.

A Town

The difficulty of describing how
This town was then, may only be because
So little happened there, compared to now,
Though what occurred (the bustle and the buzz)

Filled every room in each small house and more
To overflowing with the acts of people
Engaged in vicious inter-tribal war.
Beneath the shadow of a spiky steeple

Spite flooded down the narrow streets. The schools
Of teachers worked to uplift families;
Tried hard to fashion scholars out of fools
Who much preferred to laze beneath the trees

On warm spring days when no one wanted books,
And curiosity ebbed lower than
Dry creek banks, and best efforts went to looks
At breasts and thighs. And no one had a plan

Except to sit on porches in the nights
And never raise their eyes to view the stars—
Just swatting moths around electric lights
While most men stayed inside, played pool in bars.

.

.

Illusions

There is an awful leaden weight
Upon my heart. Inevitably
I cannot see, approve, relate
To what destroys my fantasy.
I see some whole, enjoying me
With open heart; but yet to date,
I do not meet one who feels free
Enough to love. At any rate,
I am that object on the shelf
Priced out of reach—star on the tree
Or in the sky. I find myself
Caught in a trap; see I must be
A pale illusive fantasy,
Who cannot please or pay the fee.

.

.

The Sociological Underpinnings
of Some Local Lingerie

Elfreda Brose wore underwear
To cover up her pubic hair
And Joanne owned ten pair of panties
Bought for her by doting aunties.

Italian undies? Lots of lace
Just to disguise that sacred place,
While cotton bloomers covered all—
Protestant skivvies, big or small.
We became known by that which we
Covered ourselves from crotch to knee.

.

.

Sally Cook is both a poet and a painter of magical realism. Her poems have also appeared in Blue Unicorn, First Things, Chronicles, The Formalist Portal, Light Quarterly, National Review, Pennsylvania Review, TRINACRIA, and other electronic and print journals. A six-time nominee for a Pushcart award, in 2007 Cook was featured poet in The Raintown Review. She has received several awards from the World Order of Narrative and Formalist Poets, and her Best American Poetry Challenge-winning poem “As the Underworld Turns” was published in Pool. 

NOTE TO READERS: If you enjoyed this poem or other content, please consider making a donation to the Society of Classical Poets.

The Society of Classical Poets does not endorse any views expressed in individual poems or commentary.


Trending now:

11 Responses

  1. C.B. Anderson

    You’ve come up with a lot of cool stuff over the years, but these three perk up my ears and raise my hackles. We are both of an age when there’s no more fooling around, just complete license to paint ideas and write truth. I won’t get into details, Sally, because you know exactly what you did at every turn. No one can illustrate the superbly suburban as well as you can.

    Reply
    • Sally Cook

      Dear Kip —
      As usual, you have said it better and more succinctly than almost anybody could have done. That’s because your eagle eye misses nothing! The Society is lucky to have you;

      Reply
  2. Joseph S. Salemi

    Sally Cook always amazes me. Look at the subjects of these three pieces: a memory of a town; a subjective meditation on depression; and a comment on what girls wore in the old days. In other hands, these subjects could have well been saccharine, nostalgic, self-absorbed, complaining, or merely comic.

    But no — Cook turns them into utterly unsentimental pictures of mature and unsparing remembrance of a narrow, uncultured place (poem 1), a spare and unself-pitying confession (poem 2); and a very un-sexual and non-voyeuristic recollection of adolescent girls’ unmentionables (poem 3).

    There is nothing predictable, nothing cliche, nothing “heart-warming” in any of these poems, and they are totally unspoiled by the three miseries of meaning, message, and moral. They are the mature aesthetic product of keen observation, uncensored memory, and fictive mimesis. Cook is not trying to defend the town, or call for therapeutic sympathy, or make any point at all about how girls cover their nether regions. She just uses perfect language to paint three perfect pictures.

    I hope readers notice that the first seven lines of “A Town” are one sentence — perfectly enjambed and and perfectly rhymed. And the same thing is true for almost all of the last three quatrains of the poem.

