History is accurate, now the poetics

I copy and paste it, but it usually does not do the single space.  Sorry.

A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
         (5 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
Doves coo here and keep the Sabbath.
   Orange daylilies still stand outside the door
of the simple white structure
   built on everlasting arms, a sure foundation.
In the early 1900’s, people gathered together
   to make a joyful noise.
 
Brothers and Sisters walked miles
   and rode wagons to hear fiddles, piano,
old-timey hymns. Before and after service,
   folks talked politics and school matters,
caught up with kin, told amusing stories.
   They sipped creek water from a dipper,
enjoyed dinner-on-the-grounds,
   traded horses, dogs, pocket knives.
 
Under the shade of trees, children heard
   scripture and Bible stories.
Inside, daylight streamed through
   massive, old windows while boots
and shoes scuffed the wooden floor.
   Air throbbed when the congregation sang
a good refrain. The Word and gestures
   from the pulpit moved men, women, children.
Backs must have stiffened against hard pews
   when hell-and-brimstone sermons invite all
to be holy. Personal testimonies startled
   believers, in spite of a fly flailing the wall
with a frantic buzz.
   Next, O Sinner, Come Home!
That’s when knees bent at the kneeling bench,
   a forgiving place. There, souls found ease
for hurting hearts.
 
Some said final goodbyes in this place,
   letting go of those gone toward the Light.
 
Whatever blessed Old Galatia Church,
   may it never end.
A dove now calls in low slow notes.

Pat

I think the poem is very descriptive.  I have read it a couple times and still have no entrance.  

It seems that there are two energy points:  doves and the fly...either of which seem to be more than another detail.

Can the poem's speaker be a participant?  The poem feels like a history lesson.  Why do we care?  I think that I am not sure of the narrator:  how does the N know so much?

I hope you will not abandon me or the poem.

Bless you for a worthy topic.

Todd

I know this info because I've asked questions, gone to Decoration Day to visit with people and learn about the history of this church. Most of these churches have burned or been torn down. One woman asked me if I'd write a poem about this one.  This is my effort.  I am trying to work the history in because it's more than a building to these people. Their aunts or grandmas told stories about this place and drinking from the community dipper, etc , how it was the meeting place for families, friends, etc.  They are in the midst of remodeling the inside.  Amish helped with the outside, trying to keep it authentic.  They rejected grant money because of so many rules attached.  I pass it every time I go south from Norfork.  Hey, maybe that's an entry point.  Hmmm.

Pat

It seems that your description of the poem's intent DOES offer an entrance.  I like the idea of a N sitting in the sanctuary, considering all the families who've gone before.  The challenge will be to state something unique to this building.  I fear one can say the same things about any building where people have gathered.

What about starting the poem with "because it's more than a building to these people"?

Thanks again

Todd

Maybe I'll write it in prose first.  
Then play with it one line at a time.  
Back to you in a couple of days...
Thank you, Todd.

so I have not worked on this poem in a few days.  

Grand girl goes home tomorrow...maybe.  I have not forgotten it.  I just don't do well with creating anything when there is a potential loss or change in family.  Jeannie is prediabetic and had a TIA. I have lived in the waiting room, so to speak.  Jeannie is better right now, so maybe I can get after it, after grand girl (20 and autistic) goes home.  

Don't give up on me.  I will get it to you this week.  

Editing is easier than creating from scratch.  Strange how that works.

Pat

I do not have to limit myself to one page.  I don't know why I worked so hard to do that!  
I tried to be more specific, but I personally did not go to this church. Also, I'm thinking it's okay with me if this fits for other little churches that survived over 100 years.  Still learning from old timers here.... 

     The Love in Old Galatia Church
            (Five miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                       i
A plain white structure over 100 years old.
 
Inside, I see an empty room.
But then, my eyes land on enormous windows.
A man motions and explains about the boards
stacked high. They’re from the old church.
That fact made them valuable like rubies.
They’d be used in the restoration.
The woman at the door sighs, then tells
a little about the struggle to find funds.
Next, they lower voices as the conversation
turns to their fathers, aunts, cousins
who loved God and praised Him here.
 
                                    ii
From what I’d already heard, children
happily walked or rode wagons for miles
to get here, where Mrs. Willie told Bible stories
under the shade trees. One shared
how her dad’s truck paused to pick up anyone
waiting for a ride to church along Highway 5.  
Another recalled hearts open wide and the clamor
of joy from the fiddle, piano, old-timey hymns.
 
