Poetry and the Power of Place
Walking by the waters,
down where an honest river
shakes hands with the sea,
a woman passed round me
an a slow, watchful circle,
as if I were as superstition;
or the worst dregs of her imagination,
so when she finally spoke
her words spliced into bars
of an old wheel. A segment of air.
Where do you come from?
‘Here,’ I said, ‘Here. These parts.’[1]
Region…Residence…Home. Call it what you will, the idea of one’s place holds meaning for each of us, regardless of where or how we live. For those who never stop moving, home is a rest stop between city limits. For those more sedentary, home can simply end where the rest of the world begins. Some of us are comfortable in our place, while others feel like plants struggling in the wrong soil. Our place affects how we are perceived by others (Yankees, Southerners, New Yorkers) and even how we perceive ourselves. I have found place to be of particular importance in the minds and hearts of Minnesotans. Duluth, Superior, Edina, and Red Wing all bring with them feelings and stereotypes stronger than any I knew in my native home of Nashville, TN. See, originally a southerner, I see Minnesota (my place of 14 years) from a more objective vantage point.
Nor is the power of place lost on poetry. Poets from all walks and generations have written their lines about the connection (or disconnection) to the ground they walk. From Blake’s London to Baudelaire’s Paris to Baca’s New Mexico, some places seem to inspire poetry with ease—even the desperate, winter vistas of Minnesota. The late Bill Holm was known to many as the voice of this land. He was an elemental of cold and frost and molded people and places from the very hoarfrost around him, barely outlined against their landscape as in his piece “Barbed-wire Winter.”
“–Boy!
When we got married–now, that was cold weather.
At least twenty-five below,
winter solstice, nineteen forty,
war and rinderpest.
Road to the church was blocked with barbed wire.
I remember we clambered over the rail fence of the parsonage.
–Hey, your dress is caught
–no, not there–over there.
We tramped the furrows of an ice-crusted
potato field, up to the minister
who was in his surplice and had
the Scriptures ready.
–Love is a path you must walk, he ways, Yes, we said.
But my lord what muddy feet we had!
When we got in bed that night
we cried a dab–both of us. God
knows why.
And then the long life began.”[2]
Reflecting on the power of place, I am reminded of a project taking place here at the Humanities Center—The Bdote Memory Map. Bdote refers to the confluence of two bodies of water for the local Dakota communities. In this instance it refers to the place where the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers converge, for according to the origin stories of the Bdewakantunwan Dakota this place is the center of the earth. It is where Dakota people began. The Minnesota Humanities Center is working with local indigenous communities and American Indian-led media companies on this digital resource for acquiring and preserving stories and thoughts, across generations, on this area of deep meaning for the Dakota in Minnesota. The map is in development; its current iteration can be found here: http://web.mac.com/alliesms/Memory/MEMORY_MAP_.html. Content acquired here will be leveraged in a number of ways for our local educators to more effectively connect with their American Indian students and to educate their non-Indian peers on their rich cultural heritage. The Bdote Memory Map is but one tool the Humanities Center uses in its work with cultural competency and educational equity. For more information see the Humanities Center web site: http://minnesotahumanities.org/culturalcompetency.
I leave you with another look at place, by Heid Erdrich, local poet, editor, and member of the Turtle Mountain Band of Ojibwe.
“We were the land before we were a people,
earthdivers, her darling mudpuppies, so the stories go,
or emerging, fully forming from flesh of earth —
The land, not the least vaguely, realizing in all four directions,
still storied, art-filled, fully enhanced.
Such as she is, such as she wills us to become.”[3]
Special Note: Heid Erdrich will be the lead scholar for our American Indian Literature Series workshop for educators on June 11 and 12. Register now!
I encourage you to seek out the poetry of place, both locally and beyond. It cannot help but affect how you see your own place in the world.
What does ‘home’ mean to you? Tell us—we’d like to hear!
Until next week. Keep reading poetry.
[1] “In My Country” by Jackie Kay. Accessed April 15, 2009 from http://www.poetryarchive.org/poetryarchive/singlePoem.do?poemId=5685.
[2] Accessed on April 16, 2009 from http://www.northfieldlibraryfriends.org/bill_holm_poetry.html.
[3] Excerpt from “National Monuments” accessed on April 16, 2009 from http://www.swjournal.com/index.php?&story=13372&page=152&category=64.
14 responses so far ↓
Amy Goetz // April 20, 2009 at 5:52 pm |
I was born in California, raised in Minnesota from the age of 8, studied Music Education in New York, studied Vocal Performance in Boston, and finally landed back here in Minnesota where I have my family and my business. Where am I from? I consider Minnesota my home, but I don’t always consider myself a Minnesotan. I seem to have completely adopted the accent, though, much to my chagrin.
Heathery // April 20, 2009 at 6:23 pm |
Thanks for being a voice in the world. Olive juice.
William Ricci // April 20, 2009 at 7:02 pm |
Very nice article, and highlights an important topic to poets and writing. A sense of place, and grounding. Thank you for talking about Bill Holms.
Scott McGerik // April 20, 2009 at 7:17 pm |
Home is where the bacon and the beer is. Oh, and good coffee.