    In my opinion, Sally Cook is one of the very best formal poets writing today in America.

    Reply
    • Sally Cook

      Thank you, Joe for your honest praise. I have to say it hurts me when I see so many awkward breaks and contrived lines stuffed into stanzas that would be better off having been left out; I mean actual physical pain, and I think to myself, what is the purpose of a poem? To fill “space” Surely there is nothing poetic about that. I wonder if someone who writes “filler” respects words, or thinks they do.
      Sorry to go on, but your words come like a fresh breeze on a humid morning..

      Reply
  3. Shamik Banerjee

    The first poem is an excellent take on the mental and behavioural barrenness in a town that not only lacked activity but was also soulless. Infused with a wide range of imagery, this poem is a pure treat—I was willing to pick one but couldn’t, as everything (from people under the steeple, spite coursing down the streets, the natives concern with their appearance, etc.) is brilliant. The second poem’s subject appears to be at peace with himself despite not being able to find a match. Please correct me if I’m wrong. The third, in addition to its humour, has some amusing rhymes. Thanks for this collection, Sally!

    Reply
  4. Roy Eugene Peterson

    “A Town” could have been my farming community town of Bonesteel, South Dakota, where I grew up to the age of 13, except we did not even have a place to play pool. Farmers went to town on Wednesdays and Saturdays and sat on benches discussing the latest gossip and watching their ladies shopping. The reason for the twice weekly visits was to sell their milk, cream, and eggs as fresh as possible for the trucks that would take their produce to the cities.
    “Illusions” is such a melancholy poem, at least for me, that reflects on a “wall flower” type of person, perhaps shy, but wishing for a relationship that is meaningful in their life while believing they ” cannot please or pay the price.” “…Local Lingerie” says so much about a bygone era when underwear of such proportions could be considered local lingerie and when aunties indeed gifted their nieces on birthdays and holidays with such apparel.
    All three of these poems seem to emanate from experiences that could be personal or could have been observational.

    Reply
  5. Jeff Eardley

    Sally, I always enjoy your evocations of small town Americana, and this one reads beautifully as poem or prose, which is so clever. “Illusions” and the lingerie piece are also delights to lighten up a grey English afternoon..Thank you.

    Reply
  6. James A. Tweedie

    Sally,

    Peek under the covers, pull back the curtains, and lift up the skirts! Your trilogy has it all! I won’t bother to repeat the kudos (well-deserved and with which I agree) but I will repeat gratitude for your talent and gifts being shared with our extended SCP family, myself included.

    Reply
  7. James Sale

    Excellent poetry, Sally. Each one distinctive and adroit. There is a seething sexuality in all three – but controlled and contained by form, which adds to the tension. One senses that Illusions is an almost painful self-portrait – enough is said (but not too much) to get the imagination working overtime! Thanks.

    Reply
  8. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    Dear Sally, I simply love the way you plumb the very depths of the human condition and elevate your sagacious and sensuous finds to mesmerizing heights. You have this reader hooked on every delightful word. You have a gift for turning the ordinary into the extraordinary. I especially like the matter-of-fact style of “Illusions”. It’s a poem that leaves many questions in spite of the closing answer – there’s something heart-touching and spiritual in its sober delivery. I like that. Sally, thank you very much indeed!

    Reply
  9. Margaret Coats

    “Illusions” shows a thought process of someone who holds firmly to a fantasy. It seems to be the fantasy of being loved, which as a hope or desire or dream would seem perfectly reasonable. But meeting no one who “feels free enough to love,” the speaker starts to feel her fantasy of love has turned her into a fantasy herself. Wanting love rather than enjoyment or openheartedness, she cannot please a prospective partner by giving those things, and thus becomes a fantasy to men who cannot please her or pay her fee by giving her love. It’s a tragic trap to be caught in, and you, Sally, picture it truthfully in colloquial speech of the powerless speaker.

    Reply

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.