An Old Copper Bell

Sometimes I am asked how do I come up with ideas for my poetry. Here is one example:
My wife Linda and I enjoy going to estate sales, both to tour the houses and to shop for interesting items. Linda collects salts and their silver spoons. I collect old bottles, old small tins, and metal bells. I must own 150 bells now of all sizes and shapes. I have them divided into groups, such as animal bells topped with various animals, lady bells (ladies in full skirts and bonnets), bells of differing heights, etc. I have become more selective in deciding to buy a bell when I see one nowadays. Friday we hit three estate sales. At one sale, I found an old bell that didn't look like much. The handle had been replaced long ago with a wooden barrel with a metal bolt and nut to hold it in place. The top nut was exposed and quite rusty. The wooden barrel handle had a big crack down one side of it. The clapper was missing, with only an old, dirty piece of cord left behind, having the end that had held the clapper showing left-over rust. The top (handle part) wasn't much to look at, for sure. The bottom part appeared very old and was dark green in color. The bell was heavy. The handle was 4 and 3/4th inches tall, with the bell being 3 and 1/4 inches tall with a diameter of the bell opening being 4 and 1/2 inches across. A heavy, eight-inch tall bell! Closer examination revealed the bell to be made of copper, quite heavy and thick-walled & quite well-made. I decided to buy the bell. It cost all of $3.50. The lady at checkout said that it was copper and should shine up nicely. However, I prefer to leave the decades old green patina untouched. I can just imagine that this bell was once a grand bell and was probably quite expensive when new. I, of course, wondered about its history -- who bought it new, who all had owned it, how/where it was used, who repaired it, how it came to be sitting on a den shelf in Shreveport. The result of my imagination answering such questions is the following storoem.

An Old Copper Bell

The elderly metallurgist poured all his skill
into making this bell something extraordinary.
The bottom used the finest copper from Brazil,
and the handle couldn’t be anything ordinary.

No, this bell required something quite unique.
So, he added a handle of exquisite carved ivory
that had been brought to Boston from Mozambique.
Now this was a bell fit for even Mr. Caleb Ivery.

Caleb was among the richest merchants in town.
His only daughter, Petunia, was headed out west
to become a school teacher. She had worn down
Caleb’s resistance, convinced him she knew best.

The Old West of 1880 was still wild and untamed.
Petunia secured a teaching job out in Kansas territory.
Caleb warned her she’d be killed or maybe maimed,
but she was determined to help write America’s story.

Caleb presented her with the bell to use in her school.
So away Petunia went west, to the bustling Dodge City.
Her “school” was space in a barn with horses and a mule.
For two years she sought students with no success. A pity!

Broke, and too proud to let daddy know he’d been right,
poor Petunia became a bawdy house lady. She had talent!
When done, the cowboys would ring her bell with delight.
One day, along came this gambler, handsome and gallant.

They fell in love, married, moved to New Orleans’s Quarter,
where they became respectable, but poor. To make ends meet,
Petunia sold her precious bell to a prosperous cotton exporter.
He gave the bell to his daughter, making the circle complete.

For his daughter taught school; the bell called many a child
to attention over her career, fulfilling its original mission.
After many years, a careless boy, acting all crazy and wild,
knocked it from her desk, causing the handle’s demolition.

The teacher cried, tried repair, but she gave up in despair,
for the ivory handle, carved so magnificently, was ruined.
She threw the broken bell into the trash. She couldn’t bear
to keep it longer. Along came the janitor, Elmer McEuen.

Old Elmer knew the bell was still of use. He made
a handle out of wood, securing it with a threaded metal
bolt and nut, and used a string with a nut that weighed
enough to produce a loud clang. He deemed it had mettle.

Old Elmer had a granddaughter that taught school over
in the poorest part of town. She took the bell proudly
to her classroom. She used it well for years. Moreover,
she passed the bell down to her daughter, who loudly

rang the old bell to call her own classroom to order daily.
The bell was serving this family of teachers’ fifth generation
when Katrina flooded New Orleans. During the melee
of evacuation, the bell was left at its schoolroom location.

