- for my parents, Walter J. Jones and Jean H. Jones -
In which Pierre Bezallion, a Canadian
fur trapper, from a cave along the banks
of the Schuylkill River, relates, to his silent
scout and companion, a dispossessed Iroquois
who goes by Joe, his plans for the future
town of Springville, latterly known as Spring City.
To be read to a gathering of descendents
of one of that town’s illustrious clans,
at a distance undetermined yet proximate
to the roving White Man’s lost cave, celebrating
the time when a young man, one Walter Jones,
a native of Bezallion’s town, came together
with one Jean Haas, daughter of Bethlehem, PA –
and were wedded one day in blustery
January, nineteen hundred and sixty-five.
Unless, my man, my name ain’t Pierre Bezallion,
I’d say our trip ends right here at this cave.
Someday they’ll put our mugs on a brass medallion:
“Pioneering Pierre and Joe, his steadfast brave.”
And, while it ain’t a sunny thought, dear Joe,
they’ll set a day to annually mark our grave.
The mayor will stand up here with his matronly beau
and tell the gathered denizens our tale.
Could be they’ll turn it into a regular show!
A pageant with damsels and whatnot, knights in mail –
and emissaries sent here from the Pope.
Quite likely there’ll be the sharing of cakes and ale.
And they’ll hang that big medallion down from a rope
so no one forgets what the show’s about –
the ordeals, namely, through which we achieved our hope,
surviving illness, hostile natives, cold and doubt.
How ‘bout this, Joe – an even better name:
“The Trials of Daring Pierre, and Joe (His Scout)!”
Yes, Joe, this cave will mark our undisputed claim
to this pulchritudinous spread of land,
whose modesty adds that much to its coming fame
by not favoring the monumental or grand,
but by unfolding to the eye its wares
so that one knows the uses for which it’s been planned.
Firstmost, there’s a run of quiet river, with flares
of whitewater edging the banks upstream –
not unsuitable for the collection of fares
which (so maintains the extravagance of my dream)
my heirs will collect along a canal
that they’ll build to convey our budding nation’s cream –
goods luxurious and mundane (no, not “banal,”
Joe – the word means “pertaining to the world”).
Then, next to speak of, a slope on which to repel
invaders and on which to see one day unfurled
the flag that will unite us with a band
of places similarly rabbited and squirreled –
from where the waters first encroach upon the sand
on out across the plains as yet unknown
to the far extremities of the western land.
Finally, Joe, you’ll notice our neighborly clone
blanketed there on yon opposing bank.
From where we look out on this perch of wooded throne,
I can picture a town of rivals, whom we’ll thank
for providing a competitive goad.
And our towns will thrive in an equivalence of rank.
A stone’s throw from the river we’ll build our main road.
Theirs will run vertical straight up that hill.
Where they meet at the river will serve as a node,
as a crossroads for young and old, healthy and ill.
What I’m saying is that they’ll build a bridge,
from which will descend a commerce of mill on mill,
along which this stately river will slide and edge,
on its way east to Penn’s city of love.
Our cities will provide an industrial wedge,
a dynamo at the heart of Penn’s wooded grove.
We’ll have a paper works and one for glass,
and another one to improve upon the stove –
yea, manufacturers of every sort and class.
And that’s not all, dear Joe, no not at all!
Let it be known forthwith how it’ll come to pass
that, on up from our river’s industrial mall,
will take root one of the finest settlements around,
with its citizens neighbored about in Christianly sprawl.
Up high on the southern plain will be found
such institutions of learning known as schools.
And on that piece upstream of level ground,
Joe, we’ll even establish a caring-place for fools
(or “feeble-of-mind,” I believe is what they say).
And of course there’ll be peacekeepers to look after rules,
places of amusement where young and old can play,
shops for the clothing and feeding of lady and gent,
banks to shore up funds for a latter day,
and a poorhouse for those who fail to meet their rent.
In order to pay for the public works,
we’ll establish a fund from revenues earned and spent.
‘Twill serve the common good – both lords and clerks.
The folk will be of sundry names and kinds.
We’ll have Shantz’s and Sheeleys, McKissics and Kirks,
Latshaws, Hallmans, Hunsbergers, Yosts and Klines.
Yes, the race of men along this flowing Schuylkill
will outdo and outfavor all Europy Rhones and Rhines.
Those Old Country princes will come to serve as pupil,
and if they don’t acknowledge we’re better,
we’ll send them back to their Europe without a scruple!
