SEATTLE’S HYMN
And other reflective poems of my trip to Seattle, Washington
By
A. Jarrell Hayes
Smashwords Edition. Copyright © 2009 by A. Jarrell Hayes
Cover photograph provided by porbital.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The poems in this collection are dedicated to the great Emerald City: Seattle, Washington, her citizens, and the people I met on that wonderful adventure, there and back.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
In June of 2002, before I went off to my first year in college, I embarked upon an 8-day cross country train ride from Baltimore, Maryland to Seattle, Washington. I traveled nearly 3,000 miles by train, taking three days each way to traverse the nation. Along the way I passed through states and areas that I had never been to—such as Indiana, Minnesota, Montana, and other Mid-West and Western states. The sights, however, I saw from the window of my train car would stay with me for the remainder of my life. Never before have I, a dweller in suburbs and cities, had seen such expansive beauty in the nothingness that is between America’s coasts.
There is something romantic about the train and train rides. Sure, airplanes are quicker and more reliable, but they don’t afford you the time to contemplate and enjoy the journey, as the train does. On a train there are separate cars, and more free space to move and walk about—to find that quiet area where you can sit down and simply stare out the window at the scenery around you. On a plane, you are so high up that when you do look out the window you only see specks and blurs of what lies below. In my opinion, a long train ride is one of the most inspirational experiences a poet can encounter. I am glad I was able to take my journey.
In tribute to my journey, and to share my experiences with others, I have written this collection of poetry based upon that trip. I have broken it into three sections: The Journey Home, The Emerald City, and The Journey Back. Each section has poetry reflecting the different phases of my trip: poems in The Journey Home tells about my train ride going towards Seattle; those poems in The Emerald City are about some of the people and scenery I came in contact with inside the city; and the poems in The Journey Back are about how I viewed myself, and others, after my visit to the one place where I felt I belonged.
The poem “The Fox” is a story I created after seeing a red fox darting through an opening in a fence and running amongst the cattle on the other side. I was so amused by the sight of the fox seemingly disregarding barriers erected by man, that, when I wrote the poem, I decided to give the fox supernatural powers.
“The Junk Ship of the Puget Sound” is not about one of the Chinese boats, but about an old, rusty ship that was beached along the banks of the Puget Sound. I was captivated by the artifact; I thought it was beautiful—why, I do not know. It appeared content to be in its predicament, in its existence (I guess it could not be this, since it is not a sentient object and therefore have no sense of contentment). I believe that, looking at it, I gained a sense of taking life one day at a time, not to be in such a hurry to do everything, but to enjoy life; eventually you’ll end up crumbled and broken down, just like that ship.
“Hammering Jack” is a song-like poem based on the statue of Hammering Jack in the plaza in front of the Seattle Art Museum. When I was there, the statue appeared to have lost his hammer and was not hammering; the poem is a song to his woe, something that could have been brought upon him by his own actions.
“Demonic Totem” is based off of a totem pole that was within the Seattle Art Museum. It depicted a demi-god or demon behind a man, ripping his head off, while the man’s oval mouth and wide eyes were an understatement of how painful such a sensation must be.
I split “Truth’s Journey” into two poems, and then brought them together to form one. I did that to emphasize two ways that truth can elude us: we can know the truth, but ignore it when a lie would be more pleasing to us; or we can search our lives for it, but go about it in an improper way and only end up with half-truths and lies. I felt, while walking through the streets of Seattle, a sense of finally understanding the truth of myself, and dispersing all those lies I had told myself or allowed others to tell me. I felt that the city was in my blood, and an important piece of the puzzle of me that I had never before known I had missed.
“Chrono-Cross” examines the possibilities of how my life could have been different—for better or for worse—if I remained in Seattle. But, then again, if I did, would I still become the same person I am now? I wrote this poem to sort of answer the questions of the choices I have made in life, whether or not they were the correct ones to make.
The first two poems that make up the final section, “The Maturation of One” and “No Matter the Cost,” are based on the feeling of self-truth and self-realization I felt in Seattle, and the burden I felt—and still feel—to relate this self-awareness to the people back home. How could I explain to my loving family and friends that I was truly alive in Seattle, and could be true to myself there; and that, now that I am back home, it would be difficult for me to regain that sense of life that I experienced in Seattle, and that now I am nothing but a hollow shell of what I could be?
I am glad you have taken the time to read through the tales of my adventures. At the time this book is published, I still haven’t returned to my beloved Seattle, Washington. Even though I yearn to live there, I believe if I died today I would be content in the fact that I was able to visit it for a couple of days.
