Shards of Blue-- available now from Finishing Line Press

My chapbook, Shards of Blue, is now available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press.  The poems in the book tell the story of my great-great-grandparents, John and Mary Ratcliff, from the time they moved to Kansas in 1854 as part of an abolitionist community, through the Civil War, in which John was severely wounded, through the post-war years during which Mary took on more of the work running the farm since John was unable to do so.  John suffered from depression after the war (likely post traumatic stress syndrome) and found solace with their hired girl, Melissa, with whom he had an affair.  The book ends with John and Mary's divorce, and Mary striking off on her own with their four youngest sons, taking out her own homestead in Smith County, Kansas.

The book is available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press.

Ships August 21, 2015.

THE GLASS CUTTER

The meetinghouse was no place for art.

Plain walls and clear glass

were better to focus the mind

on the spirit born in simplicity,

brought forth from the Inner Light,

and spoken in the still, small voice

that need not announce itself

with ornamentation.

So, too, with daily life.

When he became a man

he was told:  pursue a trade,

go into business, take up farming.

Do good, practical work.

The Meeting taught him

that God’s beauty was in all things.

He saw it everywhere—

in blades of grass bent before the wind,

in the colors of the sky throughout the day,

in ripples on the surface of a pond.

All the world was art to him.

So he became a glass cutter,

beveling simplicity's stark edge,

etching grace as lines and patterns

into vases, bowls, and glasses,

each refracting spirit and light.

WHAT WONDERFUL DAYS THESE ARE

Mary Townsend Ratcliffe, Marshall County, Spring 1859

Spring has returned to the prairie.

The sky is a beautiful cornflower blue,

the air still more cool than hot,

and my family is happy and healthy.

John plows like he’s cutting glass,

absorbed in the precision of his work,

stopping only to run

the black soil through his hands.

I tend to the garden,

pick daffodils and jonquils—

narcissus poeticus and jonquilla—

to brighten up the kitchen.

Tonight, when the boys are asleep,

John and I will go down to the creek

and wash the day’s toils from each other.

DECISIONS

Mary Townsend Ratcliffe, Wheeling, VA, April 1856


The hardest decision is what to take
and what to leave behind. There is
not enough room on the riverboat
for all our possessions, even if we could
pay to have them shipped to Kansas.
So many items that have no value
other than the memories they spark,
I must sell or leave for others.
I will pack necessities—pots, pans,
bedding, clothing, books (yes, necessary)—
and a few niceties, but most I will leave.

And, Uncle Thomas’ collections—
we cannot take them with us.
We do not need his herbarium
or his geological specimen cabinet,
though, what a curiosity they would be…
Perhaps the medical society
will have an interest, or one
of the natural scientists in town.

I know we’ve made the right decision.
I know we should go, lest Kansas be lost
to slavery and ignorance;
that we must go to help assure free soil.
But, I struggle with the thought
that we might never see
family and friends again;
that I might never again
walk these green mountains.
And, what of natural science? Medicine?
What opportunities will I have
to pursue these, to continue my studies
when there will be so much work with the farm?

SPRING, 1863

John Ratcliffe, Marshall County, Kansas


I see the signs of spring around me.
Birds have returned
or are passing overhead, flying north.
Flowers are in bloom,
and buds have appeared on the fruit trees.
But I cannot shake this winter.
Though the days grow longer,
I am in darkness.
Though I am home,
the storm of war surrounds me.

I cannot find the beauty
in the blossoms and the buds.
In the singing of the birds,
I hear only the cries
of the wounded and the dying.
The boys clattering through the house
sound like brigades rushing to battle.
Every clang of a pot or pan makes me jump.

Only in the depths of night,
when all is still do I find peace.
There are days I wish I’d died on that battlefield.
Then there would have been only one death,
instead of the pain from my wounds
and the daily deaths I endure.

THE OHIO TOWN COMPANY

There on the prairie, on the edge of settlement,
the great sea of grass flowing to the west,
cities, towns, and farms to the east,
these Ohio men laid out their town,
measured out their farms,
knowing it would be some time
before government surveyors arrived,
but only a short time before claims jumpers,
Missourians, and Border Ruffians.

They came with plows and ideals,
to sow and reap new lives from the Kansas soil.

Raised on abolition, they had seen
runaways pass through their villages,
had seen the fear and hope in the eyes
of men, women, and children;
heard it in the whispered voices
in barns and cellars, under cover in wagons
as they waited for the slave hunters to pass.
Quakers to a man, they sat in Meeting
listening to those who counseled patience
and trust in God that laws would change.
They had helped hide runaways;
bought only goods made with free labor.
But this was not enough.
When Kansas opened, they went west
to send a message to the nation.
Kansas would be free,
by the ballot, they hoped;
by force if necessary.

It was their season,
and they waited for conflict to sprout.

The Hired Girl... yet again

Thanks to my sister, Amy, the copy editor, I think "The Hired Girl" is finally in decent shape.  Amy is my primary sounding board, commenter, and editorial consultant.  She has a great knack for finding better ways to say things (which is why she's such a good copy editor) and has a great ability to make my words even better.  She's been a huge help in getting this poem into shape after the many drafts it's been through.  So, here's the final draft.  If you like it, Amy gets the credit; if you don't, then it's all on me.

