Hey folks, lots of stuff has been happening since my last post on this blog. I published a chapbook-- Shards of Blue-- and have had a lot of poems published. If you're curious, you can find out all about it over on my wordpress site: michaelratcliffespoetry.wordpress.com
Hope to see you there!
Saturday, December 8, 2018
Saturday, November 7, 2015
To Blog or Not to Blog?
Or, more precisely, the question is whether to continue maintaining and updating this blog. I began this blog as a place to post poetry and other related thoughts. In the period of years since I began posting here, I started another poetry page on Facebook (see https://www.facebook.com/Michael-Ratcliffes-Poetry-142905779075040/?ref=hl), and, more recently, stood up another site at michaelratcliffespoetry.wordpress.com. Three poetry pages is probably more than I need. The content would be redundant. And, while this site seems to get a fair amount of traffic, according to the statistics, it doesn't draw much in the way of commentary. But, neither have my other two sites. All that said, I think it's time to lay down this site in favor of the other two, and especially in favor of the wordpress page. In fact, my posting efforts lately (that is, since August), have focused on the other two sites.
So, with this, I'll see you over at michaelratcliffespoetry.wordpress.com
So, with this, I'll see you over at michaelratcliffespoetry.wordpress.com
Monday, August 24, 2015
Come Join Me at Fourth & Sycamore
Come join me at Fourth & Sycamore where I've got a couple poems hanging out in the Greenville, Ohio Public Library's literary magazine. That's right, the library's on-line journal is named after the intersection in downtown Greenville at which the library is located. An apt journal for this geographer-poet.
You can find my poems, "To the Least Sparrow on the House Top" and "Young Peasant Girl to the Artist, Jules Breton," here.
Enjoy reading them! (But not too loudly-- you're in a library.)
You can find my poems, "To the Least Sparrow on the House Top" and "Young Peasant Girl to the Artist, Jules Breton," here.
Enjoy reading them! (But not too loudly-- you're in a library.)
Thursday, May 21, 2015
Shards of Blue: Sample Poems
For those wanting a sampler of poems from my forthcoming book, Shards of Blue, I offer the following. Shards of Blue is available for pre-order from Finishing Line Press at https://finishinglinepress.com/product_info.php?products_id=2382. The book ships August 21, 2015.
The poems in Shards of Blue tell the story of my great-great grandparents, John and Mary Ratcliff, often in their voices, from their migration to Kansas in the 1850s as part of an Abolitionist community through the Civil War, in which John was wounded, and through the years after during which their relationship changed, to their divorce in the 1870s and Mary striking off on her own, with their four youngest sons, and taking out her own homestead.
The poems in Shards of Blue tell the story of my great-great grandparents, John and Mary Ratcliff, often in their voices, from their migration to Kansas in the 1850s as part of an Abolitionist community through the Civil War, in which John was wounded, and through the years after during which their relationship changed, to their divorce in the 1870s and Mary striking off on her own, with their four youngest sons, and taking out her own homestead.
A DIFFERENT KIND OF
QUAKER
John
Ratcliff, from the Ohio Town Company settlement, Marshall County, Kansas, 1855
Dear Mary,
I don’t know when
this letter might reach you,
but I want you to
know that I am well.
I miss you and the
boys.
There is much work
to keep me busy,
but still I find
myself stopping at times
to think about what
you might be doing.
Nights feel so long
without you next to me.
The journey to
Kansas passed without event,
though the
riverboats down the Ohio
and up the Missouri
were crowded and hot.
Westport was
boisterous with activity—
migrants stocking
up for the trails
to Oregon and
California,
Mormons bound for
Salt Lake,
and Free-Soilers
like us,
all armed and
setting out for Kansas.
We bought our
supplies
and headed for our
claims.
We measured out the
boundaries
of the town, marked
the corners of our farms.
Pro-slavery men are
already here—
South Carolinians
in Palmetto,
Missourians in
Marysville—
but they seem
peaceful enough.
Still, we are on
our guard
and take turns
patrolling day and night.
Oh, if the Elders
in Mt. Pleasant could see us—
we carry guns at
all times.
We decided we will
fight if it comes to that.
Kansas calls for a
different kind of Quaker.
THERE’S NO BEAUTY
IN BLUE TODAY
Mary,
August 1862, when John leaves for war.
There’s no beauty
in blue today.
Only darkness in
this August sky.
But I’ll not cry
while you’re away.
Summer has turned
to winter’s grey.
Cornflowers are
dull to my eye.
There’s no beauty
in blue today.
You march to end
slavery’s sway;
a noble cause for
which you fight.
But I’ll not cry
while you’re away.
I tell you that I
wish you’d stay.
That you must fight
is your reply.
There’s no beauty
in blue today.
For safe return
from war, I’ll pray;
that soon beside me
you will lie.
But I’ll not cry
while you’re away.
Be strong for our
young sons, you say,
with one last look
into my eyes.
There’s no beauty
in blue today.
I will not cry
while you’re away.
I CANNOT FIND
BEAUTY
John,
Marshall County, Kansas, 1863
I see the signs of
spring.
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 live 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 unnerves me.
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.
WHEN
FREMONT LEFT THE FARM
Gene
Ratcliff, 1874
We knew the day
would come
when the darkness
that troubled Father
would become too
much for Mother to bear.
Father had another
of his spells,
then, without word,
was gone for days.
When he returned,
silence hung heavy
as the air before a
summer storm.
Tension built like
thunderheads over the prairie,
then released in a
storm of words
between him and
Mother.
John and I took our
younger brothers
out to the shelter
of the barn.
Fremont fetched his
bag;
said it was time to
move to town.
I don’t blame
Fremont for leaving.
I would’ve left,
and John too,
except Mother
needed our help on the farm
especially after
she told Father to leave.
I see Fremont when
I go into town.
He says he doesn’t
miss the farm.
I told him it’s
calmer now that Father’s gone.
But it’s different,
too—
like corn stalks flattened after a storm.
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