Old Poems by Other People

Over the course of my life I have run into some real classics in the poetry of others. But I mean real classics, not what the professors say is a classic. You know, poems that you and I can relate to.

Well, shucks, the poems will say it better than I can explain it.

So we start a small series of poems that have enchanted me for ages.

THE PASSING OF THE BACKHOUSE

When memory keeps me company and moves to smile or tears,
A weather-beaten object looms through the mist of years,
Behind the house and barn it stood, a half a mile or more,
And hurrying feet a path had made, straight to its swinging door.
Its architecture was a type of simple classic art,
But in the tragedy of life, it played a leading part.
And oft the passing traveler would drive slow and heave a sigh,
To see the modest hired girl slip out with glances shy.

We had our posey garden that the women loved so well;
I loved it too, but better still I loved the stronger smell
That filled the evening breezes so full of homely cheer,
And told the night- o'er-taken tramp that human life was near.
On lazy August afternoons it made a little bower
Delightful, where my grandsire sat and whiled away an hour.
For there on summer mornings, its very cares entwined.
And berry bushes reddened in the steaming soil behind.

All day fat spiders spun their webs to catch the buzzing flies
That flitted to and from the house, where Ma was baking pies.
And once a swarm of hornets bold had built their palace there,
And stung my unsuspecting aunt--I must not tell you where.
My father took a flaming pole--that was a happy day--
He nearly burned the building up, but the hornets left to stay.
When summer bloom began to fade and winter to carouse,
We banked the little building with a heap of hemlock boughs.

But when the crust is on the snow and sullen skies were gray,
Inside the building was no place where one would wish to stay.
We did our duties promptly; there one purpose swayed the mind;
We tarried not, nor lingered long, on what we left behind.
The torture of the icy seat would make a Spartan sob,
For needs must scrape the flesh with a lacerating cob,
That from a frost-encrusted nail suspended from a string--
My Father was a frugal man and wasted not a thing.

When Grandpa had to "go out back" and make his morning call,
We'd bundle up the dear old man with a muffler and a shawl.
I knew the hole on which he sat--'twas padded all around,
And once I tried to sit there--'twas all too wide I found,
My loins were all too little, and I jack-knifed there to stay,
They had to come and get me out, or I'd have passed away.
My father said ambition was a thing that boys should shun,
And I just used the children's hole 'til childhood days were done.

And still I marvel at the craft that cut those holes so true,
The baby's hole, and the slender hole that fitted Sister Sue.
That dear old country landmark; I've tramped around a bit,
And in the lap of luxury my lot has been to sit,
But ere I die I'll eat the fruits of trees I robbed of yore,
Then seek that shanty where my name is carved upon the door.
I ween that old familiar smell will soothe my jaded soul,
I'm now a man, but nonetheless, I'll try the children's hole.

The poem is variously attributed to James Whitcomb Riley and to Charle T. Rankin. But no one knows for sure if either of them wrote it or some anonymous writer actually penned the words.

Back soon with another one.