Back when the river was still
living infrastructure
instead of being relegated
to a mere feature of the scenery,
this was a place of healing.
When the now-towering oaks
aspired to barely reach the eaves,
this was a place of growth.
Before the elevated interstate
choked our economic pulse
like a well-placed tourniquet,
this was a place of commerce.

I have seen the faded photographic proof:
Sisters of Mercy smiling out of frame,
the same benevolence reserved
for captains and deckhands alike;
tiers of Greek Revival porticos –
stately, shaded and well-aired –
where inland mariners convalesced
in view of their ever-flowing home;
or wards of WWII wounded
attended by prim, upright nurses
in starched and pressed white dresses
with impeccable blood-red lips
to boost morale, aid in recuperation…
when this was a place of healing.

Today, not only do we lack identity,
but we do not identify with our history,
and we have no contact with our foundation,
the floodwall stretching away westward
like a vast, puckered surgical scar
where once the grandest of homes stood
bravely commanding the best view,
daring the river to overtake its banks.

07/31/2006

Author's Note: This is what I have done so far on the big Porland, KY project I've been researching for about a month now. The research doesn't necessarily make it into the finished poem, but it has massive influence on the tone and careful wording is applied to maintain accurate imagery. The language in the beginning of the piece is much more plain and develops in complexity. Perhaps this was a subconscious reflection of the "simpler times" phenomenon. The last few stanzas will be a summary of the current state of affairs, mixing descriptions of the "new" aging healthcare facility built on the grounds of the old Marine Hospital and descriptions of the patients and citizens and an overview how the atmosphere is very different now that the Portland neighborhood has been cut off from the river.

Posted on 07/31/2006
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