TRANSCRIPT

I’m Maggie Smith, and this is The Slowdown.

A decade or so ago, I had the privilege of co-teaching a couple of workshops with the poet Stanley Plumly. Through those experiences, he became not only a mentor but a friend. At one point, I was thinking out loud to him about living in my hometown, or at least in the surrounding suburbs, my entire life. I was wondering about the wisdom — or error — in “staying put.” Had it been limiting? Would I benefit from a change?

In an email, Stan wrote, “You made an important choice staying home in Ohio; it serves your work. American poetry is largely an issue of region.”

His words reassured me, and more than that, reaffirmed my pride of place, and my sense of being grounded in the art. He gave me permission to embrace my own regionality as a writer.

He’d always say, in workshops, “exploit your territory.” He encouraged writers to lean into the regional instead of running from it. I now tell my students the same thing: Be exactly who you are, and be from where you’re from unapologetically. Show us that life. Tell us those stories. And let your people speak.

Today’s poem exploits its territory — and does it masterfully.

The Village
by Marc Harshman

Armageddon is not here though the semis are hard at work 
hauling bits and pieces of it from Rutland down to Troy. He once 
stood by the side of a brook just to hear it hum its name over and
over. The postman is friendly and Mrs. Roberts has a dozen pots
filled with red geraniums on her sill and this little town has no
need of his memories. A stamp will do to carry a heart from one
door to the next. The air force has not been heard from today,
and the clock reads a quarter past nine. The war stays away
awhile longer. What was he in such a big hurry about? Elmer
raises Hampshires. Mostly sold as yearlings. Always saves two to 
butcher at Thanksgiving. Listen, I tell you, it is not good what
they’re doing down there beside the meadow.  In the afternoon it
is a meadow wan with orchard grass and gold-butter medallions
of hawkweed. He can see them from the chair where Thelma cuts
hair in the closet behind the bookshop. The black rigs on 
moonless nights pull up at the sheet metal warehouse beside the 
river road. They are stealing the future one minute at a time and it
is going on right under our noses.  There is still a liar’s bench 
where all the true stories are told. The war is never over for
them. This explains why they listen so carefully. Even the gossip
about what goes on at night when no one is awake. He slept well 
and she served cornmeal pancakes with syrup drawn from a
maple outside the door. Still, he felt compelled to tell them what
he knew. They pretended that they had heard it all before.
Sometimes, at night, here in the city, far away, he believes them.

"The Village" by Marc Harshman from GREEN-SILVER SILENT © 2012 Marc Harshman. Used by permission of the poet.