The bottle

Today I have a literal “found poem.” Meaning not one derived from another’s work but as in finding it while going through folders from previous school years and unearthing poetry I’d modeled for students on writing around an object. I remember taking three objects with special meaning to me so the kids could choose which I’d write about.

They chose the bottle.

Which I found after my grandfather’s death, visiting the farm where he was born. It was the second and last time I walked this piece of land. The first time, my grandfather, grown old and frail, walked with me. Ten acres of fields bordered by trees is all that remains, but he showed me where the house once stood, and the barns, and the henhouse … all gone without a trace now.

Except for some long-buried treasures.

In the old days, farm families had a trash pile. What wasn’t burned away with fire, or washed away by ages of wind and weather, or destroyed by perpetual tractors and harrows, might be swallowed by the earth until the earth is ready to give it back.

I wasn’t expecting such a gift the day I walked alone, mourning my grandfather.

So, I told the students, as I prepared to draft, when you write about an object you might also consider the feeling the object triggers in you. For me, with this bottle, it’s wonder. I want to incorporate a sense of wonder in this poem.

And so I wrote for them, and they enjoyed making artistic suggestions (they wanted it to rhyme):

Granddaddy is gone
And I walk his old farm
How he loved this place
This wide-open space
Nothing now to see
Where barns and house used to be
Just an empty field
After harvest’s yield
Cold breeze blows
Through my heart, it goes
When I spot in a bit of grass
Sunlight glistening on—glass?
I momentarily forget my hurt
As I dig it from the dirt
—a bottle, imagine that
No telling how long it sat
Buried deep in this ground
As the as the years circled round
Whose hand touched it last
In that long ago past?
Clear glass, heavy, yet small
Cracked but unbroken, all in all
What unseen secrets must it hold
This bottle of stories untold

It holds untold stories, all right. I’ve not determined exactly what tincture this old bottle actually held. The faintest embossed image of a root, almost worn away, remains on the front. A health tonic, likely. I know my grandfather had a sister who died of diphtheria at age three, in 1907. I doubt the bottle is that old but I have visions of my great-grandmother nursing her ailing children and tossing that empty bottle onto the trash heap…

Sparking me to attempt a didactic cinquain:

Bottle
Antiquated, weather-worn
Eroding, cracking, enduring
Poured out for healing
Elixir

Or maybe a double reversed etheree:

Empty of that for which you were fashioned
vessel of life-blood for veins long ceased
drawn from roots to nourish my own
cold glass clasped in hands now still

spooned in mouths now silent
elixir fully
poured out, consumed
every drop

gone
cast off
forgotten
swallowed by earth
kept year after year
without ceremony
lying silent, eroding
enduring seasons, weathering
cracking but enduring, determined
to remain clear with your story obscured.

—oh, little bottle.

How I wish you could speak.

3 thoughts on “The bottle

  1. How is possible that the two of us both chose today to go mining? And that we both unearthed stories of grief and mourning? I’m not sure, but there’s that universe again.

    I love that you shared with your students how objects in our lives – these tangible things – have the power to create such powerful connections and feelings. And your etheree reads so powerfully and beautifully as metaphor. WE are vessels, drawn from roots, becoming consumed, cracking but enduring, (hoping!) to remain clear even after our story becomes obscured.

    Thank you. ❤

    Liked by 1 person

    • As I wrote the etheree I thought of the generations gone before …it’s about them as much as the bottle although there may be more metaphor than I consciously realized! Such a beautiful interpretation, Lainie – thank you for your words. Oh, and the kids – they adore writing poetry and often blew me away with their work.

      Liked by 1 person

      • Don’t they always! One of my favorite things, as well, is when I encourage teachers to attempt different poetic forms, and the kids surprise them with deep and complex ideas. Even better when the kids surprising them are the unexpected ones. Makes my day.

        I guess the bottle metaphor is proof, as well, that when we put pieces of ourselves out into the world, we also let others take on the meanings and ideas they read into it. Something, as well, that our kids do well to learn…

        Liked by 1 person

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