—Poems and Photos by Taylor Graham, Placerville, CA
LABOR DAY WEEKEND, THE STAMP MILL
Saturday at Gold Bug Park
They said Black Bart would be here in person,
his tales of the gentleman-bandit getting even
with Wells Fargo—a living man immersed
in Po8 lore, he must believe himself the long-
gone stagecoach robber. But turns out our 21st
century Black Bart had a previous engagement.
So I watched the stamps pulverizing ore; how
mercury captures gold; how it poisoned people
who worked it. A good lesson for Labor Day.
I moved on, up flights of steps to the smithy
where a living blacksmith told tales of heavenly
collisions, quartz descended from the stars;
and showed off a smith-made courting-candle
used long ago by earthly parents to monitor
possibly too-close encounters of young lovers.
As undertone, staccato crash of stamps
pulverizing rock; and from above, hammer
forging iron. My head ringing songs of labor.
LABOR DAY AT THE GOLD BUG
Back to Gold Rush. The old Stamp Mill’s
just opening for Labor Day.
A man of uncertain age in black
bowler hat and shirtsleeves is wielding a broom.
Are you Black Bart?
He is, pointing the muzzle
of his broom in my direction with a gentlemanly
grin; making his present-day haunts spiffy.
But I’m on my way again to the smithy,
upstairs where they’re firing up the forge.
A farrier’s pounding horseshoes
to red-hot rods, soon to be S-hooks
for hanging pots. He points to a gracefully
twisted hook:
Drag ‘em out and draw ‘em out, and
they become cool stuff. Magic of fire, hammer,
anvil.
As I walk back down, I wave
to Black Bart with his broom, but he’s lost
in shadow, ghost of the past.
ODE TO AN S-HOOK
A simple bit of hardware. Iron, hand-worked—
see how the curves aren’t quite identical,
twin sisters’ smiles. The tip of each end
curled about itself like finger touching thumb
to seal a secret. A blacksmith formed this
implement of the four elements. Earth ~
metal. Air ~ the bellows. Fire ~ the forge.
Water ~ to temper heated iron, cool an end-
curl while he hammers on incandescent rod.
The hook used for years, then discarded;
too old or plain to be cherished;
left in dark of a shed subsiding into
the elements that lent this hook such grace.
GOLD BUG LEGENDS
It was the Vulture Claim, renamed the Priest.
This Gold Rush mine was dug by Cornish hands,
tough underground workers who brought along
Tommyknockers, mischief-folk of legend.
This Gold Rush mine was dug by Cornish hands,
men who listened to the deeps for guidance:
a hidden seam of ore? the chance of cave-in?
Tough underground workers, who brought along
their mining lore of ages, also brought imps
to tap the code “dig right here!” “danger there!”
Tommyknockers, mischief-folk of legend
and practical jokes—do they still survive
the old Vulture, this haunted Gold Rush mine?
SECRETS OF THE BACKSIDE
Our rockbound city of trees, alleys and aisles
designed by no urban planner; between
boulders and scrubby liveoak holding a slope
above the county two-lane. Below, traffic
speeds by, oblivious to our tree community,
its zigzag game trails etched into hillside
among bleach-bone thistle and clover. Here’s
where the turkey nested in April, eggs laid
on bare ground for the world to see. Hardly
a trace left among stenography of deer-hoof,
worm squiggle, bird-foot imprint on fox-path.
The eggs managed to hatch, became gangly
turklings following their mother up the swale.
IN THE CITY OF TREES
The old dog lets first leaf-fall and the day’s
angling light flit like shadows of living birds.
He dreams under an oak that foresees winter
and beyond; roots with their lacing fingerhold
like hope in imperceptibly shifting landscape.
Trees have more tenacity than an old dog’s
wordless thanks for afternoon sun shining
leaves about to let themselves go. Each,
among the others, lets the next season come.
Today’s LittleNip:
ALONG A SNOWMELT CREEK
—Taylor Graham
mule-ears gone brittle,
lupine faded, just seed-pods—
first-frost in the air
willow in thickets
is fidgety, leaves restless
impatient to fly
__________________
Thanks to Taylor Graham and the Tommyknockers for today’s fine poetry and photos. For more about the gold mining ‘Knockers (not the Stephen King movie), go to www.legendsofamerica.com/gh-tommyknockers/.
In addition to Poetry Unplugged at Luna’s Cafe with its featured readers and open mic tonight in Sacramento, 8pm, you can go down to Time Tested Books, also in Sacramento, to hear Mary Mackey read from her new book of poetry at 7pm. Scroll down to the blue column (under the green column at the right) for info about these and other upcoming poetry events in our area—and note that more may be added at the last minute.
—Medusa
Charles E. Boles (Black Bart)
Celebrate the poetry of the bad boys….
Celebrate the poetry of the bad boys….
Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.
