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Poem for Any Small Southern Town

Poem for Any Small Southern Town Paul Rice Appalachian Heritage, Volume 11, Number 3, Summer 1983, p. 78 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1983.0019 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/438450/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:42 GMT from JHU Libraries a condemnation. Unbearable, so that I bore it, delivering myself into its ex- crutiating mercy. Zella waited in the doorway with a candle. "I'll take her," she said. "You leave her go now, leave her go, I'll take her. Oh my baby, oh my little sorrowing chile." «/® POEMFORANYSMALLSOUTHERNTOWN ©s» how can I address them with blue fog rubbing itself on their stones and seeping into the grass which is grey, while clouds are cold as old brass ¿ and the bones of soldiers. £ their women would have given souls § to have brought them up again , ^ the rotting uniforms, the skulls with vacant eyes, coffins stinking with wasted discipline, faces sunk beneath the grass, ¿ beneath the sky, § under stones £ & where no light goes | £ and nothing warms with words. | ¿ as for their empty cause. ^ they are empty mer in which the dar'™- \ in which the http://www.deepdyve.com/assets/images/DeepDyve-Logo-lg.png Appalachian Review University of North Carolina Press

Poem for Any Small Southern Town

Rice, Paul.
Appalachian Review , Volume 11 (3) – Jan 8, 2014
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Publisher
University of North Carolina Press
Copyright
Copyright © Berea College
ISSN
2692-9244
eISSN
2692-9287

Abstract

Paul Rice Appalachian Heritage, Volume 11, Number 3, Summer 1983, p. 78 (Article) Published by The University of North Carolina Press DOI: https://doi.org/10.1353/aph.1983.0019 For additional information about this article https://muse.jhu.edu/article/438450/summary Access provided at 19 Feb 2020 21:42 GMT from JHU Libraries a condemnation. Unbearable, so that I bore it, delivering myself into its ex- crutiating mercy. Zella waited in the doorway with a candle. "I'll take her," she said. "You leave her go now, leave her go, I'll take her. Oh my baby, oh my little sorrowing chile." «/® POEMFORANYSMALLSOUTHERNTOWN ©s» how can I address them with blue fog rubbing itself on their stones and seeping into the grass which is grey, while clouds are cold as old brass ¿ and the bones of soldiers. £ their women would have given souls § to have brought them up again , ^ the rotting uniforms, the skulls with vacant eyes, coffins stinking with wasted discipline, faces sunk beneath the grass, ¿ beneath the sky, § under stones £ & where no light goes | £ and nothing warms with words. | ¿ as for their empty cause. ^ they are empty mer in which the dar'™- \ in which the

Journal

Appalachian Review – University of North Carolina Press

Published: Jan 8, 2014

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