A poem about Caroline Harrison [#64], daughter of Mary
Martha Pelot [#33]
…Miss Caroline Harrison, an amiable young lady, was
drowned when their home was swept into the river; also at the same time, her
two brothers, Samuel and Independence Harrison, R. R. Merrill, Esq., a
gentleman highly esteemed, reportedly engaged to Miss Harrison, and Mrs. Snow’s
young child…
- October 3, 1824 The Darien Gazette
The garden patch is
lean and brown
With the brackish
throat of the river
Where the marigold
halo must drown
Like the sunset we
never experience.
Within these eastern
waters
It’s spring tide. I
am gathering flowers, clothes.
The wind is whipping
shirttails against bare legs,
A delicious breeze
fills a gingham dress.
It’s just about
dinnertime. A storm is coming.
We will board the
windows and hold each other’s hands.
But first, Samuel
has brought some fish and Sarah’s
Baby is crying. The
wind comes and goes.
Next Friday we will
have a garden party.
The sky is India
ink. Birds flee.
Even the absent
drone of cicada
Seems loud as a
train losing its head,
Pure and ripe as the
new hornet’s sting.
We are inside. The
door is latched tight.
My brothers, sister,
fiancé, the baby
Are safe with one
curtain open tonight,
To view the
spectacle. Time to say grace.
Before we close our
eyes I want to look
Between the river’s
surface and the trunks of trees;
To the twisting
roots where they suddenly meet,
For that gray space
missed, the place I cannot name.
It is too late, the light
is flying backwards.
We have our faith
and the Pole house on nearby hill.
But first I must
serve the evening meal,
Want to hear my
brother, Independence,
Play a fiddle tune.
I want a holiday soon.
The rain pays us
dearly now; our old roof
Creaks and wails
beneath the sizzle on tin,
Mr. Baron’s rooster
just floated by in an old hat.
My lover, am I
crazy? No. The catfish are frying:
Tonight we will have
greens from my secret garden.
Sarah has gone to
her child in a state.
The wind holds its
old hand on my ear;
Lamp wicks burn low,
almost blue.
My brother’s sit at
table, they cannot speak.
Catfish linger on
our best china plates
And yellow water has
covered my feet.
Get the bible, I try
to say but only think.
Father’s portrait,
roof and floor disintegrating,
The river calling
us, taking back the wild
The premonition one
gray evening hence,
My wedding day, our
new river child.
There now, I’ve
ruined this dress.
The deluge came in
through the window
So cold, cold, but
we are together.
The current enfolds,
takes our home again.
Our hands, now
ice-hands, still hold
Each other; our
voices, like old feathers
Still find us brave
above water.
Because there is
another shore all golden
Always ahead, moving
ever forward, we progress.
One summer we
fashioned poles from stout trees
Not knowing in which
hour they would be our release.
In every lightning
flash we are beaded on the surface
Less human than
before like the heathen’s bag,
Shrunken heads
bobbing near the shore.
We swim toward a
hill: what is the purpose?
I can feel the river
beneath my dress;
See grandfather
watching us breathe our best?
The moon would be
full in the west, devouring every minute
And the child has
just been pulled from Sarah’s breast.
There is no stopping
this: we are over, under.
I never knew that
spiders spun such glorious webs,
Filaments dazzle the
eye. We move so slowly, we ebb.
And there are other
creatures here this evening:
The paramecium,
amoebae; Jacob’s golden ladder,
Rotifers and swamp
angel thrive in tiny droplets.
The hill is near. We
swim with penny nails in hand,
Stout oak poles are
here for safety and our reason.
I know, I know that
catfish lay below
Us, smiling perhaps,
this season.
Yes, my love. I know
what you’re asking:
We have cherry
cobbler for dessert,
The tea things for
Friday are almost made.
Hold on, hold on; we
have reached the pole,
But the river, the
gray spaces in the trees
Love us so! We are
the consumption
In this turbulent
flow.
Samuel and
Independence are fishing,
The wood is grinding
into my skin;
Another child’s
lost. Don’t die my love:
Become the rain
driving down this tree-lined coast
On a future day that
may remind someone of you
And I, all our
kisses in the sun. Fly west my love,
Show them how we
run.
by John Allen Pelot Jr.
[#953]
John is an English teacher and has published historical
poetry in "The Sandhills Review."
This poem was originally published in 1997 by the Sandhills Review
(formerly the St. Andrews Revue) and was a runner up for the Ronald Bayes
Poetry Prize. For any more information regarding this, inquires may be made to
The North Carolina Writer's Network. John and his wife Martha live in Punta
Gorda, Florida. He can be reached at ThreeTop@aol.com.