When the school was finally renovated, the bell was thrown
out as trash. From the rubbish heap, a tourist, a young boy,
retrieved the bell. It was dirty; its copper no longer shone;
its wooden handle was cracked; but to the lad it was a toy.

The bell was brought to Shreveport at their vacation’s end.
The boy gave it to his invalid grandmother to keep bedside.
After her death, at the estate sale, the large crowd did wend
its way throughout the house, picking up objects they spied.

The old bell was examined by quite a few and deemed lacking
in worth. Finally, a bell collector happened along, took the old
bell in his hands, saw beyond its dark green patina and cracking
wooden handle. He knew it had too much quality to go unsold.

The collector added the bell to his collection, placing it back
behind the newer, shinier bells. He bought it since it was old,
copper, and once must’ve been prized. Having no way to track
its history or where it’d been, to him its story stayed untold.

So it is with many things old. Tho’ they be rusty or battered,
a bit broken and worn, they had a worthy past that mattered.


Cheers!

Harry

Write-up in my local newspaper

http://www.shreveporttimes.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2009903180314

The Shreveport Times' Wednesday magazine supplement which is distributed throughout the neighborhoods located in the southeastern area of Shreveport, LA, (my hometown) is called Southeast Voices. It reaches about 40,000 readers out of Shreveport-Bossier City's total population of about 240,000. Today it has a feature article about me and my poetry. (link above)

Tom Howard Poetry Contest Winning Poems

Here are the two cash prize winning entries of mine in the 2008 Tom Howard Poetry Contest:

2nd Place ($1,000 prize) Winning Rhyming Storoem:

(The format is stanzas of four lines each. Due to line lengths, many lines are broken here. The rhymes are at the end of the lines read as though they were unbroken.)

--- The Old Salty Poems ---

The Old Seadog

In 1900, he is a stranger come to their town,
now renting, living in the old O’Grady place,
not to farm, not to fix up despite its being rundown,
just to live out his days, what with Death staring in his face.

The word around is he has no family, no friends,
that he has spent his whole life sailing the seas,
but, what to believe, since, when rumors fly, the truth bends.
Reports of disaster at sea…just leave him be, if you please.

As time does pass, the townspeople’s suspicion turns to fear.
The children are warned to keep away from him. “He’s not one of us!”
He ventures into town only for supplies, mostly liquor and beer.
Keeping to himself, he does nothing to allay their fear and distrust.

The children going to and from school walk quickly past his house,
until one day little Sarah happens along as he is at his mailbox…
and she smiles at him…”You don’t look like such a mean old souse.”
she says, repeating what she has heard him called. Her remark shocks,

surprises him, but then he laughs. “Neither do you! What’s your name?”
“I’m Sarah. What’s yours?” “Lately I’ve been known as Jonah mostly,
but since I’m an old seadog, call me Salty.” Every day, the same –
he’s at the mailbox as she passes his house. Then, comes finally

the day she tarries to visit, decides to converse, and his stories begin,
wondrous tales, tall and true, of far-off lands with fantastic sights,
of mysterious beasts, strange adventures, desperate battles to win,
bounty and riches galore, and fierce storms that rage for days and nights.

Soon, Sarah’s friend or two is stopping to listen to Salty’s tales.
More friends, still more…until the parents learn of these sessions.
But, when they come to put an end to it, a story of ships with sails,
South Sea Island natives, and pearls draws them in, changes impressions.

Old Salty becomes the most popular storyteller in the region all around,
never too busy to oblige with a sea tale, always willing to visit awhile
with parent or child. At last, he knows happiness, as friendships abound.
Countless lives he enriches -- all because one little girl wasn’t afraid to smile.


