Poetry Writing Class

  Ghosts are Walking

Strange fruit hanging from the poplar trees...
-Lewis Allen

And poplars stand there still as death.
-Arna Bontemps

Why the poplar?
Not a cooling parasol against Southern sun,
each casts a shade scarce wider
than a column of the Big House.
Not a welcoming tree,
no branches spread to catch the knee
of climbing child.
It bears no blossoms,
not cherries, plums, or peaches,
only that fruit we all call strange.
A gibbet with leaves that shiver in heaven's eye
points its quaking finger at indifferent sky.

Pluck a leaf and taste its stem,
interesting but bitter.
The poplar's branches grow as close
as branches of my Southern family
the Black, the White
and all the shadings in between.

by Anna Sears
August 2006

Anna Sears
After 40 years of writing everything but poems, in the new millennium Anna Sears has been inspired by the Hospitality House Writing Group to return to her first love, poetry. She is now poetry editor of Caveat Lector magazine.

290 Turk Street
San Francisco
CA 94102

415 749 2100

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