Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, A HOST OF THE ARKANSAS VALLEY, by SELDEN LINCOLN WHITCOMB


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

A HOST OF THE ARKANSAS VALLEY, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The river creeps through arid lands
Last Line: "tain't just what I want, but they'll keep it neat."
Subject(s): Arkansas; Middle West; Midwest; Old Northwest; Central States; North Central States


The river creeps through arid lands,
(Born in the Rockies' gloom and light,
Flowing yet at a mountain height),
Creeps over or under the wide, level sands.
The tall weeds flare in the channel mud;
White, yellow, red, are blossom and bud.
By the low clay bank
The magpies chatter,
The flickers clatter,
While along the cottonwoods' single rank
The crows assemble and scatter.

The summer suns and winter moons
Gleam on mile after mile of barren dunes;
The stranger takes the road on trust
That reaches out through sand and dust,
Down into the hollow, across the swell,
Into silent spaces where no man seems to dwell.
In days gone by, desperation
Brought a settler here and a settler there,
Or a search for health, or bravado;
They came with a curse or a prayer,
One from the blue-grass hills,
One from the forest beneath seaside stars.
Now, as then, the silence calls to bliss, or desolation;
Now, as then, the desert makes or mars
Human wills.
A few leagues south, Oklahoma; a few leagues west, Colorado.

In the lobby of the little wooden hotel
Sits an ex-Captain of the Seas.
Consider him well.
He is the host;
He keeps the register, jingles the keys
Here midway between coast and coast.
Note the long black hair under black slouch hat,
Grizzled beard, and steady blue eyes
That gaze at the stranger without surprise.
He is seventy-five, perhaps a bit older.
He carries a parrot upon each shoulder
(South Sea twins,
With veering virtues and steady sins),
"Pro" upon this, and "Con" upon that.
From the beak of each bird
Bursts a welcoming word --
"Hail!" "Hail!",
For each passer-by,
Be his mood that of smile or of sigh.
Fancy continues, "La'b'd, a sail!"

"Sir?
Yes, I've been a good bit 'bout the world,
With the funnels belching or sails unfurled,
With the seas all bright or in foggy blur.
I've scraped by the crags of Labrador,
Stared at old bridges of Lunnon Town,
And my men tippy-tipsy at Singapore.
I've wallowed for days with seas lashing the house;
I've seen old Neptune still as a mouse.
By golly, it's a life up and down
In more senses than one;
Freeze in the sleet, roast in the sun,
Half like a king, half like a clown.
East and west, north and south,
And aye with the taste of salt in your mouth.
'Storms?' Midship, fore, and aft;
One washed away my first mate;
I've starved five days on a raft.
But -- for seamen -- fate's Fate.

"Hard to say; reckon I like the South Seas best,
When all's told --
Little reefs shining like gold.
(You've read about 'em at school).
'Pro' and 'Con' were born down there;
A reg'lar native gave 'em to me --
The heathen got down on his knees
Tryin' to please.
Wish you could see
How little he had to wear.
All the same, he wasn't a fool.

'Now? -- Well, Sir, getting old;
Health a bit failin' --
Come close to the end of my sailin'.
Got by the bar and the rock
Into dry dock.
Time to call halt,
As you land-lubbers say:
Time to wash out the salt,
Quit cussin', and pray.

See the ground, east end of the street?
Reckon it's waitin' all right for me.
By golly, the Church ladies keep it neat,
And I'll have a good mark!

"But when it gets dark -- you know, dark --
And the fog rolls heavy as pitch,
Dead sartin I'll have an itch --
Well, by golly, I'd rather be buried at sea!

"Yes, trim spot, but an old sailor's grave
Ought to be down under current and wave.
Take the six-twenty? -- Well, come and eat.
'Tain't just what I want, but they'll keep it neat."





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