The Legacy Of Friendship

Old Salty and young Sarah share a staunch friendship
until the day he dies. Then the doctor drops by.
“Salty had no relatives. He lived aboard a ship
for more than fifty years. He expected he would die

a lonely, old drunk, but he credited you with preventing that.
So, he wanted you to have all his worldly possessions of value.”
Sarah’s bequest is one battered, old, sea trunk that once had sat
in Salty’s bedroom. Sorting through it, Sarah thinks, it’s true,

that it was nice of Salty to think of her so fondly after all, but
what is a young girl to do with maps, charts, and diary
after diary recounting his travels. Then, at the bottom, what
is this – a leather pouch containing handfuls of small stones. Sorry,

but she was hoping for some of those pearls he had told tall tales
about. Still, these are a pleasing mixture of pretty greens and reds.
The trunk is stored for years, but all of Salty’s stories she tells
to her children over and over, then to her grandchildren, instead

of reading them fairy tales. At each retelling of Salty’s stories, she shows
them the pretty stones, letting each child hold some in their hand.
These stories create unique family memories, each generation knows
them by heart – enriching their dreams, keeping Salty a remembered man.

Decades come and go, changing their town from one of farming
into a mill town. Most townspeople merely switch from an
existence of share-cropping to mill working, their hardships alarming.
When Sarah donates Salty’s trunk to the university library, the man

goes beside himself with glee, calling the charts, diaries, and maps
a true treasure -- this was back in 1960. Now Sarah, nearing 100, thrives.
She has 4 children, 17 grandchildren, 31 great-grandchildren – and naps
twice a day. But, when awake, she’s still the greatest storyteller alive!

The mill is closing; their jobs going overseas. Times for the family become
grim. Still, to celebrate her centennial, all in the family contribute to pay
for having Sarah’s pretty story stones mounted into a necklace at some
big-city jewelry store. Money in hand, two of her daughters silently pray

that they’ll have enough to mount all her stones. At this fancy jewelry store
they are greeted with disapproving looks, as though in the wrong place.
Their explanation given, the jeweler examines a stone, then looks at more.
As stone after stone is examined, disbelief grows larger upon his face.

“Where did you get these?” “They’ve been in our family 90 years, I’d guess.”
“This amazing collection of rubies and emeralds is…absolutely…priceless!”


High Distinction Award ($200 Prize) Winning Free-verse Poem:

The Assembled Waiters

We all sit and wait.
We wait in a room designed for waiting.
We wait for our names to be called.
Some wait nervously, fidgeting
and checking their watches.
Some wait patiently, reading old magazines.
Some even doze off to sleep.
But we all wait.

We sit on chairs not quite comfortable enough,
chairs too close together so that our space
feels violated when someone sits down besides us.
We rarely speak to each other, filling the room
with mostly silence.
We seldom make eye contact with those
around us, preferring to remain anonymous.

We are a unique group assembled here.
We are both the young and the old,
both males and females,
the rich and the poor.
Here we are all equal…waiters.
Worry, fear, and dread sit on many faces,
for here we all need luck and mercy.
We sit here strangers all,
gathered together at this place
for this one moment in time,
sharing an experience never
to be shared again together.

We wait to give of our blood, our urine,
or to have our insides revealed.
We hope for good answers,
but for some it will be bad news.
For some, it will be routine.
For others, it will alter their life.
For the unfortunate, it will be a death sentence.

As an elderly lady turtles out with her cane,
a teenage boy takes her seat to begin his wait.
The old still outnumber the young.
The boy is wearing sweat pants and T-shirt.
Some wear business suits, some casual attire.
Dress here is of no help, of no importance,
For this room is a great equalizer.
We all wait to have the medical technologist
call our name to have our lab work done.
First arrived, first called…and finally
I am at the front of the queue, hearing
my name called to come give three tubes
of blood so that I can complete my visit
at the doctor’s office this morning.
My wait is finally over.


Cheers!

Harry

PMOOFM won Honorable Mention!

My poetry book, "Poetic Musings of an Old, Fat Man" won Honorable Mention in the Fiction, Poetry category in the 2008 Reader Views Literary Awards announced today . :-)

Cheers!

Harry

Harry Gilleland Has A Secret!

Greetings, All ~

I have a secret...something of which I am quite proud. But I cannot announce it until after mid-February. My lips must remain sealed. :-)

Cheers!

Harry