Uncle Stanislaw
I still can hear the sound of acorns popping
Beneath the wheels of father’s horse-drawn cart
As we drove through the woods—four hooves a-clopping—
Where Uncle Stan, his brother, plied his art.
His smokehouse was a wreck of salvaged timbers,
His living room a den of salted hides,
But what his wide-eyed nephew best remembers
Is how the flesh and edible insides
Of animals were used to make outstanding
Kielbasa. “Fatter than last year,” he’d say,
“The hogs fed well and never stopped expanding,”
Which meant we’d all eat well on Christmas Day.
The sausage hung in coils and links from rafters
Above the smoky room, and rendered fat
Dripped to the floor in slick foreverafters—
No proper Polak would find fault with that.
His product was regarded as the best
For miles around, a tribute to the beasts
He fed and slaughtered. He was unimpressed
By what a Jew might think of pork-rich feasts.
Ever the Fall Guy
In autumn, I go out for morning strolls
Through unmown fields and densely-wooded lots.
If no one else is near, I let my dogs
Run free. They think the rabbits and the voles
Are for their fun, but leave the snakes and frogs
Alone. Their given names are Scout and Murdoch;
They seem to like the weediest of spots,
And soon their fur is tangled up with burdock.
I always notice, when I take these walks,
The desolation after summer’s end.
Such understated beauty makes me pause
And listen to the wizened flower stalks
That rustle in the breeze, in common cause
With every other plant that’s going under,
A fact I cannot alter or defend.
And then there comes the sound of distant thunder.
I move along, enjoying every stride,
And pay attention to the dampened crunch
Of brittle twigs that pave the woodland floor.
When thorns get in my way, I let them slide,
Because I don’t resent them anymore.
Time presses, but I’m disinclined to hurry,
Despite the fact I’ll soon be wanting lunch—
A break from creature needs is not a worry.
***
Diverted by the blue jays’ strident clamor,
I come across a badly smitten tree,
Split down the middle and completely barkless,
That shows where Thor had hurled his heavy hammer
And what will someday come for you and me.
I need a dram of twelve-year-old Glenfarclas
To clear my head and fortify my nerves,
The fate a falling man hopes he deserves.
C.B. Anderson was the longtime gardener for the PBS television series, The Victory Garden. Hundreds of his poems have appeared in scores of print and electronic journals out of North America, Great Britain, Ireland, Austria, Australia and India. His collection, Mortal Soup and the Blue Yonder was published in 2013 by White Violet Press.
C.B. from the age of three to six my father had one small room in the house devoted to curing pork with salt, hanging meat from the ceiling, and churning butter from cream after it had gone through a milk/cream separator. My grandfather also had one without flooring and packed dirt used for the same reasons. I can only imagine the taste of the great kielbasa. They did not make smoked sausage but always bought it at the grocery store. There is much to be said about being a “fall guy,” since it was a time of canning the last produce of summer, gathering the nuts, and enjoying the colors of the season before the first snowfall. How well you sculpted these two poems with lasting images that play in my head. “Barkless” rhyming with Glenfarclas is as inspired as the alcohol must have been. I have always loved your poems, and these are no exception. October was a great time to publish these.
Although, Roy, I have never raised hogs, I have raised and slaughtered rabbits, goats and chicken — plus all the canning and drying of fruit and vegetables, and the making of sauerkraut. I loved the country life, and in Blue, Arizona my next-door neighbors were the Lee brothers, nationally famous hunters and guides. Sometimes, when their hound dogs had successfully chased down some of the local large game, they would give me some bear or mountain lion meat. And the Blue River was full of rainbow trout. We ate like Nordic kings.
The thing I most enjoyed about these is the clear descriptions of sounds: acorns popping under the cart, along with the sounds of the horses hooves clopping, in the first poem; and “the dampened crunch of brittle twigs” underfoot in the second. Also, the comparison, at the end of “Fall Guy” to the man (narrator) who will fall, to the tree that fell, destroyed by Thor. I also enjoyed the interesting and consistent rhyme scheme in “Fall Guy”.
