I have often written in my bios, for anthologies or author pages in books, that I grew up on a dirt road in Georgia. That is a fact, not an exaggeration. I was, as I recall, a preteen when the county decided to pave our road. We lived in a rural area, though it’s no longer as rural these days.
Both of my paternal grandparents were living next door until my grandfather died when I was eleven. My grandmother continued to live in their house, which was more like a cabin with heart pine floors, ceilings, and walls. We never drove over to her house. We either walked the path through the field, past plum and June apple trees, or I rode my bicycle.
Both of my parents worked. My mother wasn’t looking to find an affirming career to give purpose to her life. She was earning a weekly paycheck to put food on our table or to help pay bills for our family of five.
My grandmother managed Maxwell’s, a small store in Manchester. It was called a “dime store” or a “five and ten cent store.” On Wednesdays at noon, the stores in town closed, and on those late afternoons, my grandmother cooked supper for all of us.
The winters always seemed to be bitter cold, and I can remember hurrying along the path in the cold wind, stepping into the warmth of her kitchen, and smelling fried salmon patties. They created the kind of aroma that seemed to fill the entire house and remain in my memories.
After supper while everyone was sitting around the table talking, I slipped out of the kitchen and into my grandmother’s bedroom. Just a simple door with a porcelain knob separated the two rooms. There was her “iron bed” and her old worn-out platform rocker covered with a quilt. She used to sit there, watch her afternoon soap operas on her black and white television, and tat lace.
But that was not my reason for visiting her bedroom. She had a few shelves holding books. One book contained poetry. I will never forget the first time I sat down in her rocker and read this poem:
Abou Ben Adhem
By Leigh Hunt
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerly still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blest,
And lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
I was so intrigued that I often read the poem whenever I visited my grandmother. Its words spoke to me. I wanted my name to be written in that book of gold.
Never in my early life, and even in my later adult years, did I imagine that one day I would become a published poet. That one poem published in 1834 had a profound effect on me, a rural child who had never left the state of Georgia.
Leigh Hunt passed away in 1859, and a little more than a century later I was reading his words.
I would like to think that someone, somewhere, has read one of my poems and felt inspiration and encouragement. Or maybe I’ve made a reader find moments of joy or personal reflection. I would like to know that young people, those who have never imagined how powerful words can be, will take heart and realize that their poems can deeply influence those who read their work. I would also like to believe that in years to come, my poems will still be speaking.
Poetry has the power to change lives. I know that for a fact. It changed mine.