Men removed hats before entering the church.
Indoors, a tender light streamed through massive
old windows while boots and shoes scuffed
the wooden floor. Air surely throbbed
as the congregation sang good refrains. The gospel—
spoken from the pulpit—often stirred men, women,
children. Personal testimonies startled some,
in spite of a fly flailing the wall with a frantic buzz.
 
Next, O Sinner, Come Home! That’s when knees bent
at the kneeling bench and souls found ease
for hurting hearts.
 
Dinner-on-the-grounds followed the service.
Lively chats and laughter went with the fried chicken,
tomatoes, okra, cantaloupe, cucumbers, cobblers.
When thirsty, folks stood in line for creek water
from the community dipper. Then it was time
to talk politics, school matters, tell amusing stories,
trade dogs, horses, pocketknives.
Those with budding wings slowly drifted away
to play a game of tag or wade the creek.
 
Final goodbyes—commonly said right here.
Not uncommon for kin to cherish those last words.
 
                                   iii
Life in old Galatia Church left its love
on minds and hearts. The word empty does not fit.
Just the opposite. Filled and right and good.
Too precious to ever end.
 
Walking back to my car, doves coo low notes,
but I am fixed on the scent of Light.

Pat

I like the addition of numbered sections. 

I would focus on epic two.  It seems to drift in and out of time . . . I would try to make the entire section about the past  . . how the stories are now "happening" before the N's eyes and ears.  I like the detail of Ms. Minnie but then the story seems to wander a bit.  I think rearranging the sentence may be enough.  I like the spiritual application of the Minnie details...do more of that.

The last stanza (III( is better and the final stanza of the poem is really good.  I'd work on II rather than thinking about I and III.

Thanks for this work

Todd

Will do....
Pat

     The Love in Old Galatia Church
            (Five miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                       i
A plain white structure over 100 years old.
 
Inside, I see an empty room.
But then, my eyes land on enormous windows.
A man motions and explains about the boards
stacked high. They’re from the old church.
Understandably, that fact makes them valuable
like rubies. They’ll be used in the restoration.
A woman at the door sighs, then mentions
how hard it is to find funding.
Next, they lower voices as the conversation
turns toward their fathers, aunts, cousins
who loved God and praised Him here.
 
                                    ii
I close my eyes and see the shared memories
of the children happily walking or riding wagons
for miles to get to where Mrs. Willie tells Bible stories
under the shade trees. A truck arrives full of folks
who caught a ride on Highway 5.  Welcoming hearts
open wide to the clamor of joy from the fiddle,
piano, old-timey hymns.
 
Easy to imagine men removing hats before entering
the church. Indoors, a tender light streams through
massive windows while boots and shoes scuff
the wooden floor. Air throbs as the congregation sings
familiar refrains. The gospel—from the pulpit—
stirs men, women, children. A personal testimony
startles some, in spite of a fly flailing the wall
with a frantic buzz.
 
Next, O Sinner, Come Home! Knees bend
at the kneeling bench and souls find ease and healing
for hurting hearts.
 
Dinner-on-the-grounds follows the service.
Lively chats and laughter go with fried chicken,
tomatoes, okra, cantaloupe, cucumbers, cobblers.
Thirsty folks stand in line for creek water,
dipped from the community gourd. Then it’s time
to talk politics and school matters, tell amusing stories,
trade dogs, horses, pocketknives.
Those with budding wings slowly drift away
to play a game of tag or wade the creek.
 
Final goodbyes—said right here.
Not uncommon for kin to cherish those last words.
 
                                   iii
Life in old Galatia Church leaves its love
on minds and hearts. The word empty does not fit.
Just the opposite. Filled and right and good.
Too precious to ever end.
 
Walking back to my car, doves coo low notes,
but I am fixed on the scent of Light.

Pat

I like the direction this is moving.

Now I'd clean-up S1 and 3.  The room is empty but the N listens to stories?

Todd

Feel free to direct me with this.  

     The Love in Old Galatia Church
            (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                       i
A plain white structure over 100 years old.
 
Inside, my eyes land on the enormous windows.
A man motions, explaining the boards
stacked high. From the old church, he says,
to be used in the restoration. Understandably,
that makes them valuable like rubies.
Clearly, the woman at the door revers the spirit
once found in this space. They lower voices,
remembering their fathers, aunts, cousins,
others who loved and praised God in this place.
 
                                    ii
I close my eyes and mull over the narratives
I’d gathered from here and there:
children happily walking or riding in wagons
for miles to get to where Mrs. Willie tells
Bible stories under the shade trees; of a pick-up truck
arriving, full of folks along Highway 5; hearts
open wide, welcoming the clamor of joy
from the fiddle, piano, old-timey hymns.
 
