Poetic Connections to the Past #SOL17

In 1948, my grandmother Dorothea Kennedy published a book of poetry — Patchwork Dreams. As  child, I remember copies of her book piled here and there around my grandparent’s home in Portland, Maine and in the gallery on Peaks Island where she also sold her paintings. I recently read the book from cover to cover and I so regret that I never talked to her about her book and where her ideas came from. If only she were still here to share ideas, inspiration, and advice with her granddaughter, so new to the writerly life.

One poem, The Prisoner, haunts me. While the words are hers, they describe me! I don’t recall my grandmother being a terribly woodsy person — she lived on the shores of Casco Bay all her life — but I am. They are me. How can this be?

The Prisoner

My home is where the hills are

Along a woody trail,

Lined with pine and sweet fern

Known to darting quail.

 

Many voices murmur

Yet always unseen,

The chattering Woodfolk

Fill the forest green.

 

My home is where the hills are

Tangled and wild,

Imprisoned in the City

Lives a forest child.

— Dorothea Kennedy from Patchwork Dreams, 1948

This post is part of the annual month-long Slice of Life writing challenge organized by Two Writing Teachers. Join us! It’s my first time slicing, I’m a slice planner, and an early morning slicer, too!