new poem: A Visit to Grandpa’s House

A Visit to Grandpa’s House
by Job Conger
written 8:35 am, November 16, 2011
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She came to contemplate the treasured past
of the grandfather whom she never knew,
to gaze on ancient artifacts:
the typewriter, old books, the bedroom too
where he was born – how many years ago?
One hundred thirty-two.
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Her father Nicholas was grandpa’s son,
a man of manners, paper, tempered steel
resolve, determined as grand dad
to sail a schooner-life on waves of destiny; real
moral certitude and zest
from mizzen topsail to the fine-hewn keel.
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The poems Vachel wrote at childhood desk
with north exposure to the summer sun,
the Bible read aloud in parlor’s peace
in family communion when day’s work was done.
Conversations with his Mom, Dad, sisters Olive and Joy,
seem to echo in her quiet contemplation.
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From Spokane back to home in ‘29
to Springfield birthplace, grandpa’s last retreat
until December agonies consumed him.
What remains of that? Nothing here on Fifth Street.
The piano, paintings, horsehair couch and stairs
are mum, guarding the terrible tempest of defeat.
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She never knew her grandpa or his wife –
Dad’s mother who spurned Springfield like a curse.
The house at 603 reveals most Tom and Kate,
loved so in their son’s misty prose and verse.
It is lauded for its Lincolnesque graundeur
by preening guardians, the Victorian myopaths and worse.
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Returned from rooms she visited alone
absorbing what she could from eyes to heart,
she thanks the site director for her time,
the warm reception, kindness after hours, part
of her five days in this town: the Association dinner,
speaking at schools of grandpa, poetry and art.
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Tomorrow, Thursday, she will ride a plane –
Grandfather flew just once, from a Wisconsin lake –
from Springfield home to Eugene, Oregon,
her loving family, catching up, and plans to make
for local writing workshops, being mom and wife.
What grander outcome could her grandpa dream?

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Still keeping true to my promise to write something new for every public poetry reading I attend,  I shared with a friend last Saturday the subject of the poem I knew I would write Wednesday. The occasion was the monthly third Wednesday gathering of poets,  fiction excerpt readers, up and coming stand-up comics and essayists at Robbie’s restaurant in downtown Springfield, Illinois, sponsored by Springfield Poets and Writers.
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Since last Friday the poem had occupied more and more of my mind, but I wrote nothing until Wednesday morning at 6:50 am. I’m in the new habit of arriving about 5 am at my AeroKnow Museum at the airport to work on what needs to be done at the collection. Most of the time all of the time is devoted to aviation history, and anyone who wants to help with this activity is welcome to contact me. If you do, you will be the first.
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There was too much uncertainty at my part-time employer away from the airport to believe I could produce the poem I wanted if I delayed focus until arriving for paid (only God knows when, in December, maybe) compensation. I had been away from “employer” Monday and Tuesday working on a story for the December Springfield Business Journal. The only time I could concentrate would be at the Museum.
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Something new for me: I closed the office door to limit intrusion of outside conversations from the nearby lobby and hall.  I wanted to share information about the grand daughter and the house she visited, but I did not want to write in the imagined first person of the subject, Louisa Lindsay Sprouse. Writing in third as a witness gave me a more honest perspective. At the end of the first stanza, I knew I wanted to repeat the stanza/rhyme scheme. I knew I didn’t want to make it a looooonnnng poem; two pages would be my limit, but as I began the fourth stanza I began to wonder if I could end it in THREE pages. From 6:50 to 8:40, I wrote the poem and sent it to a friend. I’d promised her the poem as soon as I finished it.
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I made a hard copy at my airport office rather than emailing it to myself at “work” because I wanted to re-type it there, to get a better feel for the phrasing. There, during what turned out to be a relatively slow day, I revised it six times. It was important for me to make consistent the meter of the first line and second line of each stanza, and I’d be happy with whatever I could muster with hard focus and attention to detail with the rest. I also knew — it was, like, OBVIOUS — that the final line of the poem was NOT consistent with the two earlier rhymes in that stanza. On the other hand, the OUTCOME on the final line was more important than the RHYME of the final line. If the effort had been a song lyric I would have tried harder to find a way to three-time-rhyme. I might have ended it making another point. I liked the point I made. I realized there would probably be less interest from strangers in hearing a song about the grand daughter of a famous poet visiting his restored home (Vachel Lindsay Historic Site, 603 S. Fifth St., Springfield, Illinois) than hearing a poem about her visit.  THIS was and would forever be a poem.
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I hope you like it.
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Live long . . . . . . and proper.