Give a poet a pen,
A. Jarrell Hayes
THE JOURNEY HOME
THE FOX
The fence was made
To block her entrance.
In the past she would raid
The field, and left no trace
She was there. But the herder
Knew she came.
The cattle near the border
Of the fence were spooked.
Yes, the fox had visited him
That evening. The fox arrived
Only when the sun was dim,
And departed before the fall of night.
She stole no beast, for
They were too large for her alone.
But something to the cows she had done:
Sour milk was all they could store!
So the herder erected the fence.
But the fox was smart indeed.
She slipped underneath the barbed wire
And was still able to perform her ghastly deed.
The herder, upset with the fox, grabbed
His rifle to hunt the fox.
He searched all day for the fiend,
But the fox would not be nabbed.
In frustration, the herder returned
Home. To his surprise,
He did learn
That the fox was
Lying in his bed.
When the herder entered his room,
The fox raised her head,
And then lowered it in disgust.
The hunter aimed his rifle,
Ready to finally stifle
The bane of his hard work.
As the herder put his finger
On the trigger, he heard soft cries.
From under the bed came the critters;
Baby foxes,
Three in the litter!
His anger no longer consumed
The herder. The fox pups were
So cute. Then a human voice filled the room,
Yet the herder was alone.
“Protect my babies,” said the voice
As the fox’s lips moved.
Then the fox disappeared.
The herder, shocked and amazed,
Took the pups for him to raise.
A RUSTY POLE
There was a field
of evergreen trees
brightly arrayed for all to see.
On their branches they did yield
The splendor of the Yule-tide
season. Their lights shone in the moon,
as I glanced out towards that side.
I was on the train, my stop soon,
when I saw the field of Christmas trees.
And in the midst of their grace
stood a pole as high as I could see.
The pole was dirty, ragged, and out of place
in the middle of that field. Yet it
had a cause that was also great.
I knew not its purpose, but it did fit
with the beautiful trees. And at this date
I now know the mission of that pole:
the pole was grotesque, the trees lovely,
yet it remained there. We must know our role:
there must be ugliness for there to be beauty.
JUNK SHIP OF THE PUGET SOUND
It was magnificent,
this Junk Ship of the Puget Sound.
Sure, it was rusty
and crusty,
and hidden in vines,
but in my eyes it was fine.
As fine as the finest clipper
known to man. I wanted to
explore its damaged hull.
I wanted to walk through
the man-sized hole on its
side. But, alas, the train
passed by. It would not stop
to quench one man’s curiosity.
O! How the Junk Ship of the Puget Sound
held me transfixed by its beauty.
When the waves came,
as a smooth summer breeze,
I was compelled to relax.
It was a long trail
I had traveled, and seeing
such calming waves made
me realize I was nearing
my destination. The sea was
out there, beyond the perch
of the waves. The waves came
from the sea, and they were
friendly and inviting. There were
at least two score of them;
some were moving towards the
vessel, most were drifting
off to sea. When they waved,
I was compelled to wave back.
As I took in a deep breath of
the Puget Sound air to calm my
nerves, I gave thanks to the
waves of Edmond’s Rock:
for they alone gave me a comfort
I had yet to enjoy.
BACK TO BASICS
The bull sniffed the cow’s
rear. Obviously it enjoyed the
smell because he proceeded
to climb upon the backside
of the cow. The cow rejected
this request for sex; she kicked
the bull in the testicles. The
bull quietly departed, not
at all dejected or vengeful.
Now, I wonder; if a cattle
can accept rejection, why
can’t man? We may have
all the intelligence, but when
it comes down to it, the
basic instincts inside of us
may be all the knowledge we need.
There it is: the foreshadowing,
the foreboding; my life could
not have been scripted better.
A rags-to-riches story? Maybe,
though as a child I wore
hand-me-downs, not rags.
Besides, the clerk warned me of
what would become my
train journey across the country.
She was correct; I have
flirted with my share of girls
throughout my life—though any
meaningful relationships never resulted
from such engagements. It’s always
the girl’s fault, never mine.
The first one I met on the train
was too good, too perfect She
was five years older than me, but I
prefer older women. She was engaged
to an enlisted man, and heading in
my direction to meet up with him.
Curse my luck; why are all the good
women taken? I have a reputation
for having horrible timing.
