[ MISCELLANY Assorted poems, undated. – G. Imrie] [This paragraph was typed as a narrow column. From notebook entries it appears
the three elements on this page were combined as a Christmas greeting.] Several years ago when my grandmother died, we went through her house as one normally does at such an occasion. My grandfather, a Methodist minister, had been a collector of
old books, especially Bibles. All of his books of possible value went to my uncle, while I was awarded an old 1837 Bible, cover detached. Searching through it, I came across a part of the Bible's dedication to its owner
whose sincerity and lastingless [lastingness? timelessness?]
have always impressed me. I have quoted it before, and I shall again. [I believe this was an oft-used epitaph before "modern" times.]
"When this you see remember me, or I shall be forgotten." [To the right of the narrow paragraph above was this poem; both, plus the epitaph, on a
torn half-sheet of paper.]
A Poem With Emphasis On Content, Not Some Title How does a knuckled poet, Seemingly alone, Thank you for the life And beauty And caring
He sees in you, But with all the love and respect He Can hold in his heart. Stephen Guy Carpenter [This reprises on the next page, probably typed at a different but later time. The capital "C" of the last line is changed, as is the title, which becomes simply,
"For You."] My Little Brothers
My little brothers are twins
Twins look alike, You probably know, They look alike from head to toe. Twins aren't helpful all the time. Sometimes I think, they're not worth a dime.
All they do is get out my things They don't pick them up or anything, Just leave them outside to rust In summer they are covered with dust,
So now you know about my little brothers, They aren't quite like any others. Stephen Guy Carpenter (Republished from Our Poems, Mrs. Weber Grade 3.) For You How does a knuckled poet, Seemingly alone,
Thank you for the life And beauty And caring He sees in you, But with all the love and respect He can hold in his heart. Stephen Guy Carpenter
Ode to My Third Grade Teacher
[Presumably Mrs. Weber, cited previously by Steve.] Old immaculate third grade teacher, I saw you again in town today – I would have said hello, but I thought the shock of seeing some long past student
you taught eight years ago might have been too much for your old system. I want to thank you anyway, for through those recitals of dead poetry, those recesses, and report cards, you taught me and showed others
that in my small, skinny body, that shy little pupil I was, there was something thoroughly wonderful and good, ready to blossom. Well, if you had recognized me when I happened to see you again,
you would have certainly noticed that I' ve grown and am not quite so skinny. But I doubt you could have felt the hope and fear in my heart, for I have waited eight years, half my lifetime,
for your predictions to come true. And yet I still wait A different sunset
As the visions of my dreams flow by, I rest, waiting. They widen, they expand into the horizon. I sit humbly
on the shore. Spreading into the sky, I watch them set with the sun. The pictures on another bulletin board They're just paper and ink bright gloomy
torn or carefully cut out that's all just a scene from some movie the pose of some model a glimpse of natural unhappiness
so what can I say Facing A Tomorrow Being young, The child asked of his mother
(as one does at such an age), "What is it like being dead?" His mother answered, to his regret, that once those who die pass away, they no longer communicate with us, so we will never know. Disappointed with her answer, he thought how much easier it would be for all of us, if only we had some assurance in facing a tomorrow we cannot perceive. The Meaningless Passage of Time There is a feeling deep within me Whose effects I have never before experienced – I can feel the uncertainty in my life's purpose When my Tomorrow Turns meaningless once it becomes a Yesterday. |