THE HIRED GIRL

Melissa Hendricks, Marshall County, Kansas, 1873


This is my day today—
much like yesterday
and the day before that.
Up at dawn to help Miz Mary fix breakfast
while the older boys milk the cows.
Clean the kitchen,
then sweep and straighten up the house.
The younger boys will feed the hogs
before they go to school.
Miz Mary and the older boys finished the plowing.
Gene and John will be planting corn today;
Miz Mary will be in the far field sowing wheat.
I’ll have little Grant with me—
he can help me feed the chickens.
After that, I’ll take lunch out to the fields.

I hope Mr. John returns today.
He went hunting on the prairie.
Been gone a week—longer than usual—
but I don’t dare say too much about that
or Miz Mary will snap at me
like she did the other day
when I said he’d been gone so long.
She said she doesn’t understand
what’s going through his head,
why he can’t help more with the farm.

I’ve missed him much this week.
Talking with Mr. John makes the day go faster.
He tells me what he’s seen on his trips.
We talk about wildflowers and prairie grass,
about how much of the prairie has been plowed up
since he and Miz Mary settled here.
I know all the flowers and trees here in Kansas,
so I ask him about the plants back East.
And the way he talks about the green mountains—
I’d love to see them some day.

He talks of being a glass cutter back in Wheeling,
and said he’s thinking of making glass
here on the farm since he can’t do heavy work anymore
and needs something to do.
I’m going to help him.
Sometimes he reads to me while I work.
He knows I have a hard time reading.
Sometimes I mix up the letters
and the words don’t make any sense.
He said he’s going to teach me to write.

Sometimes Mr. John just sits at the kitchen table
and drinks his coffee while I work.
I feel his dark eyes follow me around the room.
I like that he watches me.
He said I’m pretty—no one’s ever told me that.
He seems different when he’s with me;
he stands a little straighter
and his face is not so hard.

I hope Mr. John returns today.
I could use some company.
If he’s not too sore and tired
we can work together in the garden.
We need to decide what to plant this spring.

Or, maybe we can just be together in the house.

Melissa/The Hired Girl... Again

I am still revising "Melissa/The Hired Girl."  Finding the right voice for Melissa Hendricks has proven to be a very difficult task.  I have struggled with the narrative aspects of the poem-- at times she is telling more than is necessary, or even perhaps realistic.  At times her voice and personality get lost in the process of my telling a story.  At times, I feel like I capture her voice, but make her tell too much.  I have never revised and rewritten a poem, and still been less than satisfied, as I have with this one.  I haven't even settled on a title.

In some ways, the poem seems transitional; that is, it provides a transition between poems that focus on John or Mary or John and Mary.  Melissa seems superfluous.  She is simply there to get us from one stage in John and Mary's lives to another.  Perhaps that was the part she played in their lives.  She was the hired girl, living with them, but not fully part of the family, and thus not fuly part of the story.  But, she is a critical player in their story, even if only the object of John's desire, and through their adultery, the catalyst (but likely not the only cause) leading to John and Mary's divorce.  John did not live with Melissa after the divorce, so perhaps her role in John and Mary's story, and hence in the Skimino Cycle, is ephemeral; transitional.  So, perhaps the poem should not stand on its own, but rather act as a means to move from one poem to another.

I don't know.  This one is hard to wrap my mind around.  But, whatever the role of this poem, here's the latest draft:

THE HIRED GIRL

Melissa Hendricks, Marshall County, Kansas, 1873


This is my day today—
much like yesterday
and the day before that.
Up at dawn to help Miz Mary fix breakfast
while the older boys milk the cows.
Clean the kitchen after we’re done,
then sweep and straighten up the house.
The younger boys will feed the hogs
before they go to school.
Miz Mary and the boys finished the plowing.
Gene will be planting corn today;
Miz Mary and John will be in the far field sowing wheat.
I’ll have little Grant with me—
he can help me feed the chickens.
After that, I’ll fix lunch and take it out to the fields.

I hope Mr. John returns today.
He went out hunting on the prairie
and has been gone a week—longer than usual—
but I don’t dare say too much about that.
When I said something the other day
about him being gone so long,
Miz Mary snapped at me
and said she doesn’t understand
what is going through his head
and why he can’t help more with the farm.

I have missed him so much this week.
Talking with Mr. John always makes the day go faster.
He tells me what he’s seen on his trips.
We talk about the wildflowers and the prairie grass,
and how much of the prairie has been plowed up
since he and Miz Mary settled here.
I know all the flowers and trees here in Kansas,
so I ask him about the plants they have back East.
And the way he talks about the green mountains—
I would love to see them some day.

He talks about being a glass cutter back in Wheeling,
and said he’s thinking of making glass
here on the farm since he needs something to do
and can’t do heavy work anymore.
I am going to help him.
Sometimes he reads to me while I work.
He knows I have a hard time reading.
Sometimes I mix up the letters
and the words don’t make any sense.
He said he’s going to teach me to write.