The second one was interesting: she
was an Amish girl that kept
staring at me. I was not interested
because she was too young, but I
wondered why she had her eyes
transfixed on me. Was I the first
black man she had seen?
Curious as to what she wanted with me,
I returned the glare.
A woman, most likely her mother,
saw her staring at me
and chastised her in their own language.
The girl never turned her head in my direction again,
but I believe she later left a love-charm,
made from her hair piece, on my seat.
The third one scared the crap out of me.
I saw her approaching the train as I relaxed
in my seat: I immediately knew she was
trouble. I prayed that she wouldn’t
sit near me, but she sat in the seat
across the aisle from me. Curse my foul luck!
This woman had a few screws
missing—not to mention a few
teeth—and she took her paranoia
out on me. Because I wore a
trench coat and was taking pictures
of the outside scenery, this lady believed
I was following her. She interrogated
me about my business, and charged me
as a spy; I erupted in laughter
at the poor, delusional girl.
The fourth one was very attractive
and easy to talk to. Alas, she too had
a boyfriend; curse my luck! Another
passenger on the train attempted to
hit on her; I believe that he was
unsuccessful. During dinner in the dinning
car, the young lady joined me—
without me inviting her—
at my table to eat. I believe she
was purposely avoiding the other
man that was pursuing her.
We played cards after dinner;
she was a good opponent.
And there it is, my wondrous
train adventure, or at least
one theme of it. “What is the
theme?” you may ask. Here it
is: life sometimes appears to be
scripted too well; and irony can
be found anywhere if you only
keep your eyes peeled. Well,
that may not be the theme either;
but let me end on this note:
on this train ride called life you
never know who you will sit next to.
THE EMERALD CITY
It rose above the celestial city,
a survivor of decades’ past.
It oversaw rides from the same era,
and structures to this new arena.
It maintained a watch over the
Emerald City’s favorite musical son’s
mausoleum. A tower of money
was its only better; but its unique
construction evened the score.
An icon of beauty,
in a city of jewelry;
home to mariners and seahawks,
a bedazzling fountain,
a day’s trip to a mountain;
and home to my heart,
even when we are thousands of miles apart.
NEEDLE IN A HAYSTACK
I traveled three thousand
miles to find myself,
and I liked what I saw.
Three days it took
to reach me, and all
my life I thought
I was right here. Alas,
I was mistaken. Great
burdens placed on my
shoulders caused me
to jettison my load.
I tossed the baggage to
the side of the road in a
large heap; I pray they
did not break. And if they
did, I will use all my
allotted time in mending
the shattered pieces of my
past. And that may be my downfall…
The cycle shall continue,
just as I traveled another
three thousand miles to limbo. I’ve
found myself only to lose it again.
When the needle hit my eyes,
I knew I was home. Yet, I dispersed
from my home to go to what I once
believed was my home. It is not
my home. It has changed.
The same faces are there,
but they have morphed into
monsters I do not recognize. And
three of them are gone. I was
mistaken. I traveled three
thousand miles to my home,
only to return to the prison
of my youth. I should’ve
stayed home, stayed with me.
Yet, I listened to my mind,
not my heart. I listened to
sobbing words, instead of
thunderous proclamations.
It was a mistake
to leave home. I should’ve
stayed where there are no troubles.
The troubles are here. I knew
that when I was returning.
I could feel that I gained myself,
but lost the ones I love.
Was it a profitable trade-off?
Only time will tell.
One day I shall return home.
On that day I will live. Until
then, I shall lay buried in the
decay of the old. The new old.
I do not see the same since
I have left—all I see is the needle.
HAMMERING JACK
Hammering Jack had
lost his hammer. Poor
Hammering Jack! How
will he get it back?
Poor Hammering Jack!
Who would steal such a
gigantic hammer
from Hammering Jack?
Was it the man who
loves Jack’s faithful wife?
Was it the boy who
admired Jack’s strength?
Or was it the girl
whom Jack rejected?
The mystery is
out there; everyone
is a prime suspect,
even Hammering Jack.
Obviously the man was oblivious
to how perilous
his situation is. Here is
a man who is having his
head removed by a
vengeful demon. The way
his lips maintained such
a stupid smirk amidst much
adversity astonished me.
This is truly a mystery,
one worthy of Holmes. Or
maybe it is in the man’s inner core,
so Freud would be a more appropriate
person to request. The composite
recreation of such an event,
by people now absent,
was made of rites, rituals and
wood. It takes courage to show the land
that devils infect our
lives; yet we ignore their power
until it is too late,
and the demon seals our fate.
