[stylist] Ghosts of yesterday poem

[Jacqueline Williams]

Barbara,
This will be cursory because of time right now. I do not want you to go
without any feedback.
I really like the way you have come back to your beginning in your last
quatrain.
I caught the word "bes" and did not know what it means. Also I think there
is a period missing.
Having never gone to a "blind" school, it made me feel like I was missing a
great deal.
I believe you have 93 lines. There are very few contests that allow 100
lines. Some go to fifty. It depends on your objective. Publication or poems
for your family. It is a rich bit of history about yourself-or so I assume.
If you want it published, I would look at consolidation in some way.
I will read it again later. In the meantime, read the article on critiquing
your own poetry that I just sent.
Don't be afraid of rhyming if that is natural to you. You will get better at
enjambment, and other tricks of the trade. I love rhymed poetry, myself. 
Keep on, Jackie


-----Original Message-----
From: stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org [mailto:stylist-bounces at nfbnet.org] On
Behalf Of Barbara Hammel
Sent: Monday, December 05, 2011 2:27 PM
To: stylist at nfbnet.org
Subject: [stylist] Ghosts of yesterday poem

Okay, here's a poem I wrote earlier this year.  After I get done reading the
last book in The Earth's Children series, I intend to try writing more
poems-I have my seasons sestinas to finish up-and maybe I can be taught how
to write better by taking criticism and change things before I consider it a
final draft.
Here goes:

    GHOSTS OF YESTERDAY



These hallowed halls are haunted

By the ghosts who, yesterday,

Were the life and breath of Iowa Braille

But now have gone away.



You can hear their footfalls echo

Off the sturdy limestone walls,

And if you listen closely

You can hear their childish calls.



Almost a century and a half

Of memories linger here.

As I roam these silent hallways

On my cheek there falls a tear,



For in the utter stillness

All those children hold their breath,

Their ghostly hearts are terrified

Of their forever death.



But sometimes in the silence

All those sunny smiles of old,

Overwhelm my heart with gladness

And more joy than I can hold.



These hallowed halls are haunted

And if you can walk on by

Without hearing or seeing those darlings

Then you haven't ear or eye



For the history that lingers,

Which we wish to not let go.

But the times they are a-changin',

And you new folks just don't know.



To you it's just a building

That was built in days of yore

To house and teach blind people,

Nothing less and nothing more.



The facts of its existence

You can hold inside your head:

What classes were taught and where,

And when and what was fed.



There are piles and piles of pictures

Of people you never knew,

And lists of names not familiar,

So don't know which goes with who.



And, frankly, in your forward-looking,

Futuristic sight,

You don't want to think of haunted halls

When you turn off the light.



You don't want to walk by daylight

And glimpse a little shadow pass,

You don't want to, in the quiet,

Hear light tread of lad or lass.



You don't want to sense the presence

Of the children we used to be,

All our talk of ghosts that haunt here

Is making you feel creepy.



But these hallowed halls are sacred

To us oldtimers of the place,

We don't find it creepy to meet

Ghosts of our childhoods face to face.



Those piles and piles of pictures

Of people you never knew

Have names we find familiar,

We know which goes to who.



And we know when they attended

And friends they might have known,

And friends of friends who knew them

Till our web of connection has grown.



This isn't just a building

That was built in days of yore,

To house and teach blind people.

It is ever so much more.



It was home away from home to us,

This Braille Jail, some would say,

But the grown-ups owed our parents

Safety for us to learn and play.



These limestone walls and hardwood floors

Hold precious memories

You new folks just can't grasp because

They're not your used-to-bes.



You never saw it thriving with

The clamor of children at play,

Or with classrooms of children learning

Or large and small kids bowing to pray.



For you this is an empty shell,

The life has ceased to be,

So you're filling it with strangers;

Crowding out its history.



Those little lisping whispers

And the steps upon the floor

Are our imagination

That you wish you could ignore.



But these hallowed halls are haunted

By the ghosts who, yesterday,

Were the the life and breath of Iowa Braille,

But now have gone away.




Let every nation know whether it wishes us well or ill, that we shall pay
any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose
any foe, in order to assure the survival and the success of liberty.--John
F. Kennedy
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