Easy to imagine men removing hats before entering
the church. Indoors, a tender light streams through
massive windows while boots and shoes scuff
the wooden floor. Air throbs as the congregation sings
familiar refrains. The gospel—from the pulpit—stirs
men, women, children. A personal testimony
startles some, in spite of a fly flailing the wall
with a frantic buzz.
 
Then O Sinner, Come Home! Knees bend
at the kneeling bench and souls find ease and healing
for hurting hearts.
 
On special days, dinner-on-the-grounds.
Lively chats and laughter go with fried chicken,
tomatoes, okra, cantaloupe, cucumbers, cobblers.
Thirsty folks stand in line for a dippered sip
from a cold water spring. Then it’s time to talk
politics and school matters, tell amusing stories,
trade dogs, horses, pocketknives.
Those with budding wings slowly drift away
to play a game of tag or wade the creek.
 
Final goodbyes—said right here.
Not uncommon for kin to cherish those last words.
 
                                   iii
Life in old Galatia Church leaves its love
in and around. Too precious to ever end.
 
Walking back to my car, doves coo low notes
like they are whispering a prayer.

Pat,

I just noticed you changed the title.  I have been using the first title (and prefer it).  If the poem is description, meditation, application, I get lost in the new first (I) section.  I lobby for description . . . period.  You might help the reader by noting why the N is there and what is the purpose (a tour of an old building . . . I imagine).

With long poems, I need to focus on a section at a time.  Once I'm off the path, I'm in the weeds and without memory.

Check me:  are the sections description, meditation/imagination, application?  If so, let those ideas be an umbrella for each section.

Press on

todd

They waited for me to get there after church was over.  
I agree:  description.
Yes, goal is to tour the building. Hot, hot day.  They'd been there all morning.  Signed in. Made donation.  Then they walked inside with me.
Helpful to me too...to focus on one section at a time.
Pressing on.
Thank you... I needed this feedback.
Pat

I need the history in this poem.  I think I will be meeting with Linda in a week or so.. she is thinking on ways to get monies for the restoration. I think she wants to meet with me to say more about her family's history, but time will tell.
Meanwhile, I write....

Am I making any progress?  

     A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
              (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading me
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
A hot, golden day. Folks come from far and near
to clean graves of kin on this weekend. I watch as a man
puts money in the jar, the restoration donation. Then he
reaches for a postcard of the church silhouetted
against sky and trees. People talk in knots about the heat,
Trout fishing, an old aunt’s love for this church.
 
Decoration Sunday. People bend and angle over graves,
chat, hug, lean toward nostalgia, tour the church.
 
I step inside and gulp—a glimpse of ancient energy.
Two folks move around me, one pointing out the remains
of a platform and the pile of boards from the old church,
waiting to become part of the renovation. My eyes
then land on the enormous windows, undisturbed.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings in the church, but the air seems alive.
My mind slowly recalls stories told by oldtimers:
of children walking or riding in wagons to get to where
Mrs. Willie tells Bible stories under shade trees;
of folks in a pick-up truck, who’d stood along the highway
waiting for a lift; of the joyful welcome from the fiddle,
piano, old hymns.
 
Today, perhaps as then, a tender light streams through
the massive windows while boots and shoes scuff
the wooden floor. The platform brings to mind the remarks
on singing familiar refrains, on how the gospel preached
stirs men, women, children. A sudden shimmer of light
helps me recall what I heard on personal testimonies—
how they could startle at times, in spite of a fly
flailing the wall with a frantic buzz.
 
No kneeling bench, no potbelly stove, no pews
to be seen here, but the people are preparing to restore
walls, ceilings, floors of what was once near and dear 
to their hearts, to their father's hearts.
 
If I could reach into yesterday,
I’d show you relics of a grand past. The memories
of these folks are connected with this simple structure.
They have stories of dinner-on-the-grounds
and lively conversations. So common back then to stand
in line for a dippered sip from the cold water spring.
Then, time to talk politics and school matters,
tell amusing stories, trade dogs, horses, pocketknives.
Those with budding wings would slowly drift away
to play a game of tag or wade the creek.
 
Now, forefathers and families lie in the cemetery
north and west of the church. What I see with my eyes--
people having another fine day with family 
while honoring yesterday.
 
                                      iii
Like the orange daylilies near the doors,
storytellers of old Galatia Church
stand tall as they pass the fragrance on.
 
On walking back to my car, I hear doves coo low notes
as if whispering a prayer.

Pat

The last section III is very strong.  I prefer the imagism it presents to the reader.

