework

before rising to school, band, sports, and daily prayer.

R.E. Slater

March 24, 2021

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