Tess over at
The mag posted this image of the painting, Under the Windsor bridge, 1912, by
Adolphe Valette. While the image didn't spark an immediate poem, it did remind
me a bit of a little spot in the city I live in. Just outside the courthouse on
Main street is a set of stairs that go down to the river. The stairs go below
the highway that runs behind the courthouse; a highway that has at least four
names that I know of. Driving on the highway you would never know that the road
is actually a bridge at that point, and the stairs go under the road.
I can only
imagine why they built the stairs, maybe to transport people to and from court,
on the river. At times I imagined three men in a boat, one rowing, one chained
to his seat, and one with a scatter gun, coming to the stairs. The chained man
to be brought to justice, and maybe the gallows. This was a rough town, a mill
town, and for a time the state capital…and the end of the Oregon Trail.
I would
imagine those things, would give life to the rower, Cliff, who got a silver
piece to row the leaky boat those miles to the courthouse. Thomas the guard,
whose wife should have given birth to their third child by now, Thomas not
being there because he had to track down the runner. And the runner, a good
looking young man, who killed a man over liquor and gambling…may also have had
a bit to do with a brunette named Jane. His name was John Landers, and probably
by this time tomorrow he would be doing the dance at the end of the rope, after
which the judge and the bailiff would smoke some opium in the den just down the
street.
I would imagine these things as I walked
slowly down the stairs. I would flesh out their lives, as mine was slowly
ending. I would imagine these things as I made my way down the stairs to my
home for the evening, my meager bed under the bridge downtown…that almost no
one knows is there.
Chris
McQueeney 8/19/12 10:51 P.M.
Truer grit
A wolf
spider sat
Upon my hand
So still
Not moving
Beautiful in
its
Purpose
I screamed
like
A little
girl
And twitched
As if jolted
by
Old sparky
The spider
had
Truer grit
Then I
Chris
McQueeney 8/19/12 12:38 P.M.
15 comments:
I've met some pretty bad ass spiders myself!
Damn, Bud... Both these pieces are really good. :D
Well, there's a flight of fancy, if you like...
I like the firs imagining of the city and bridge!
And as for the wolf spider? :D, yes, I suppose he did!
About the music... yes, I can totally see that.
haha on the spider...funny how something so small will throw us off...smiles...i def like the first bit chris...yes how many do not know it is there...
Very interesting take on the prompt; well done.
Weaving a story about the people you 'see' from your place under that bridge ...hmmm. I like it.
I used to do writing exercises similar to this, choosing from among patrons in a cafe, coffee shop, bookstore, wherever. I'd watch for awhile, allowing my eyes to alight on just the face/posture/expression that sparked my imagination, then I'd weave a backstory and write a short story, inserting all my suppositions into a tale of woe and regret, of elation and hope, or of love unrequitted.
Nicely done, Chris. You'd be a fun one to have along at a cafe or mall. People watching : tag-team style. Ha!
Actually, I have known it was there, knew what it had to be, but never wandered around all lit up downtown. That tunnel is known to some fishermen who work the bank, no?
Wolf spiders are too much like tarantulas...
Well done on both counts.
=)
I like both of your takes on the prompt. There is so much to wonder and observe when watching people. I hate spiders but love your poem. :)
dang..that last bit of the first piece..very moving..
Well spiders are known for being pretty crafty!
A wolf spider! Thats' what those are called, I was trying to think of the name the other day.
Loved this poem!
Very nice bud. I really enjoy looking through your minds eye. Well written!
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