Section II seems like it needs to build to a climax.  Perhaps rearranging the lines will help.

I think section I will benefit from showing.  

I know it is much work, but what about examining (starting with Section II) every sentence . . . one at a time.  Pull the line breaks out and look at the sentence-level content.

I think this is an important work and will produce much lasting fruit.

Todd

Significantly pared ii, but I added a bit to i.    

     A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
              (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading me
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
A hot, golden day. Folks come from far and near
to clean graves of kin this weekend. I watch a man
put money in a wide-mouthed jar, a restoration donation.
Then he reaches for a postcard of the church silhouetted
against sky and trees.
 
Decoration Sunday. People tilt and angle over graves.
Some talk in knots about the heat, Trout fishing,
an old aunt’s love for this church.
 
One family brought food for dinner-on-the-ground.
But no dippered sip from the cold water spring
or a friend’s urging to wade the creek.
 
Looking toward the shade trees, I imagine Mrs. Willie
telling Bible stories to children. Then, I follow my guides
to tour the church.
 
I gulp—a glimpse of ancient energy.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings.  What did I expect? 
Surely not pews or a pot-bellied stove. No expectations
of seeing the kneeling bench or hearing a fine testimony.
Neither did I expect Jonathan Edwards,
old hymns, a fiddler. So much of those sweet days lives
deep in yesterday.
 
But what’s missing helps me see:
a tender light, streaming through massive windows
puddling on a wooden floor; the raised platform, where
preachers spoke the gospel to desiring souls;
the flooring, where boots and shoes had left scuff marks;
two guides, wanting to catch a sphere of light.
 
These two, like Nehemiah, carry a burden for rebuilding.  
 
                                      iii
Like the orange daylilies outside the doors,
storytellers of old Galatia Church
stand tall as they pass the fragrance on.
 
On walking back to my car, I hear doves coo low notes
as if whispering a prayer.

     A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
              (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading me
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
A hot, golden day. Folks come from far and near
to clean graves of kin this weekend. I watch a man
put money in a wide-mouthed jar, his restoration donation.
Next, he reaches for a postcard of the church silhouetted
against sky and trees.
 
Decoration Sunday. People tilt and angle over graves.
Some talk in knots about the heat, Trout fishing,
an old aunt’s love for this church.
 
One family brought food for dinner-on-the-grounds.
But no dippered sip from the cold water spring
or a friend’s urging to wade the creek.
 
Looking toward the shade trees, I image Mrs. Willie
telling Bible stories to children. I’d heard of her love
for Jesus. Then, I follow my guides to tour the church.
 
I step inside and gulp—a glimpse of ancient energy.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings.  What did I expect? 
Surely not pews or a pot-bellied stove. No expectations
of seeing the kneeling bench or hearing a fine testimony.
Neither did I expect Jonathan Edwards, old hymns,
a fiddler. So much of those sweet days
lives deep in yesterday.
 
But what’s missing helps me see:
a tender light, streaming through massive windows
puddling on the wooden floor; a raised platform,
where preachers spoke the gospel to desiring souls;
the floor boards, where boots and shoes left scuff marks;
two guides, wanting to catch a sphere of light.
 
These two, like Nehemiah, carry a burden for rebuilding.  
 
                                      iii
Like the orange daylilies outside the doors,
the storytellers of old Galatia Church stand tall
as they pass the fragrance on.
 
On walking back to my car, I hear doves coo low notes
as if whispering a prayer.

Pat

As I read through this morning's version, I note the same issues:

A hot, golden day. Folks come from far and near
to clean graves of kin this weekend.

Folks come from far and near to clean 
graves of kin this hot, golden weekend.

"Decoration sunday" seems out of order.
Not sure Trout needs to be capitalized.

Switch tense in S4 of section one?

The last two S of Section one seem out of place or at least a large jump.  "I gulp" seems telling . . . do you need it?  I like "a glimpse of ancient energy."

Do you need "What did I expect? & No Expectations"  seems more telling than showing.

Can the N just "see" in Section 2 S2?  (I really like Nehemiah entering the poem)

Section iii  the daylilies become a connection to fire of Section II.  Love it.

What about a line break at coo . . . moving low notes to last line?

Well done!!  (This is a reaction to previous version NOT this morning's)

Todd

     A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
              (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading me
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
Folks come from far and near to clean
graves of kin this hot, golden weekend.
I park on grass and make my way
to the small table set up with postcards, a pad
for signatures, a wide-mouthed jar for donations.
The postcard, a photo of the church—
silhouetted against sky and trees.
 