THE HOMELESS OF OZ
They were everywhere.
I had never seen them before,
no, not in the covered dome
that I called home. But,
in this Emerald City beyond
the Flowing River and over the
Frozen Mountains, they are everywhere.
There goes one, playing a tune
on his harmonica. There is
his pot of gold, and a young
noble drops in a coin. The minstrel
says, “God bless you,” to the
young master. I, myself a peasant,
drop my coin into the minstrel’s
pot, yet he does not give me
the same response. Nonetheless,
I pray that God would bless him;
obviously he needed it more than I.
There is another, sitting on a bench.
He is old, and weary, and tired. He
mumbles to himself, his square jaw
working around the clock non-stop. He
has a small bag in his hand; his sole possessions.
And I thought I traveled light with
my single duffel bag.
TRUTH’S JOURNEY
Back then I knew the truth,
and the truth was my friend…
Truth hides from those
who blindly seek it…
Yet, as friends sometimes do,
we lost contact with one another…
When I searched for truth,
back in my youth, it sought
shelter from my wandering eyes…
I ran into truth when I went
on a far journey. We had lunch
together and reminisced about old days…
When I had turned my eyes from
the truth, it approached me.
I talked to it, embraced it
forever more.
We exchanged information on
where we resided currently. We
made a vow to never lose touch
until the day we die.
CHRONO-CROSS
When I crossed time
I saw the life I’ve
lived mingle with
the life I could’ve lived.
I saw chances go by,
and choices made.
I witnessed the warmth
of the sun, and I
felt the summer’s heat.
The cool winter calmed
my soul, and it also
froze my flesh.
Choices I made can never
be undone, but just
knowing that I have a
choice is worth risking
mistakes and missteps.
Trust in the god within
and the path is always right.
THE JOURNEY BACK
THE MATURATION OF ONE
The full moon howls over the land.
The cold whips around one man
who stands to defy his past.
The man knows each breath might be his last,
but he still holds onto hope.
In his hand is a lantern dangling on rope
of pure ecstasy. He uses the flame
to illuminate his way pass the shame
of his former desolation.
Is there any reconciliation
from the horrors of one’s youth?
Can such a man bear the hood of truth,
his own truth, on his shoulders
and survive? Wouldn’t his heart become colder
than a frozen tundra? The guilty
have amnesia, and the innocent reach insanity;
is justice this blind? Tell
him that there is more than hell
that awaits the dead! Assure
him that heaven is more
than a romantic dream during a stormy night.
Convince him it is worth doing right
while the rest of the world bathes
in the wickedness of its ways.
NO MATTER THE COST
If I change and the
others stay the same,
what does it profit me
to seek perfection?
I shall always be in the
wrong. Why do I care
about these thoughts of
others? Why am I
concerned about their
follies, their souls? Curse
my soft heart for
these contented souls! I
should only worry about
me, let the devil have
them! And yet, that is
exactly what he wants me
to say. I will not allow
myself to be drawn into
his madness, no matter
the cost to me.
TRIP DOWN MEMORY LANE
The spirit of things to come
whisked me from my home.
To a faraway land I went,
my feet sore, my back bent.
My baggage nearly severed my
arm, but my will would not let me die.
I thought not of the flower
I left at home, not till that hour
when another petal caught my sight.
Oh! How the pale moonlight
radiated off her silver stalk!
Her glowing petals mocked
those of my forsaken plant.
All day of her beauty I could rant,
but time is not on my side.
She belonged to another, and the ride
I shared with her was a chance
meeting. You came into remembrance
when I gazed at her.
At first it was only a blur,
but as my trip came to a close,
I knew then that you were the one I chose,
and would gladly choose again.
My heart holds to that day when we shall meet again.
TRAVELER’S FATIGUE
I could barely see
through my tired eyes.
What was there for me
was a masked lie.
Waiting for me for hours,
maybe days,
but I felt no sun shower;
their hearts were not raised.
My flesh was weary
and my soul screamed,
from this long journey
that was as I dreamed.
Yet my return was not
a pleasant affair.
Our hearts were cold, the door was hot;
it was a nightmare!
ABOUT THE POET
A. Jarrell Hayes is from Maryland, but has a habit of not staying in one place very long. He writes poetry and fantasy fiction. His latest books are the poetry collection To Woman, From Man and the urban fantasy book Detecting Magic with Dick Hunter: The Mort des Hommes Files. All of his books are available online at: www.ajhayes.com.
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