Poems with Anab: Poetry as an economic bond, tales from the Great Depression
If you’ve been following us for the last two weeks, then welcome back to Poems with Anab. If you’re new here, then you should check out the other two articles where I share poems from times of calamities.
The previous articles tackled on the 1918 Influenza pandemic and the bubonic plague. For this segment I’ll be sharing poems from the Great Depression. Because our economy, once again, isn’t looking too good.
“Sweet the water—
Bitter to taste
In a world submerged
In a maelstrom of haste . . .
Fair the sun-rays—
Dark to see
From workaday deeps,
Depths unhappy, unfree . . .
Sweet the blossom—
Acrid to smell
From an earth encrusted
With the Patines of Hell . . .
Fair the breezes—
Harsh to hear;
Discordantly blowing,
With the discord of Fear . . .
Sweet this Life—
God! to feel
Held tight to a Rack,
Fettered fast to a Wheel.”
— Lament
Randolph Goodman
“I walked one day
In the Garden of Wasted Things,
And there I found
The bitter ghosts of all that had been spent unwisely,
Or lost through brutal circumstance.
I found the childhood
That some labourer’s child had never known;
I found the youth that some young man had squandered;
There I found some poet’s genius
That had gone unrecognised.
I saw the ghosts of idle words,
And small talk,
That men had used to waste away the hours.
I saw the hopes that had been smothered,
And all the dreams
That never had come true,
And Laughter that had died for lack of bread.
I met with all the lives that had been misdirected,
And spoke with dreary shades
Of loves that might have been,
And songs that never had been sung.
I met with all these ghosts,
And many more;
And each of them
Sat silently in the shadows,
Brooding over quirks of mad Creation,
And puppets’ dreams.”
— The Magpie
Robert S. Warshow
“Our lives avoided tragedy
Simply by going on and on,
Without end and with little apparent meaning.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
Simply by going on and on
We managed. No need for the heroic.
Oh, there were storms and small catastrophes.
I don't remember all the particulars.
We managed. No need for the heroic.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
I don't remember all the particulars.
Across the fence, the neighbors were our chorus.
There were the usual celebrations, the usual sorrows.
Thank god no one said anything in verse.
The neighbors were our only chorus,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
At no time did anyone say anything in verse.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us,
And if we suffered we kept quiet about it.
No audience would ever know our story.
It was the ordinary pities and fears consumed us.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
What audience would ever know our story?
Beyond our windows shone the actual world.
We gathered on porches; the moon rose; we were poor.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
Somewhere beyond our windows shone the world.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
And time went by, drawn by slow horses.
We did not ourselves know what the end was.
The Great Depression had entered our souls like fog.
We had our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues.
But we did not ourselves know what the end was.
People like us simply go on.
We have our flaws, perhaps a few private virtues,
But it is by blind chance only that we escape tragedy.
And there is no plot in that; it is devoid of poetry.”
— Pantoum of the Great Depression
Donald Justice