Sounds, Cynthia, are very important, especially for poets, as you are well aware, but the sounds of words and descriptions of sounds are two different things, though at times the two aspects coalesce. And don’t disregard the sound of distant thunder. Anyone who spends any time in the woods will from time to time come across ruined trees, for which there can be many causes. Nonce rhyme schemes are fun to generate, but it can sometimes be a challenge to duplicate such schemes in successive stanzas. You will have noted the break between stanzas 3 &4. This was necessary both because there was a change in rhyme scheme and because there was a shift in perspective.
Good descriptive poems about processes where not much seems to happen–yet the poet arrives at a quietly impressive non-conclusion. That takes something! Reminds me of a renowned roadside restaurant in France where the specialty was warm local lentils served under a large array of sausages hanging from the ceiling.
Yes, Margaret, not much happens, but that’s how it sometimes goes on autumn walks in the countryside. And yet to the active imagination it seems that everything is happening, at once. The human mind is not quite able to process all of the processes going on in the surrounding world, but the human heart feels them insofar as the heart and the cosmos are both parts of a single singular continuum. You can still find a few Italian delis where dry (“Hunter’s”) sausage is strung along the walls along with huge logs of aged provolone cheese.
What you say about imagination, mind, and heart seems to apply to poetry reading as well as to the cosmos. The imagination comprehends the poem before the mind understands it, and feelings come before analysis. Those are two great sentences!
By the way, I am half Lithuanian, and my father always did the meat cooking. He was very good at it, but there was no room for preserving. From visiting relatives, I got the impression of Lithuanian food as good bread above all, with roots, fruits, herbs, and an endless supply of cabbage, which when stuffed with meat became “pigeons.”
My Lithuanian friend, following a trip to his ancestral homeland, Margaret, said that many people in the cities have plots of land in the countryside where they grow their produce.
I like “Uncle Stanislaw” because it is very real and down-to-earth. The reader can almost smell the smokehouse, the meat, and the fat. Cured pork is a specialty in Slavic and Germanic countries, as well as in Italy. In Italian neighborhoods here in New York there’s always a salumeria or “pork store” where prosciutto, salami, soppressad, and sausage (sweet, smoked, fennel, or hot) can be had. They also make delicious things like pizza rustica (a pork and cheese pie), and pane imperiale (a rolled bread filled with heavily seasoned lean pork chunks). Let me add that the quatrains in the poem are perfect.
“Ever the Fall Guy” (a great double entendre!) is more wide-ranging, and the rhyme is sporadic. This an “I” poem — a first-person account of the thoughts, feelings and experiences of the speaker. But unlike dreary modern free-verse “I” poems, which tend to be self-absorbed and narcissistic and navel-gazing, this poem is a clear, objective picture of a walk outdoors, the things seen and heard, seasonal signs, and finally the confession of a need for lunch and a stiff drink of excellent Scotch.
K.A.N.D!
When I attended Wesleyan University (in Middletown CT) there was a salumeria downtown, but I don’t think it was quite up to snuff. I don’t mean to worry you, Joseph, but if the commie jihadist becomes mayor of NYC, how long do you think it will be before pork products become illegal? I got the idea for this poem following an email exchange with Leo Yankevich some years ago, in which he stated that there are literally thousands of kinds of kielbasa available in Poland. Lithuanians have much in common with Poles, and I first learned of kielbasa, as a holiday staple, from a Lithuanian family living in Athol, MA. After Father passed away, I went to the service in one of the two Roman Catholic churches in that small city (large town). They have a Lithuanian church and and an Italian church, with some intermixing, but I suspect that the quality of the food enjoyed by the congregants in either was about equal. In the exchange with Leo I referred to above, he disclosed that his family had some Lithuanian heritage. That made me think of the Battle of Grunwald.
I’m sure that both of us need to get outside more. For you, that’s probably Prospect Park. For me, the possibilities are unlimited, but I tend to stick to my atelier.
