#14. Thomas and Beulah, by Rita Dove
#14. Thomas and Beulah, Rita Dove
1986, Carnegie-Mellon University Press
Thomas and Beulah is a book of poems by Rita Dove about her grandparents; her grandmother, "Beulah" (renamed from Georgianna), who grew up in Akron, Ohio, and her grandfather Thomas, who migrated up the Mississippi River from Tennessee as a young man, along with his friend Lem. The book is in two parts: the first, "Mandolin," is about Thomas and largely from his point of view, while the second, "Canary in Bloom," is about Beulah.
I like it pretty well. It is not quite what I was expecting. It leaves me thinking.
This book won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1987.
Here are two pieces from it, to give the flavour & taste:
The Stroke
Later he'll say Death stepped right up
to shake his hand, then squeezed
until he sank to his knees. (Get up,
nigger. Get up and try again.)
Much later he'll admit he'd been afraid,
curled tight in the center of the rug, sunlight
striking one cheek and plaited raffia
scratching the other. He'll leave out
the part about daydream's aromatic fields
and the strap-worn flanks of themule
he followed through them. When his wife asks
how did it feel, he won't mention
that the sun shone like the summer
she was pregnant with their first, and
that she craved watermelon which he smuggled
home in a newspaper, and how
the bus driver smirked as his nickel
clicked through -- no, he'll say
it was like being kicked by a mule.
Right now, though, pinned to the bull's-eye,
he knows it was Lem all along:
Lem's knuckles tapping his chest in passing,
Lem's heart, for safekeeping,
shored up in his arms.
Recovery
He's tucked his feet into corduroy scuffs,
and gone out to the porch. From the parlor
with its glassed butterflies, the mandolin on the wall,
she can see one bare heel bobbing.
Years ago he had promised to take her to Chicago.
He was lovely then, a pigeon
whose pulse could be seen when the moment
was perfectly still. In the house
the dark rises and whirrs like a loom.
She stands by the davenport,
obedient among her trinkets,
secrets like birdsong in the air.
1986, Carnegie-Mellon University Press
Thomas and Beulah is a book of poems by Rita Dove about her grandparents; her grandmother, "Beulah" (renamed from Georgianna), who grew up in Akron, Ohio, and her grandfather Thomas, who migrated up the Mississippi River from Tennessee as a young man, along with his friend Lem. The book is in two parts: the first, "Mandolin," is about Thomas and largely from his point of view, while the second, "Canary in Bloom," is about Beulah.
I like it pretty well. It is not quite what I was expecting. It leaves me thinking.
This book won the Pulitzer Prize for Poetry in 1987.
Here are two pieces from it, to give the flavour & taste:
The Stroke
Later he'll say Death stepped right up
to shake his hand, then squeezed
until he sank to his knees. (Get up,
nigger. Get up and try again.)
Much later he'll admit he'd been afraid,
curled tight in the center of the rug, sunlight
striking one cheek and plaited raffia
scratching the other. He'll leave out
the part about daydream's aromatic fields
and the strap-worn flanks of themule
he followed through them. When his wife asks
how did it feel, he won't mention
that the sun shone like the summer
she was pregnant with their first, and
that she craved watermelon which he smuggled
home in a newspaper, and how
the bus driver smirked as his nickel
clicked through -- no, he'll say
it was like being kicked by a mule.
Right now, though, pinned to the bull's-eye,
he knows it was Lem all along:
Lem's knuckles tapping his chest in passing,
Lem's heart, for safekeeping,
shored up in his arms.
Recovery
He's tucked his feet into corduroy scuffs,
and gone out to the porch. From the parlor
with its glassed butterflies, the mandolin on the wall,
she can see one bare heel bobbing.
Years ago he had promised to take her to Chicago.
He was lovely then, a pigeon
whose pulse could be seen when the moment
was perfectly still. In the house
the dark rises and whirrs like a loom.
She stands by the davenport,
obedient among her trinkets,
secrets like birdsong in the air.