Anthology From the Field., No.3: Old Towns

Poems on ghost towns, institutions of learning, Fachwerk, and an announcement on the next Wendell Berry Reading Group date.

Photo by Dan Novac on Unsplash

Welcome to another Anthology from the Field, this time on the theme of Old Towns. I received some excellent poems from readers and I have included the ‘cream of the crop’ of these in the free section. Thank you to all who submitted.

The next theme will be on ‘Harvest’, so as usual, if you wold like to be in with a chance of appearing in the next Anthology From the Field, please submit poem(s) and a brief bio (which can include a link to your work) to haddenturner@protonmail.com or in reply to this email.

Also included in this post is a section for Paid Subscribers with some information about the next Wendell Berry Reading Group taking place next month. There is still plenty of time to sign up for this by becoming a paid subscriber to Over the Field. I can’t say enough how grateful I am for the support I have received.

Now that all that is out of the way, onto the poems…

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Hard times befall

Old, weathered, and worn -
these are the stones that have borne
the weight of times forlorn.
Grey, black, and somewhat brown,
lining the ancient gas-lit passages
of this old, forgotten town. 

Grooves etched upon them testify
to eras of prosperity, 
now consigned to dusty books of history. 
They remind of jovial years of plenty -
when mud mixed with the fruits of commerce -
when this hinterland lived and breathed. 

Now, only what came before is all that remains.
Nature, permitted by the absence of life
to reclaim dominion over ceded land.
And once again the old owl chimes -
at an ever changing hour. 

Hadden Turner (2024)

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An Ode to Fachwerk

Down the lane is an old, half-timbered house -
a masterpiece of a dwelling.
Fashioned in geometric tones -
of black bisecting white,
a multitude of triangles pointing up to the heavens,
drawing my gazing eye upon high. 

Down the road is another such abode
quite diverse from the first. 
Age has been harsh to this old house -
its beams all buckled, bent, and worn.
But still, vestiges of colour offer themselves up -
creams and rich ochres offset by the heavy thickness of brown.
And these beams, which have faced the test of years,
still uphold their crown with grandeur.

Thus, the masterpiece remains.  

And if I travel, 
far across the Channel,
there too I will find 
these same beams
upholding their own kind. 
Patterns fashioned into dwellings,
and dialects expressed in facades.
Each different, though all the same,
a masterpiece of a house. 

Hadden Turner (2024)

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Watching Cambridge

Living encyclopaedias 
throng up and down these 
old cobbled streets.
Their journeys hemmed in 
by walls of ancient Ketton*. 

I watch as they stumble along,
always critiquing as they traverse
the knowledge contained within. 
Weathering away the walls and streets
with their frantic pursuit of "progress". 

Ever striving.
Ever succeeding.
Never content. 

Hadden Turner (2024)

*Ketton is the name of the characteristic limestone used for many of Cambridge's old buildings

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Reader’s poems

Jolon

A hundred years ago,
this was a lively and bustling town.
Now, the hotel lies in ruins.
The gas station is gone now,
and the post office has shut down.
When that happened,
for most people's purposes,
the town of Jolon ceased to be.
The Episcopal church is the last building standing,
a tiny white church,
built in 1883,
kept alive by a small but dedicated congregation.
In the church, the bells are rung,
prayers are said,
and hymns are sung.
At night,
the traveler on the road
sees a light shining
through the stained glass over the door.
And,
from time to time,
a member of one of the old families
is laid to rest in the cemetery on the hill.

by Rachael Denny

Rachael Denny is a writer and musician who divides her time between Oregon's Willamette Valley, and the Santa Lucia Mountains of California.

I liked how bluntly Rachael captured the sad dynamic that has plagued many of our old towns - their neglect and disuse - but offers us hope in the small church and its members who are holding on to the life of the place. But what an ending to the poem! as with each old soul put to rest in the ground dies another bastion of the community, and another nail is hammered in to the coffin of the town itself. This highlights the importance of supporting those old time members of small and dying communities who have chosen to stay faithfully in place - and perhaps to consider joining them. 

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The Professor’s Walk  

The walk to teach the morning class
Is measured in unconscious steps
That fall in smooth, familiar routes,
While thoughts walk on at greater depths. 

I pass the new construction site
And watch them place the glass and wire,
All stretched on cold and naked beams, 
The ribs of some ungodly pyre. 

The sharp protruding metal frame
Is built with all efficiency, 
A testament to modern man, 
An alter to utility. 

I feel it watch me as I pass 
And hear its unencumbered boast;
It claims the future is a proof
That will dispel the ancient ghosts. 

I pull my collar on the way
To brace the chill November air; 
The pounding of pneumatic drills
Enact the sound of vacant stares.

But fifty yards beyond the spot, 
A visage meets my ruddy face; 
Its fenestration is a brow
That nods a promise of embrace. 

The silent columns yield repose 
And guard the entry’s ornament,
Of honest curls and patient lines
That speak a word of compliment. 

A compliment that would anoint
Our present groanings with the past, 
The oil of tradition’s vine, 
If carefully pruned, might still outlast

The fashions of the modern mind;
The coughed up phlegm of the machine.
Anointings still, despite the times, 
Speak the ever near unseen. 

I climb the roughhewn limestone steps 
And touch the heavy wooden door;
The halls are warm and fluid veins
Whose vessels have a human core. 

I hang my coat and take my spot,
And look to find a field of phones:
The flick of eyes, the muttering noise, 
The busy screens, the silent stones. 

And yet, although the charmer pipes, 
The mesmerized might wake with prose;
I clear my throat and set the text, 
An act of spirit to disclose. 

by Carter Johnson

Carter has been a great encourager of my writing, and it is a pleasure to publish one of his poems here. I love his idea of juxtaposing the somewhat abhorrent new against the old and 'oikophillic' (as he mentioned to me in an email). And I want to bring particular attention to this line: "Whose vessels have a human core." which I find delightful. So many of our old buildings and towns have this 'human core' that we can readily perceive. It is as if they have been made to be 'lived in' rather than just providing a roof over our heads and a bit of comfort as is the aurora that so many modern buildings give off. 

Carter has a Substack here, which I encourage you to visit:

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Canandaigua

When we go to town in April
When we step through mud and in out of rain
When we see old friends and say, “nice day”

We invoke a season
The first warmth of spring against glittering snow
And earliest of willow and daffodil and birch

We ask about
How we got through the winter, the repairs on the truck,
The new fence put in, the new calves born

We open space
To smile like always, to remember our names
To ask about kids and plans for Easter

We speak hope
For daughter’s graduation, for a summer of hay
That something might be done about the cost of feed

We claim our presence
All us heroes and fools in a small old town
Planting our fields on lands prone to flood

We state what we must
Winter’s shadows gone, first flowers up
Over tiled roofs geese honking north

Spring must be spoke. Nice day.

By Sam Avrett

Sam Avrett lives in a rural county in upstate New York, with dogs, husband, and a startling amount of canned and preserved food stocked away for the winter.

Sam wonderfully captures the convivial nature of many of our small and rural towns: the remembering of names, conversations infused with care and the simple things of life, and the astute awareness of the rhythms of nature. And I especially like how Sam begins and ends the poem with the gruff greeting "Nice day" which is so characteristic of these places and their old-time folk.

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More poems below and information on the next Online Wendell Berry Reading Group...