Kip, Count Leo Yankevich was of the Polish nobility, and that nobility was of Lithuanian ancestry, though it had been gradually Polonized in language and culture over the centuries, just as the Norman-French nobility of England slowly became Anglicized after 1066. One of Leo’s ancestors was an important Atman (military-political leader) during the 17th century.
Kip, these two poems are highly entertaining, unique and satisfying slices of Autumn. I always appreciate the breadth of your imagination. There is probably no season more rhapsodized than Fall and yet you have managed to bring fresh stories to the mix. “Uncle Stanislaw” is my favorite of the two. The sound of acorns popping is a brilliant small touch which I immediately responded to since the acorns are falling all over our sidewalks even now. The nostalgic overlay on the subject of animal butchery is certain to enrage PETA but has me grinning. Your piece is assertively politically incorrect on several fronts — and I love it. I appreciate a voice which is unselfconscious and brave. And visits to Uncle Stanislaw sound like quite a culinary adventure.
“Fall Guy” (witty title) is also very entertaining — charming without being sentimental or gooey. The rhymes are stellar (pure inimitable Anderson) and the thematic movement is unexpected: we go from an Autumn walk with the dogs to the subject of death at the hands of Thor (which is where most poets would have left it) to using that stressor as the excuse for an exceptionally well-rhymed nip. I could read these poems over and over again and find more to enjoy. That’s not easy to achieve. Your voice is utterly unique and highly treasured.
The popping of acorns, Brian, is just as easily produced by rolling over them with rubber tires. If I gave even half a damn about what anyone in PETA thinks or feels, I’d be in big trouble. Quite the evocative photo at the top, don’t you think?
All of my nips rhyme with something. It’s what I do.
Like Joseph Salemi said, I love these because they are “down to earth” and vivid. They remind me of the lucidity and rustic ambiance of Turgenev; or of Flaubert describing a country scene. Strong and blunt and yet very descriptive. Our back barn turns into a butcher-shop this time of year, where we utilize as much as the deer as we can, for steaks, sausage, tallow, and dog-food, etc., so I especially love “Uncle Stan.” Fattening animals on acorns is one of the most poetic things in the world.
Yeah, Reid, there’s something about going down country lanes that’s like nothing else. I’m glad you are doing something productive and, dare I say, noble about the deer population in your neck of the woods. How fondly I remember the days when I, too, was a hunter. Nowadays I feel more like the hunted. If you like lamb, you will probably like venison. How I wish I had an entire backstrap in my freezer right now!
C.B., both of these poems sing to me. Uncle Stanislaw reminds me of Christmases visiting my grandmother who lived above my aunt and uncle’s butcher’s shop – known for its award-winning sausages. At that time of year, dead turkeys swung from the ceiling – fat, feathered, fearsome, and wafting an odor that mingled with the sawdust and whispered of something dark and strange to a small girl who knew little. I can relate to that “wide-eyed nephew”.
And then there’s the cleverly titled “Ever the Fall Guy” – a view of life from a mature angle, and how I love those poetic observations. I have learned much from the voice of the Earth and the older I get the more I relate to the lilt of the language – a song I didn’t appreciate to the full as a child. This poem appeals to my senses and my soul. It’s an instant favorite. C.B., thank you!
Well gawsh, Ma’am, I’d like me some award-winning sausage, and a few bangers on the side. Dead turkeys? — that’s the onliest way I eat ’em. It’s a great pleasure knowing I’ve struck a few resonant chords, and eating great sausage feels just as good.
I’ve heard comparisons of Uncle Stanislaw’s meathouse with scenes from France, Lithuania, New York, and England — but for me it recalls Spain, with the delicious smells of its charcuterias wafting into the streets. Lovely stuff! But the ubiquity of meat-curing lends a universality to your poem, something instantly recognizable regardless of culture (except, as you point out in your closing zinger, for non-pork-eating ones).
I echo Dr. Salemi’s comments on “Ever the Fall Guy.” You manage to pull off a successful first-person meditation in an age obsessed with navel-gazing. I’m glad you braved those waters.