Notes From The Devil’s Trumpet

Last weekend, we went to a small town an hour north of us, one of those little places that we’ve been aware of but never explored. The main draw was a used book store, where we thought we might find some treasures.

Before going to the store, we detoured to a park located at the top of a nearby mountain. The mountain has several campsites, picnic areas, and hiking trails. There is a series of reservoirs where one can boat. The day being quite hot, we decided not to hike, but took careful bearings related to all that we saw, and we determined to return at some point and do some hiking and perhaps some grilling. The scenic lookout was easy to reach and provided a lovely vantage point from which we could look down at the town below, the town with the used bookstore.

When we descended from the mountain, we drove around the town, getting a feel for the place and the residents, noting an interesting-looking restaurant and some small shops. We headed to the bookstore and parked on the street next to where a young man was setting up a grill. He busied himself with preparations to grill chicken and sausage to sell on the street.

We entered the bookstore and were greeted by a young woman. Within a few minutes, we realized that the store was a disappointment. The selection was poor, the prices were way too high.  We browsed for an appropriate length of time, and then thanked the young woman and headed to the exit.

Just at the door was a captain’s chair piled with small paperback books. A sign attached to the chair read “Free! Take all you want!’” I picked up one of the books and saw that it was a literary magazine titled Jimson Weed, published by The University of Virginia’s College at Wise, VA. Sorting through the volumes, I selected one with an interesting cover, a close-up photograph of what looked like a small statue of a saint tucked into a split in a tree or tree stump. The volume was number XXXIII, New Series, Vol. 17, Number 2, from Fall 2014.

Later that night, I took up the little literary magazine and began reading through the collection of short stories, poems, and essays. I want to republish two of the poems here, because I enjoyed them and re-read them several times, for different reasons.

The first is called An Exhalation of Faith, by David Locke. who was at that time the circulation supervisor for UVa Wise.

An Exhalation of Faith

by David Locke

I open all the drawers in my desk,
turn out my pockets, search the closets — nothing

The blueprints make no sense, the angles
are all skewed. Once, in a bar, I mistook clouds of smoke

For angels. But I shook it off, dropped my
butt on the floor, mashed it out with my foot.

Empty pints. Pale, wet rings next to full
ashtrays. Hours exhaled, as if I could caulk

the cracks and fissures where my convictions escaped.
Please do not ask me about faith,

if I am a moth still drawn to the flame.
Though, trapped in the exhaust of existence,

I pray, out of habit more than belief,
for steel wings to falcon me home.

(p. 70)

 

The other one I enjoyed was called When I Am Gone, by a lady named Alice Seabolt. I’ll say a bit about the author at the end of the poem:

When I Am Gone
by Alice Seabolt

 

When my life here has ended and my body laid to rest
Don’t grieve because I left you, but remember I did my best
I lived my life for Jesus and used the Bible as my guide
It was a life of pleasure with Him always at my wide.
When trouble and sorrow loomed dark as night
Black clouds hovered low, not a sunbeam in sight
Was then His love lifted me up where I could see the light
I saw a lot of happy days, happier that gold can’t buy
Golden happiness that I want for you, so please don’t cry.
I had a good life and you helped make it so
You mean all the world to me, but now it’s time to go
I am going to a home not built by hands, but little deeds of kindness
Remember the good that I did, overlook my blindness
I will wait for you with open arms just inside heaven’s door
When we meet each other there, we will live to part no more.

This poem was written by Alice Seabolt on September 6, 1981 to be read at her funeral. Alice passed away at 91 years old in the early morning of July 11, 2014.

(p.12)

So there. I posted the first poem because I found it honest in a sad way and sad in a true way.. I posted the second one because I wanted someone besides the few people who subscribed to Jimson Weed to read the poem written by a little mountain grandmother who lived and died in obscurity.

We all want someone to hear and understand us. Our words matter in our own hearts. Our days are stitched together with our desires and our words. This is the way of things.

~ S.K. Orr