Knoxville: Summer of 1915

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Nicky Spence

Nicholas Eliot Spence (born 1983) is a Scottish operatic tenor who performs in opera, oratorio and recital in both the UK and internationally. more »

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It has become the time of evening
When people sit on their porches
Rocking gently and talking gently
And watching the street
And the standing up
Into their sphere of possession of the trees
Of birds' hung havens, hangers
People go by things go by
A horse, drawing a buggy, breaking his hollow Iron music on the asphalt
A loud auto, a quiet auto
People in pairs, not in a hurry
Scuffling, switching their weight of aestival body, talking casually
The taste hovering over them of vanilla
Strawberry, pasteboard and starched milk
The image upon them of lovers and horsemen Squared with clowns in hueless amber
A streetcar raising its iron moan
Stopping, belling and starting stertorous Rousing and raising again its iron increasing moan
And swimming its gold windows and straw seats On past and past and past
The bleak spark crackling and cursing above it Like a small malignant spirit set to dog its tracks
The iron whine rises on rising speed
Still risen, faints halts the faint stinging bell
Rises again, still fainter, fainter, lifting, lifts 
Faints forgone: forgotten
Now is the night one blue dew
Now is the night one blue dew
My father has drained
Now he has coiled the hose
Low on the length of lawns
A frailing of fire who breathes 
Parents on porches: rock and rock
From damp strings morning glories hang their ancient faces
The dry and exalted noise of the locusts from all The air at once enchants my eardrums
On the rough wet grass of the backyard my father and mother have spread quilts
We all lie there, my mother, my father, my uncle My aunt, and I too am lying there 
They are not talking much, and the talk is quiet
Of nothing in particular, of nothing at all in particular, of nothing at all
The stars are wide and alive, they seem each like A smile of great sweetness, and they seem very near
All my people are larger bodies than mine 
With voices gentle and meaningless like the voice of sleeping birds
One is an artist, he is living at home
One is a musician, she is living at home
One is my mother who is good to me
One is my father who is good to me
By some chance, here they are, all on this earth
And who shall ever tell the sorrow of being on this earth
Lying, on quilts, on the grass, in a summer evening, among the sounds of the night
May God bless my people, my uncle, my aunt 
My mother, my good father
Oh, remember them kindly in their time of trouble
And in the hour of their taking away
After a little I am taken in and put to bed
Sleep, soft smiling, draws me unto her
And those receive me, who quietly treat me
As one familiar and well-beloved in that home
But will not, no ,will not, not now, not ever
But will not ever tell me who I am

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