{"id":4223,"date":"2023-02-09T13:26:11","date_gmt":"2023-02-09T18:26:11","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/?p=4223"},"modified":"2023-02-09T13:26:12","modified_gmt":"2023-02-09T18:26:12","slug":"a-poem-for-a-thursday-213","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/2023\/02\/09\/a-poem-for-a-thursday-213\/","title":{"rendered":"A Poem for a Thursday #213"},"content":{"rendered":"
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Photo by Wassim Chouak<\/a> on Unsplash<\/a><\/figcaption><\/figure>\n<\/div>\n\n\n
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Robert Morgan is an American poet and novelist. He was born in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and draws on Appalachian culture in his poetry and prose. He lives in New York State and teaches English and creative writing at Cornell University. Morgan’s novel, Gap Creek<\/em> was selected by Oprah Winfrey for her book club in 2000. <\/p>\n\n\n\n

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She had always loved to read, even\nin childhood during the Confederate War,\nand built the habit of staying up\nby the oil lamp near the fireplace after\nhusband and children slept, the scrub-work done.\nShe fed the addiction in the hard years\nof Reconstruction and even after\nher husband died and she was forced \nto provide and be sole foreman of the place.\nWhile her only son fought in France\nit was this second life, by the open window\nin warm months when the pines on the hill\nseemed to talk to the creek, or katydids\nlined-out their hymns in the trees beyond the barn,\nor by the familiar fire in winter,\nthat sustained her. She and her daughters\nlater forgot the time, the exact date,\nif there was such a day, she made her decision.\nBut after the children could cook\nand garden and milk and bring in a little\nby housecleaning for the rich in Flat Rock,\nand the son returned from overseas\nwounded but still able and married a war widow,\nand when she had found just the right chair,\na rocker joined by a man over on Willow\nfrom rubbed hickory, with cane seat and a back,\nand arms wide enough to rest her everlasting cup\nof coffee on, or a heavy book,\nshe knew she had come to her place and would stay.\nAnd from that day, if it was one time and not\na gradual recognition, she never crossed a threshold\nor ventured from that special seat of rightness,\nof presence and pleasure, except to be helped to bed\nin the hours before dawn for a little nap.\nThat chair\u2014every Christmas someone gave her a bright\ncushion to break in\u2014was the site on which she bathed\n in a warm river of books and black coffee,\nvarieties of candy and cakes kept in a low cupboard\nat hand. The cats passed through her lap and legs\nand through the rungs of her seat. The tons\nof firewood came in cold and left as light, smoke, ash.\nShe rode that upright cradle to sleep\nand through many long visits with tiers of family,\nkissing the babies like different kinds of fruit.\nAlways hiding the clay pipe in her cabinet\nwhen company appeared. She chaired decisions\nto keep the land and refused welfare.\nOn that creaking throne she ruled a tiny kingdom\nthrough war, death of kin. Even on the night she did\nstop breathing, near a hundred, no one knew\nexactly when, but found the lamp still on,\nthe romance open to a new chapter,\nand the sun just appearing at her elbow.\n\nWhite Autumn\nRobert Morgan\n<\/pre>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
Robert Morgan is an American poet and novelist. He was born in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina and draws on Appalachian culture in his poetry and prose. He lives in New York State and teaches English and creative writing at Cornell University. Morgan’s novel, Gap Creek was selected by Oprah Winfrey for her book club in 2000. She had always loved to read, even in childhood during the Confederate War, and built the habit of staying up by the oil lamp near the fireplace after husband and children slept, the scrub-work done. She fed the addiction in the hard years of Reconstruction and even after her husband died and she was forced to provide and be sole foreman of the place. While her only son fought in France it was this second life, by the open window in warm months when the pines on the hill seemed to talk to the creek, or katydids lined-out their hymns in the trees beyond the barn, or by the familiar fire in winter, that sustained her. She and her daughters later forgot the time, the exact date, if there was such a day, she made her decision. But after the children could cook and garden and milk and bring in a little by housecleaning for the rich in Flat Rock, and the son returned from overseas wounded but still able and married a war widow, and when she had found just the right chair, a rocker joined by a man over on Willow from rubbed hickory, with cane seat and a back, and arms wide enough to rest her everlasting cup of coffee on, or a heavy book, she knew she had come to her place and would stay. And from that day, if it was one time and not a gradual recognition, she never crossed a threshold or ventured from that special seat of rightness, of presence and pleasure, except to be helped to bed in the hours before dawn for a little nap. That chair\u2014every Christmas someone gave her a bright cushion to break in\u2014was the site on which she bathed in a warm river of books and black coffee, varieties of candy and cakes kept in a low cupboard at hand. The cats passed through her lap and legs and through the rungs of her seat. The tons of firewood came in cold and left as light, smoke, ash. She rode that upright cradle to sleep and through many long visits with tiers of family, kissing the babies like different kinds of fruit. Always hiding the clay pipe in her cabinet when company appeared. She chaired decisions to keep the land and refused welfare. On that creaking throne she ruled a tiny kingdom through war, death of kin. Even on the night she did stop breathing, near a hundred, no one knew exactly when, but found the lamp still on, the romance open to a new chapter, and the sun just appearing at her elbow. White Autumn Robert Morgan<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":4224,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[2],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-4223","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poem-for-a-thursday"],"aioseo_notices":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4223","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=4223"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4223\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":4225,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/4223\/revisions\/4225"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/4224"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=4223"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=4223"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.holdsuponhappiness.com\/index.php\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=4223"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}