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Appalachia 1976, and: By Definition

Appalachia 1976, and: By Definition TWO POEMS by Betty Payne James Appalachia 1976 My sister motors through Europe in a Mercedes-Benz. Disembarking in New York, she calls long-distance And speaks to me of her homesickness, her longing to come home after all these years. She says that she has seen rosy-cheeked children in Germany who remind her of her childhood. When I ask if she can make the detour of perhaps two hours Along the return drive to Dallas to see the land and home and valley once again, She says actually there is no time for detours on their journey. I understand what she is saying. My brother seldom comes home. A psychologist in Ohio, he wears silken shirts and handstitched leather trousers. If I tell him that the roof leaks on our father's house, He races the engine of his sports car and stares at me. Plant trees everywhere. Trees are life," he says. "Bad karma," he tells me. "Why are you bringing me down? I kneel on rough concrete in the pump house To repair the pump that brings water from this earth to give us life. There are fences to mend. Always fences to mend. The creek banks fall, http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Appalachia 1976, and: By Definition

Appalachian Review , Volume 5 (4) – Jan 8, 1977
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
1940-5081
Publisher site
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Abstract

TWO POEMS by Betty Payne James Appalachia 1976 My sister motors through Europe in a Mercedes-Benz. Disembarking in New York, she calls long-distance And speaks to me of her homesickness, her longing to come home after all these years. She says that she has seen rosy-cheeked children in Germany who remind her of her childhood. When I ask if she can make the detour of perhaps two hours Along the return drive to Dallas to see the land and home and valley once again, She says actually there is no time for detours on their journey. I understand what she is saying. My brother seldom comes home. A psychologist in Ohio, he wears silken shirts and handstitched leather trousers. If I tell him that the roof leaks on our father's house, He races the engine of his sports car and stares at me. Plant trees everywhere. Trees are life," he says. "Bad karma," he tells me. "Why are you bringing me down? I kneel on rough concrete in the pump house To repair the pump that brings water from this earth to give us life. There are fences to mend. Always fences to mend. The creek banks fall,

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 1977

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