Grit Blogs > There and Back Again

Celebrating rural life in poetry

 Paula Ebert headshotI am very excited to have a part in a new book called "Begin Again: 150 Kansas Poems." It is part of the celebration of the anniversary of Kansas. The Kansas poet laureate solicited poetry from around the state, and, much to my surprise my poem was accepted. I think that this book would be of interest to anyone with an eye for poetry, or an interest in all things rural. It is available from Woodley Press: Department of English, Washburn University, Topeka Kansas, 66621. The price is $15. But here, for free, is my poem in the book, and I think in the future I will offer a couple of unpublished poems.  

Into the Land of the Post Rock 

“When we build let us think that we build forever. Let it not be for present delight nor present use alone. Let it be such work as our descendants will thank us for; and let us think, as we lay stone on stone, that a time is to come when those stones will be held sacred because our hands have touched them, and that men will say, as they look upon the labor and wrought substance of them, ‘See! This our father did for us.’” ~ John Ruskin 

It looks as if a drill has marred the sides 

otherwise so straight and even 

seashells imbedded therein 

rumors of a long-ago sea. 


These are the marks of settlers who upon finding 

lots of rock, not su much timber 

set about the turn the Greenhorn Limestone 

into fence posts in Ellsworth, Westfall, Beverly 

towns of grandparents' past. 


The ingenious pioneers drilled holes 

filled them with water 

and waited for the winter freese to split the rock in two 

Then, slinging the 500-pound posts 

under horse-drawn wagons, hauled the posts into place. 


I've seen photos of the laborers - 

wearing overalls, hats pushed back, taking their ease at noon, 

eating lunches made by their German wives or 

posed with an uncomfortable pride around the hewn rocks. 


My own grandfather 

cut posts in the 1920s, 

when he was newly married, 

with a family to support. 


He went with his father and uncles to cut the rock 

working with sledge hammers and wedges 

in the winter when the carpentry work  

and Irv Elemnan's blacksmich shop were slow. 


Today, we move the posts with a tractor 

and sand-blast on names for decoration. 

But customers come with admiration for the pioneers 

and want ones with wire imbedded still. 


With each rock we move, I think, 

of the men in the wind-swept winter, 

keep moving to sayt warm, 

to keep food ont he table; 

and thoughts turn to my grandfather - 

tacturn, esteemed, indefatigable. 


I look for the marks of his hand.  


cindy murphy
2/22/2012 2:36:23 PM

Beautiful, Paula....hauntingly so. It may sound very strange, but your poem gave me the same kind of chills I get whenever I hear that old Gordon Lightfoot song, "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald". There's just something so moving to me about stories of past men (and women) who worked hard and gave so much of themselves in the process. Thank you for sharing.

nebraska dave
2/21/2012 7:42:06 PM

Paula, congratulations on your poem acceptance. It only confirms my belief that the most awesome writers blog for GRIT. The only things we can leave behind for future generations are memories which eventually fade and permanent land improvements. Long after I'm gone and memories are forgotten, the stone retaining walls, bushes, and trees that I have given to the land will still be either alive or still standing. It's been said that a man plants a vineyard for his sons and an Olive tree orchard for his grandsons. Someday, hopefully at least 20 years down the road, Terra Nova Gardens will be such a testament about the old geezer that cared for it for so long as it slowly slips back into neglect. In my humble opinion, we never really own the land. We are only privileged to take care of it for a time. I have never considered myself a writer although some think that I am. I would say that I am just a blogger that writes about life's experiences that seem to happen to me and around me. There are definitely times when I get intimidated by the writing talent that hangs out here on this Website. However there's something inside of me that just won't give it up. It's become a part of who I am. Congrats again and may all the greatness in your writing be recognized.