some poetry: >> Whispers
Now I am not much of a poet, but I do appreciate
the verse that catches my mind’s eye,
probably because it does happen to mention my
favorite river, the Chattooga. This one, which is
© 1997, by Joanna G. Angle speaks of the
spirit that is South Carolina. And though it is my
adopted state, having lived in a few, it is one
that has taken on the possessiveness unique to a
place which occupies its special place in the
world.
Whispers
I am the foaming Chattooga crashing downhill, An inky black cypress swamp, eerie and still; Arching live oak branches draped with silvery moss, Winding Cherokee Highway and hurricane’s loss.
I am shotgun houses, dinner—on—the—grounds, Crowded barbecue shacks in mill village towns; Pat Conroy’s thick novels and Dizzy’s bent horn, Sunrise gilding Pawleys as a new day is born.
I am Rutledge and Dickey, the Horseshoe, IPTAY, Sandlapper, the State House, shrimp boats on the bay; Graceful spires ringing church bells, Darlington’s roar, The potbellied stove in a worn country store.
I am Porgy and Bess and John C. Calhoun, Deep blue Jocassee by the light of the moon; Rows of sweet grass baskets, hammock weavers’ quick hands, Edisto, Catawba, Yemassee and ”Yes, Ma’ams.”
I’m ”Hey, how ya doin? I declare! Don’t cha know,” High backed chairs rocking gently on a wide portico; Confederate tombstones and old battle scars, Long silenced cannon, revered Stars and Bars.
I’m your gold and green salt marsh, a lone whippoorwill, Fluffy white cotton, Rainbow Row, The Big Chill; Brave Swamp Fox and Gamecock, shady courthouse square, Lowcountry Gullah, crisp clean mountain air.
I am gray ghosts of rice fields, the oysterman’s tongs, Beach music for shaggin’, a gospel choir’s songs; I’m palmetto and pine woods, the loggerhead’s nest— I am South Carolina, place you’ll always love best.
W O O F
