Galveston, November, 1947 ("Heartaches" by Harry James and Marion Morgan; "Wanderlust" by Paul McCartney)

Glory

This is the second poem in a series of linked-poems I plan to write in Glory, a novel-in-verse based loosely on Visions of Glory by John Pontius, a spiritual account of “Spencer,” an unidentified individual who shared his visionary experience with Pontius.  Other than noting that Spencer's father killed someone while driving under the influence as a teen, that he was sent to war, that he married and left Spencer's mother, Pontius does not provide many details here.  This allowed me free reign of my imagination.  I thought, Where would a returning soldier be likely to end up?   Galveston.  Then, I picked a likely year.  When I typed in "Galveston, 1947" to get a feel for the place and time, I found '47 was no ordinary year for the big bay.  But, I didn't know how to finish the poem.  Then, as is often the case, two borrowed lines came to me--"light out wanderlust / head us out to sea"--that my mind heard wrong in order to fit the poem:  "light up wanderlust / head out to sea".    
   

Galveston, November, 1947 

It was gray day along the Strand

when my mother met my father.
She didn’t see the metaphor coming
even after they crossed the causeway
in his new Series 62 convertible Cadillac
to see the ruins of Texas City,

and later sitting on the bright red hood,

eating cheese and cucumber sandwiches
amongst the lingering empty car hulls
in a vacated parking lot a quarter mile from
the explosion.  It was romantic
holding each other fiercely
against the wind amongst twisted, ash-covered
metal exoskeletons.

My father skirted the war, his youth
(and no doubt the drunken episode
in Farmington, Utah that led to his sentence),
but reveled to recover
the day the Grandcamp, still moored at dock,
rocked Galveston Bay.

Mother sat transfixed by the thick,
short wave of his bangs
casting a thin, black shadow
across his brow, adding mystery
and excitement to details he rattled off
with the passion of a poet:

There I was, amongst falling bales of burning twain.
Hell, the anchor was hurled across the entire city.
Two sightseeing planes had their wings torn off.
Even in Galveston blokes were knocked to their knees,
in Houston windows shattered.  They even say
the shock wave shook Louisiana.
Hell, Monsanto bloody Chemical Company
never paid me enough anyway.
Damn well deserve to be wiped away.

And over the radio, came a warning,

from Harry James and Marion Morgan--

Heartaches
Heartaches
My loving you meant only heartaches...

 

But the daughter of a preacher,
my mother just couldn't hear it.
Light up wanderlust,
head us out to sea.