As I began reading The Mother of All Words, the new poetry collection by Kelly Belmonte, an image of my childhood began to emerge. The image was the neighborhood where I grew up in suburban New Orleans. It has originally been something akin to swamp; our corner house still had two swamp cypress trees. And across the street were the woods stretching several blocks. As kids, we called it the “Little Woods,” to differentiate it from the wooded area on the other side of the drainage canal. That was the “Big Woods,” four to five times larger, which had what seemed like acres of blackberry bushes scattered among the trees and brush.
Living near woods as a child was sheer magic. My childhood wasn’t especially notable or exceptional, but we had the woods, with its trails, its hiding places, its space so deep you could lose sight of the nearby houses. You could imagine anything and imagine yourself to be anything. And adults were nowhere to be found.
To continue reading, please see my post today at Tweetspeak Poetry.
Some Tuesday Readings
Things Worth Remembering: ‘Be What You Are’ – Joseph Massey at The Free Press.
A new Wendell Berry novel in October.
Golden-Cheeked Warbler – poem by Megan Willome at Every Day Poems.
“Corinna’s Going A-Maying,” poem by Robert Herrick – Sally Thomas at Poems Ancient and Modern.
10 Ways to Help Your Favorite Introverted Author - T.S. Poetry.
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