Let’s envision, dear Joe, our representative settler.
We’ll say he’s a Welshman by the name of Jones.
He’s sailed here to flee from poverty’s fetter.
To Pennsylvanian soil he’ll confide his bones.
An Irish lady, I conceive it now, he’ll wed.
Neither of them descend from princely thrones,
but from honest farmers who tilled the land for their bread.
Yet see how tragedy strikes their seven children.
Before the eldest comes of age, the father is dead.
The children are forced to discontinue their schooling –
George, Walter, Margaret, Rebecca, Catherine, Howard and John.
Drowned in a boating accident is the ruling.
Yet the eldest – George – determines that they’ll get on,
and plays father to his fatherless kin.
And behold! the Joneses roll out from lawn to lawn,
reaping Life and Good Living from Fortune’s deadliest spin!
For thrive the Joneses do, as thrive they must.
The fat of the land becomes theirs, as does its thin.
Right here, Joe, where our bones have turned to dust,
they’ll establish their abode and call it South Main.
May their generations inhabit through rust on rust,
and that Welshman’s descendents scatter but never wane!
There are farmers, as well as entrepreneurs –
and those who command the distilling of spirits from grain.
Some are drawn to the city and its allures,
while others defend our freedom in distant wars.
There are men of the cloth, and women who preside over cures.
Joneses who broadcast the name in foreign tours.
(Pray, though – while some stray off to school or else to fight,
may others remain to administer Bezallion Furs!)
And lo! a grandson Jones falls in love at sight
with a Miss Haas or Miss Potter not of these parts.
In suchwise do the Joneses mingle their right,
at length appearing on yet remoter charts,
transported thereto by some modern argosy
to sell our native wares in exotic marts –
old Cathay, perhaps, Hindustan or Formosy.
A great-grandson of the Welshman – Andrew, by name –
happens upon that last-mentioned, mountainous isle. Suppose he
makes on a local gal’s heart his claim.
She’s a daughter of Springville’s Orient sibling –
a river town that has likewise grown to fame.
A poet who’s given to quipping and quibbling,
one day Andrew ponders his sorely missed home
and, after some thought, takes to scribbling
an account of us – you and me, Joe – our half-year’s roam
southwards from our former abode along the St. Lawrence.
In short, he’s taken to penning an epic poem,
throwing in a dramatic twist or two where it warrants,
about how we came to this humble cave,
dodging arrows, gaping ravines and raging torrents…
Mea culpa, Joe. It seems I’ve begun to rave.
It’s a fact our lives ain’t even half done,
and I’m thinking what they’ll be saying at our grave.
Perhaps my dream will expire with this setting sun
and Springville come to no more than this path.
But we’ve come this far, Joe…I’ve a right to my fun.
(Ten thousand heads by 1851,
so’s I reckon by my math…)
--------------
So much for Bezallion’s self-spoken epitaph.
Perhaps he’s with us in ghostly presence.
I’d like to end with a line that will make you laugh.
As far as I know, this poem has no precedence.
Spring City, however, is not immense.
How will our mirth sit with its current residents?
We’ll suck, for that, some wind from Bezallion’s pretense.
Don’t worry that our little town will hear.
We’ve right to have a bit of fun at its expense!
OK, I’ll just blurt it on out – our common fear
that this -ville or city’s lost its mettle,
going on decades short of some three hundred year,
near the cave where Bezallion heated his kettle.
I say this not trying to be witty:
Observe that we’ve all gone off elsewhere to settle.
Is it joy that brings us together or pity?
But I’ve no fear such thoughts will sadly crown
our homage this day to our ancestral city,
and no qualm that reports of sarcastic renown
will emerge from this rented tarpaulin.
Sure, there are complaints we could lodge against this town.
It’s likely, for instance, that some are appalled it
has borne no artists worthy of the Louvre.
Others among us may whisper that it’s fallen
short of its former grandeur, or attempt to prove
its borders don’t reflect Bezallion’s will.
But no need to whisper, for we’re at a remove –
downwind a full quarter mile from that town’s landfill,
a three-minute walk down and up a hill.
I tell you, dear Joneses, as we enjoy our grill:
This tent under which we’re now roofed
is not in Spring-, but in Phoenix-ville!
May and June, 2004
Taipei (“Northern Platform”)
and Shuang Xi (“Double Stream”)
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