Edwin Raven Of Kennebec River
© Surazeus
2011 12 22
Edwin Arlington Robinson
22 December 1869 - 6 April 1935
Through sunny streets of Gardiner every day
while laughing carefree children skip and play,
brooding ghost in long black coat and silk tie,
puffing scented smoke from polished wood pipe
and peering through spectacles with fierce eyes,
pauses often, lost in fantastic dream,
and stares forlorn in Cobbossee-Contee Stream.
Memories of his childhood in river town
flicker behind silent veil of his eyes,
swimming in Kennebec River with friends,
picking apples from misty sunlit fields,
collecting tiger beetles and butterflies
in grove of oaks where red boxberries shine,
and listening to girls play piano and sing.
Prophet of miserable hope, stalking streets
filthy from arrogance of thieving lies,
wields pen sharper than swords of generals
to peel away masks of upstanding folk
and crack ice facade of their social pride,
exposing frauds disguised as honest men
that reveals brass statues are empty shells.
Ravens gather on twisted branch of oak
to follow Edwin Robinson through mist,
eager to feast on corpse of piety,
rotten apple cores spilling from cracked masks
of blind statues that rust in hungry rain,
while he gathers seeds of forgotten souls
and plants their eyes in meadows of old faith
for hymns of honest hope to sprout new leaves
on Tree of Life before library hall
where Laura Richards writes at oaken desk.
Plucking apple from ancient twisted tree,
where Yellow House shimmers on star-blessed hill,
Edwin offers fruit to Laura, Star Queen,
then bows before sweet gentle Rosalind,
woodland maiden in white sun-gleaming gown,
who dances among trees while Alice plays
music of rippling river to enchant
his heart, piercing clouds of grumbling black death
with rays of light that guide his trudging steps
from cliff of despair to garden of songs.
Young Edwin, raven of Kennebec River,
gazes backward through swirling mist of time
and listens to ancient music of gods
who danced long ago on swift-spinning Earth
and tries to translate their forgotten dreams,
carving letters in sand with magic wand,
twisted tree branch fallen from apple tree,
to record fears and hopes that plague our minds
and urge our steps forward on road of life,
singing from birth till death swallows our souls.
Yet his voice still echoes in wind of trees,
half heard behind roar of cars on gray roads,
beaming bright in sunlight on apple cheeks,
and whispering secrets buried in our hearts.
© Surazeus
2011 12 22
Edwin Arlington Robinson
22 December 1869 - 6 April 1935
Through sunny streets of Gardiner every day
while laughing carefree children skip and play,
brooding ghost in long black coat and silk tie,
puffing scented smoke from polished wood pipe
and peering through spectacles with fierce eyes,
pauses often, lost in fantastic dream,
and stares forlorn in Cobbossee-Contee Stream.
Memories of his childhood in river town
flicker behind silent veil of his eyes,
swimming in Kennebec River with friends,
picking apples from misty sunlit fields,
collecting tiger beetles and butterflies
in grove of oaks where red boxberries shine,
and listening to girls play piano and sing.
Prophet of miserable hope, stalking streets
filthy from arrogance of thieving lies,
wields pen sharper than swords of generals
to peel away masks of upstanding folk
and crack ice facade of their social pride,
exposing frauds disguised as honest men
that reveals brass statues are empty shells.
Ravens gather on twisted branch of oak
to follow Edwin Robinson through mist,
eager to feast on corpse of piety,
rotten apple cores spilling from cracked masks
of blind statues that rust in hungry rain,
while he gathers seeds of forgotten souls
and plants their eyes in meadows of old faith
for hymns of honest hope to sprout new leaves
on Tree of Life before library hall
where Laura Richards writes at oaken desk.
Plucking apple from ancient twisted tree,
where Yellow House shimmers on star-blessed hill,
Edwin offers fruit to Laura, Star Queen,
then bows before sweet gentle Rosalind,
woodland maiden in white sun-gleaming gown,
who dances among trees while Alice plays
music of rippling river to enchant
his heart, piercing clouds of grumbling black death
with rays of light that guide his trudging steps
from cliff of despair to garden of songs.
Young Edwin, raven of Kennebec River,
gazes backward through swirling mist of time
and listens to ancient music of gods
who danced long ago on swift-spinning Earth
and tries to translate their forgotten dreams,
carving letters in sand with magic wand,
twisted tree branch fallen from apple tree,
to record fears and hopes that plague our minds
and urge our steps forward on road of life,
singing from birth till death swallows our souls.
Yet his voice still echoes in wind of trees,
half heard behind roar of cars on gray roads,
beaming bright in sunlight on apple cheeks,
and whispering secrets buried in our hearts.
I wrote this poem in memory of the birthday of Edwin Arlington Robinson, the poet. Edwin and I are distant cousins. Edwin is descended from Mercy Dudley Woodbridge, the younger sister of my ancestor Anne Dudley Bradstreet, the Puritan Poet.
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