Uploaded February 2024 | Updated September 2026, 2 weeks ago
This time I discuss Robert Penn Warren's late poem, "Old-Time Childhood in Kentucky".
Tip me if you like: ko-fi.com/owenedwards.
Text (no ownership asserted):
When I was a boy I saw the world I was in.
I saw it for what it was. Canebrakes with
Track beaten down by bear paw. Tobacco,
In endless rows, the pink inner flesh of black fingers
Crushing to green juice tobacco worms plucked
From a leaf. The great trout,
Motionless, pointed in the shadow of his
Enormous creek-boulder.
But the past and the future broke on me, as I got older.
Strange, into the past, I first grew. I handled the old bullet-mold.
I drew out a saber, touched an old bayonet, I dreamed
Of the death scream. Old spurs I tried on.
The first great General Jackson had ridden just north to our state
To make a duel legal—or avoid the law.
It was all for honor. He said: “I would have killed him
Even with his hot lead in my heart.” This for honor. I longed
To understand. I said the magic word.
I longed to say it aloud, to be heard.
I saw the strategy of Bryce’s Crossroads, saw
The disposition of troops at Austerlitz, but knew
It was far away, long ago. I saw
The murks of the old man’s stick in the dust, heard
The old voice explaining. His eyes weren’t too good,
So I read him books he wanted. Read him “Breasted’s History of Egypt”. Saw years uncoil like a snake,
I built a pyramid with great care. There interred
Pharaoh’s splendor and might.
Excavation next summer exposed that glory to man’s sight.
At a cave mouth my uncle showed me crinoid stems,
And in limestone skeletons of the fishy form of some creature.
“All at once under water,” he said, “no saying the millions
Of years.” He walked off, the old man still with me. “Grandpa,”
I said, “what do you do, things being like this?” “All you can,”
He said, looking off through treetops, skyward. “Love
Your wife, love your get, keep your word, and
If need arises, die for what men die for. There aren’t
Many choices.
And remember that truth doesn’t always live in the number of voices.”
He hobbled away. The woods seemed darker. I stood
In the encroachment of shadow. I shut
My eyes, head thrown back, eyelids black.
I stretched out the arm on each side, and, waterlike,
Wavered from knees and hips, feet yet firm-fixed, it seemed,
On shells, in mud, in sand, in stone, as though
In eons back I grew there in that submarine
Depth and lightlessness, waiting to discover
What I would be, might be, after ages-how many?-had rolled over.
This time I discuss Robert Penn Warren's late poem, "Old-Time Childhood in Kentucky".
Tip me if you like: ko-fi.com/owenedwards.
Text (no ownership asserted):
When I was a boy I saw the world I was in.
I saw it for what it was. Canebrakes with
Track beaten down by bear paw. Tobacco,
In endless rows, the pink inner flesh of black fingers
Crushing to green juice tobacco worms plucked
From a leaf. The great trout,
Motionless, pointed in the shadow of his
Enormous creek-boulder.
But the past and the future broke on me, as I got older.
Strange, into the past, I first grew. I handled the old bullet-mold.
I drew out a saber, touched an old bayonet, I dreamed
Of the death scream. Old spurs I tried on.
The first great General Jackson had ridden just north to our state
To make a duel legal—or avoid the law.
It was all for honor. He said: “I would have killed him
Even with his hot lead in my heart.” This for honor. I longed
To understand. I said the magic word.
I longed to say it aloud, to be heard.
I saw the strategy of Bryce’s Crossroads, saw
The disposition of troops at Austerlitz, but knew
It was far away, long ago. I saw
The murks of the old man’s stick in the dust, heard
The old voice explaining. His eyes weren’t too good,
So I read him books he wanted. Read him “Breasted’s History of Egypt”. Saw years uncoil like a snake,
I built a pyramid with great care. There interred
Pharaoh’s splendor and might.
Excavation next summer exposed that glory to man’s sight.
At a cave mouth my uncle showed me crinoid stems,
And in limestone skeletons of the fishy form of some creature.
“All at once under water,” he said, “no saying the millions
Of years.” He walked off, the old man still with me. “Grandpa,”
I said, “what do you do, things being like this?” “All you can,”
He said, looking off through treetops, skyward. “Love
Your wife, love your get, keep your word, and
If need arises, die for what men die for. There aren’t
Many choices.
And remember that truth doesn’t always live in the number of voices.”
He hobbled away. The woods seemed darker. I stood
In the encroachment of shadow. I shut
My eyes, head thrown back, eyelids black.
I stretched out the arm on each side, and, waterlike,
Wavered from knees and hips, feet yet firm-fixed, it seemed,
On shells, in mud, in sand, in stone, as though
In eons back I grew there in that submarine
Depth and lightlessness, waiting to discover
What I would be, might be, after ages-how many?-had rolled over.
