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    Recollections of My Father
    Recollections of My Father
    Recollections of My Father
    Ebook76 pages28 minutes

    Recollections of My Father

    By Gene Kimmet

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    About this ebook

    Born in Lima, Ohio, a town with a long history of heavy industrial production, poet Gene Kimmet draws from his memories of growing up during the Depression and World War II, focusing on the people and the mill-town setting which left an everlasting mark. The poetry is finely crafted with a keen ear for rhythms and sounds, and the subject matter captures the innocence of youth filtered through the wisdom of the aging poet. Recollections of My Father presents its subjects expressively without venturing into emotional sentimentality. The collection stands as an intriguing read and an important poetic document to hand down among the generations.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCanopic Publishing
    Release dateFeb 27, 2018
    Recollections of My Father

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      Book preview

      Recollections of My Father - Gene Kimmet

      Light on a Dark River

      Old images seep

      From the slow current, drift

      Through winter weeds, the hiss

      Of steam, throb of engines,

      Smell of bitter smoke.

      Empty mills strewn like corpses

      Line the rusted rails, the river

      Soiled as if still stained from

      Molten steel; a picture framed

      In gray, drained of color.

      I pause a moment

      And from a clump of yellow

      Grass a pheasant rises

      Into winter air, its colors

      Fired by a certain slant of sun.

      Like a sudden light in a black

      Dream, it shimmers in red,

      Green, gold, locking itself

      Into memory like a jewel

      In a velvet box.

      Study in Black and White

      In a picture taken

      Sixty years ago, my father

      Stands in a row of men,

      Their steel-toed shoes half buried

      In gray foundry sand, figures

      Dwarfed beneath a giant crane

      That holds two-hundred tons

      Of steam locomotive suspended

      In dusty air.

      Its massive boiler, pistons,

      Rods, and wheels forming

      A sculptured elegance in black,

      Poised serene above the men

      Who fashioned it. Wheels innocent

      Of track, heart of fire unlit,

      First breath of steam not drawn.

      It floats pristine in a moment

      Thieved from time, forever

      Halting the slow decay of flesh,

      The growing store of dust

      Blackening the lungs

      Of the fragile forms

      That stand below.

      Sunday Dreams

      Sun pours through the window,

      A bright rectangle on white carpet.

      The clockwork rhythm of Bach

      Fills the room. I dream of clear

      Rivers rushing through pine forests,

      Silent canyons, red and mysterious,

      Great swells pounding the purple

      Cliffs of Cornwall.

      On Sunday afternoons, my father

      Would fall asleep in a wooden chair

      In sunlight dimmed by sooty windows,

      His hands calloused and curled

      In his lap. Nine nails grimy

      From thirty years in dust,

      The tenth a cat’s claw thrust

      From a mashed finger.

      With his life spent within

      The boundaries of the mills,

      What were the settings of his dreams?

      Were they cast in smoke that

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