deepundergroundpoetry.com
1956: Menekülés
Deep in the valley of Portola where
Dust rose from robes which graced the earth with pain
And prayer and beads of pink rosewood did smooth
From fingers tracing every curve of life.
In pews of oak with views of rolling hills
They stared into bare walls until their minds
Went blank—their wrinkled cheeks the paths they had to cross
Just to escape before it was too late.
I listened for carved canes that tapped in time
That held the precious ancient ones aloft
The golden cross was all that did adorn
The chapel of the Woodside Priory.
Dark hymns too disharmonious to sing
And ears gone deaf from bullets years before
Their voices croaked from throats too dry to cry
And burned their candles bright instead to grieve.
Thus straightening their shoulders proudly stand
As their grand Anthem echoes in their hearts
Their colors of red, white, and green entwine
Renewed, refreshed, reminded, they then greet
Each other with their withered, calloused hands
And over meat and sweets they are so joined
They reminisce about their old homeland.
Retrieving handkerchiefs, they wipe away
Those wondrous dreams from dusty eyes once closed
And pulling their fine shawls around their frame
Shielded themselves from bitter western wind
Instead intone their unforgotten names:
Of parents, sisters, brothers, and old loves
As all of them were crammed on trains and left
Their ashes, smoke that burned too black for God
The innocents that met the worst of fates.
Deep in the valley of Portola where
The Benedictine monks so soft recite
Their evening prayer as mountain mist recedes
And memory can find its last respite.
Published 21st Dec 2015
| Edited 22nd Dec 2015
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21st Dec 2015 7:46pm
21st Dec 2015 7:49pm
22nd Dec 2015 2:11am
some great tragedy must have occurred in Portola, real or fictional.
my google search was fruitless.
amazing composition of the aftermath,
rendered with extraordinary artistry...
my google search was fruitless.
amazing composition of the aftermath,
rendered with extraordinary artistry...
Thank you for reading and for your insightful comment.
The Portola Valley is in California. The tragedy actually occurred with the 1956 Revolution of Hungary, which caused many Hungarians (including my grandparents) to flee to America. Many Hungarians settled in the Portola Valley, and have formed a community there. My grandparents (92 and 87 now) always take me to Mass when I visit at the monastery... the community now is elderly, but their faces tell a gripping story.
That was the inspiration for this piece. I'm not sure if my title should tell more about this. What are you thoughts?
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I am grateful for your insights.
The Portola Valley is in California. The tragedy actually occurred with the 1956 Revolution of Hungary, which caused many Hungarians (including my grandparents) to flee to America. Many Hungarians settled in the Portola Valley, and have formed a community there. My grandparents (92 and 87 now) always take me to Mass when I visit at the monastery... the community now is elderly, but their faces tell a gripping story.
That was the inspiration for this piece. I'm not sure if my title should tell more about this. What are you thoughts?
Thank you for taking the time to read my work. I am grateful for your insights.
22nd Dec 2015 8:28am
your explanation here should be adequate for future readers. you might want to add something in parenthesis next to '1956,' such as Orphans of Hungary, or perhaps a few words in the Hungarian language. at your discretion, & it certainly isn't required. the colors of the flag in your Anthem stanza was a good clue.
the 'bullets on the street' passage derailed me somewhat; I thought it referred to an incident in Portola.
it's very difficult (improper, in fact) for me to suggest alterations to a poem of this quality...
the 'bullets on the street' passage derailed me somewhat; I thought it referred to an incident in Portola.
it's very difficult (improper, in fact) for me to suggest alterations to a poem of this quality...
Actually adjusting the title and putting more information in a parenthetical is an incredible idea. I always struggle with titles. I can see where the line derailed, it's challenging to convey a memory of passing thought of something, maybe italics?
I changed to "Their ears gone deaf from bullets years before/" which I think (correct me if I'm wrong) I think it keeps the line still in iambic pentameter, and tense wise I think it might clear any confusion? Hopefully the clarification might give more a sense of place.
I really do welcome the feedback. I haven't written poetry in the past three years so it's an adjustment. I appreciate your insights, and I'm really enjoying reading your work too. Thank you again for your suggestion, I'm definitely going to add more to title.
I changed to "Their ears gone deaf from bullets years before/" which I think (correct me if I'm wrong) I think it keeps the line still in iambic pentameter, and tense wise I think it might clear any confusion? Hopefully the clarification might give more a sense of place.
I really do welcome the feedback. I haven't written poetry in the past three years so it's an adjustment. I appreciate your insights, and I'm really enjoying reading your work too. Thank you again for your suggestion, I'm definitely going to add more to title.
23rd Dec 2015 00:44am
the title change looks great, I always enjoy seeing other languages in a poem. the word 'escape' in Hungarian & the year are sufficient clues. the edit you made really adds to the logic. so glad we had a beneficial discussion on your poem.
all in all, it's a magnificent endeavor...
all in all, it's a magnificent endeavor...
1st Feb 2016 6:35am
I love this poem. The imagery is stunning. It tells a sad but the story line is great.
