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The Old Place
Once there was a family here
Where now is all plantation pines.
There’s a cabin—I see the lines—
It was their home for many years.
This farm was poor but to them dear,
A world whole in its small confines.
They labored as the soil declined,
While doom unturnable drew near.
The court said, “Go.” They left the land
The last hog killed; the last mule fed,
No more to plough the ancient sand,
But hauled them all away instead.
The wood is gone, rot at an end;
The chimney stands, its fire long dead.
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Julian Fite was born in Dallas, Texas, has a PhD. from Cambridge University (Jesus College) and is considered an expert on patent and trademark law, both European and North American. His poems, articles, and books have been and are being published in the United States and Europe. He has lived in England, Scotland, France, Italy, Virginia and Texas. He currently lives on Galveston Island.
This gave me chills while I read it. After a while, my thoughts gravitated back to the lines.
I notice this poem has a slight similarity with Longfellow’s Haunted Houses.
Best wishes
Dearr Mr. Fite –
I enjoyed your poem very much. In its illustration, the right hand side might have been our old barn, and the left could have been the identical house.
When my grandfather bought the property in 1911, he intended to use it as a summer home. But then the Depression hit, and the family moved there, he found there had only been three owners of the property since it had been divided and sold.
I recall finding 30 books printed before 1830 in the barn. Naturally I was not allowed to have them – perhaps because I would have enjoyed them too much?
I am wondering if that style of house and barn were a convention of the time.
Like Satyananda, this poem gave me a chill, but it is because it reminds me of the old homestead house of my family on the Dakota prairie without the pines. That house was actually destroyed by a tornado. The beauty is the memories, and the sadness is the forced departure in your poem. In my case, we just chose to move to Texas and leave the farm.
A tale of woe, Julian, but a dear poem. It’s a diminished sonnet (in tetrameter rather than pentameter) with a diminished title. Just an old place, no longer a plantation house, although the plantation pines remain. “Plantation pines” or “pine plantation” is about the only acceptable use of the word “plantation” now. When the worn-out soil had declined to mere “ancient sand,” the last mule hauled away the family poorer than ever. And now even rot is at an end. You could hardly make the long-dead place any bleaker. A remarkable accomplishment with an aching effect.
The sadness you evoke, Julian, is uncommon. You’ve got something going on here, the likes of which I haven’t seen in a long time. A god start, right out of the gate.
“A good start,” of course.