I look west where people angle over graves.
But here at the Decoration Sunday table,
folks stand in knots—talking about the heat, fishing,
a loving old aunt. Someone offers a bottle of water.
 
As I sip, I watch a family in the distance
having dinner-on-the-grounds. Timeless.
 
Under the shade trees, I remember a story
about Mrs. Willie teaching Bible stories under the oaks.
Turning, I take a couple of photos of the church.
 
The tour guides take me across the grass to enter
the church. I step inside—a glimpse of ancient energy.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings.  An almost-empty room.
 
But what’s missing helps me see:
a tender light, streaming through massive windows
and puddling onto the wooden floor; a raised platform,
covered with a pile of lumber from the old church;
a loft with exposed ribs, floor boards scuffed; two guides.
 
These two, like Nehemiah, carry a burden for rebuilding,
renovating, completing a dream.  
 
                                      iii
Like the orange daylilies outside the doors,
the storytellers of old Galatia Church stand tall
as they pass the fragrance on.
 
On walking back to the car, I hear doves coo
low notes as if whispering a prayer.

Pat

I think it is getting there.  I lobby that you go back and examine every revision and collect the treasures that are not in the last version.  I think there are details that can be placed back strategically.

I made a couple suggestions inside my revision:

A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
(3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
Folks come from far and near to clean(synonym)
graves of kin this hot, golden weekend.
I park on grass and make my way to a small 
table set up with postcards--a photo of the church
silhouetted against sky and trees--a pad 
for signatures, a wide-mouthed jar for donations.
 
To the west people angle over graves;
but at the Decoration Sunday table,
folks stand in knots—talking about the heat, trout,
a loving old aunt. Someone offers a bottle of water.
 
As I sip, I watch(synonym) a family in the distance
having dinner-on-the-grounds. Under the shade, (persona is in the dark . . . intentional?)
I remember a tale/witness about Mrs. Willie teaching(synonym) 
Bible stories under the oaks. The tour guides 
take me across the grass to enter the church. 
Inside—a glimpse of ancient energy.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings.  An almost-empty room.
A tender light streams through massive windows
and puddles onto the wooden floor, a raised platform
covered with a pile of lumber from the old church,
a loft with exposed ribs, oak aisles scuffed, and two guides.
 
These two, like Nehemiah, carry a burden 
for rebuilding, renovating, completing a dream.  
 
                                      iii
Outside the doors, orange daylilies, 
the storytellers of old Galatia Church, 
stand tall as they pass the fragrance on.
 
While walking back to the car, I hear doves coo--
low notes as if whispering a prayer.

     A Glimpse of Old Galatia Church
              (3-4 miles south of Norfork, Arkansas)
 
                                         i
The two-lane road curves and upslopes, leading me
to a simple white structure over 100 years old.
 
Folks come from far and near to pull weeds, tidy,
and decorate graves of kin on this hot, golden weekend.
I park on grass and make my way toward a cluster
of people under trees. There, greetings, signing of my name,
putting a bill into the donation jar, picking up a postcard.
Postcards, a way to pass on a photo of the church,
silhouetted against sky and trees.
 
I quickly scan the cemetery, eyes fixed on a small group
angling over graves, one kneeling. Two tilt toward each other.
Someone behind me offers a water bottle.
 
As I sip, another family in the distance sits in a circle,
as if having dinner-on-the-grounds. Timeless.
 
Out of nowhere, I recall more than one person sharing
memories of how Mrs. Willie would tell Bible stories
to children, how she’d hand out picture-cards
with scripture verses. I suddenly recognize how the dead
stay with us. Then turning, I take a few photos
of the church.
 
The tour guides take me across the grass to enter
the church. I step inside—a glimpse of ancient energy.
 
                                         ii
No furnishings.  An almost-empty room.
 
But what’s missing helps me see:
a tender light, streaming through massive windows
and puddling onto the wooden floor; a raised platform,
not quite covered with a pile of lumber from the old church;
a loft with exposed ribs, oak aisles scuffed; a fly
flailing the wall with a frantic buzz; two guides.
 
These two, like Nehemiah, carry a burden for rebuilding,
renovating, completing a dream.  
 
                                      iii
Like the orange daylilies outside the doors,
the storytellers of old Galatia Church stand tall
as they pass the fragrance on.
 
On walking back to the car, I hear doves coo
low notes, as if whispering a prayer.

Pat

I like it.  I think it's time for a new set of eyes.  The poem seems familiar and like a comfortable old slipper.  I hope others read it the same.

Todd

Thank you for Patience.  It's a fruit, for sure.
Pat