Sometimes Mr. John just sits at the kitchen table,
drinks his coffee, and watches me while I work.
I feel his dark eyes following me around the room.
I like that he watches me.
He said I’m pretty—no one has ever told me that.
He seems happier when he is with me;
I noticed that he stands a little straighter
whenever he is around me.

I hope Mr. John returns today.
I could use some company.
If he’s not too sore and tired
we can work together in the garden.
We need to decide what to plant this spring.

Or, maybe we can just be together in the house.

John and the Hired Girl

I've been working on a new poem within my Skimino Cycle titled "The Hired Girl."  As the title indicates, the poem focuses on the hired girl that John and Mary Ratcliffe hired to help work on their farm.  According to depositions from friends and neighbors in John's Civil War pension file, John and Mary hired multiple girls to help out, to some of whom John apparently (according to the depositions) took a liking.  That he had an affair with one is definitely known-- Mary names Melissa Hendricks in the divorce papers that she filed in 1873.

I don't know much about Melissa, which is making it difficult to capture her personality and voice in the poem.  She was rather "flat" in the first draft-- commenters who read the first draft said as much, and I have to agree with them.  Here's one little bit of information I know about her:  she was 18 years old in 1870, which means she would have been around 20 or 21 when the adulterous act occurred.  She was listed in the 1880 census as unable to write, but interestingly, she was not listed as illiterate (can one know how to read, but not write?).  She was living with her parents in 1880.  Not much in the way of facts around which to build a personality.

Each of the poems in the Skimino Cycle has required a fair amount of imagining to build the story around the facts.  But, the others involved people (mostly John and Mary) for whom I have enough information from which to create a well-rounded character.  This is not the case with the hired girl.  I am having to create her personality and character almost from scratch, and ultimately based upon how I think she related to John and Mary.  The problem right now is that, as a character, she is mostly a reflection of other people, without any real personality of her own.  I think she turned out that way in the first draft because I was trying to avoid making her come across as either exploited by John or as a seductress.  The result, however, was that she came across as "flat" and without any sort of feelings or thoughtful expression-- in a way, as dull and unintelligient.

The poem is narrated by the hired girl-- we are in her head as she goes about her activities.  The physical setting is the kitchen of the farmhouse, which is where I envision much of her interaction with John occurred.  The kitchen seems like a good setting-- the family hearth; the focus of much daily activity; where John would rest after returning from his trips out onto the prairie for hunting, fishing, and trapping (activities in which he engaged a lot, according to the pension file depositions).  If Mary is out in the fields, managing the daily activity of the farm, the kitchen would be a good location for John and Melissa to spend time.  Friendship and then intimacy could develop there, but also because it's a family space, Mary would have opportunity to interrupt and observe the relationship between them.  And, because ultimately the kitchen is Mary's kitchen, there is a violation of space even if there is not yet a violation of trust.

So, where to go with Melissa's character?  The difference in ages between her and John would suggest that she might see him as a "father figure" type, someone older and wiser from whom she can learn.  Someone who is more mature and perhaps understanding than the younger men of the community.  Perhaps she has a learning disability (which is why she can't write) or some other disability that makes her less attractive to younger men, but which John, with his war wounds (physical and perhaps mental), can empathize and see past.  They find solace in each other; they spend time together; they share a mutual understanding of each other's condition; and this leads ultimately to physical intimacy.

THEY RODE ON BORROWED HORSES

[Published in The Copperfield Review, Winter 2012]


THEY RODE ON BORROWED HORSES

John Ratcliffe, Marshall County, Kansas, 1876, after his wife, Mary, has left him.


Sunlight glints across the sharded floor…
blue light, and he knows
it was the glass he gave her.

He reflects upon another day…

They rode on borrowed horses,
leaving Wheeling at the first blue light of dawn
while others still slept.
Into the ancient hills they rode
to West Alexander
and a chapel where they would wed.
Just the two of them,
no family, no friends,
no queries from the Meeting,
no concerns over their beliefs,
or perhaps lack thereof.
Just the two of them,
and the preacher and wife to make it legal.

Side by side they rode
under that November sky
clear and blue as her eyes;
blue as her gingham dress
and the ribbon (a gift from his mother)
holding back her dark hair.
Through familiar meadows
where they walked,
gathering plants for her collection,
and minerals to color glass,
the cobalt that he used
for the two glasses in his bag.

He remembered the day they met—
the things they talked of:
plants and rocks, sand and glass,
the designs of nature,
the creation of beauty in the artist’s hands.
He thought of walks in the mountains,
sharing their dreams—
she, to be a surgeon and scientist;
he, an artist, shaping glass and stone—
dreams left far behind in Wheeling.

Sunlight glints across the sharded floor,
he takes the other glass from the shelf
and remembers the end of that other day—


Down the ancient mountains,
their new life beginning,
they rode on borrowed horses
under blue November skies.
In a familiar meadow,
at a spring, clear water flowing
they stopped. In his saddlebag
two blue glasses,
blown and cut by hand;
together they filled them from the spring,
and drank to the dreams they would share.