Good article, Michael. I enjoyed reading it.
Teri Fischer // April 21, 2009 at 8:46 am |
Hi Michael, I didn’t know you did this. Very cool. Here’s a poem about my childhood home up on the Iron Range.
The Mines
I walk on tracks through lands of ore
To view the planet’s vivid core.
The tarnished soil has been picked clean,
Now red dust blows from rusty sores.
The bees give voice to still machines
That doze in cloaks of growing green.
Unhinging structures now stand guard.
Enduring trees survey the scene.
I know that some might think it hard
To see the lovely landscape scarred.
For me, it’s difficult to weep
When Mars burns bright in my backyard.
Michael Gause // April 21, 2009 at 2:07 pm |
Thanks to all who have chimed in!
Scott McGerik // April 21, 2009 at 9:44 pm |
Michael, I’ve been thinking a lot about you said on Sunday regarding how poetry is similar to music, that is, does it makes sense when someone says they do not like music? After reading the pieces by Bill Holm and Jackie Kay, I realize I like those styles (whatever they may be) and I like the idea of place. Could you offer me suggestions of poets writing similarly to Kay and Holm and dealing with sea, ocean, fishing, sailing? I don’t live in those places but I often exist in them.
Rhonda Niola // April 22, 2009 at 3:04 pm |
I grew up in St. Paul, MN and have lived there all my life. I currently live in Mpls and have been there for almost 8 years. Growing up people I always heard comparisons about Mpls and St. Paul, which city is better. Since i’m from St. Paul of course I think St. Paul is superior but I see that both cities have different qualities about them.
Every time I’ve traveled out of the country I never really felt I was an American persay, which is a general statement anyways because each state has a different culture. I always felt like a st.paulite. Does that sound weird? Home to me is the community you grew up in.
Michael Gause // April 23, 2009 at 11:16 am |
Scott,
I did a little hunting and found a few poems that might fit what you are looking for:
“July Fourth by the Ocean” by Robinson Jeffers
“Out of the Rolling Ocean, the Crowd” by Walt Whitman
“Going for Water” by Robert Frost… Read More
“Let Us Go to the Ocean, You and I” by s.k.lindeman
“The Sea at Night” by Sri Aurobindo
And, in terms of really touching the heart of the sea and fishing and humanity, if you haven’t read Hemingway’s novel The Old Man and the Sea, go buy it right now!
Michael Gause // April 23, 2009 at 11:18 am |
Oh, and relating to the pull of the tides, here’s something I wrote one evening in Duluth staring out over Superior:
“Dark beneath a bluer wave
tricks us into moving closer,
while the reason makes what we see
unknown.
Together they’re a magnet that cannot resist me,
because I was born a stiller place.
So at dusk I approach.
I spend a night with this tireless nocturne –
the fluid attraction between two living things –
engulfed in the reason some never leave.”
Tracy Kendall // April 26, 2009 at 10:52 pm |
Place cannot much be separated from time it seems. Without time’s dimension, place has no proper holding to it. No distinction to its edges.
because I know that time is always time
and place is always and only place
and what is actual is actual only for one time
and only for one place
(eliot’s ash wednesday)
Well hello to you, Mister Gause. I’ve only recently found your dayonfire and find myself intrigued.
Wendy Brown-Baez // April 27, 2009 at 9:43 am |
Thanks for your posts, thank you for stirring the pot, so to speak. Poetry should be a constant dialogue and if we can’t gather in circles, this is the next best thing.
As a nomad, I often wonder how that influences my poetry. Heart connection to many places, longing to create my tribe/family wherever I go. It has not been easy in Minnesota! I appreciate the poetry of those in exile and I am amazed by the optimism of homeless youth expressed in their writing. Here’s a poem I have always loved by Morgan Farley
How to Own Land
Find and spot and sit there
until the grass begins
to nose between your thighs.
Climb to the top
of a pine and drink
the wind’s green breath.
Track the stream through alder and scrub,
trade speech
for that cold sweet babble.
Gather sticks and spin them into fire.
Watch the smoke spiral into darkness.
Dream that the animals find you.
They weave your hair into warm cloth,
string your teeth into necklaces,
wrap your soft skin around their feet.
Wake to the silence
of your scattered bones.
Watch them whiten in the sun.
When they have fallen to powder
and blown away,
the land will be yours.
E. Flynn // April 29, 2009 at 4:22 pm |
Home is the mountains and the water for that is where I come from, what I crave to be near. I was born in Louisiana, in the heat and humidity of the south, near a great river, the Mississippi. As a small boy, I came to a great land, Alaska, a land of mountains and water. There, my very soul grew roots that remain all these many years later. Later in life, in North Carolina, I went to college miles from the water of the Atlantic, but nestled in the foothills of the wondrous Blue Ridge Mountains. And now, I am here, in Mpls, Minn. Near a great river, again, and far from the mountains. But somehow, on the rocky north shore of a great lake, I feel so very, very much
at home.
How I Lost Thirty Pounds in Thirty Days // May 3, 2009 at 9:08 pm |
Hi, good post. I have been wondering about this topic,so thanks for writing. I’ll definitely be coming back to your blog.