Barbara Simila reads her poems "The Immigrants", "Heritage", and "Walking On Water"

Grants | NHPRC | Topics | Arts & Culture | Legacy Project Remote Work (2020-2021) | Special Collections | Poems, Poets, and Poetry | Types | Reading |
January 13, 1995
Barbara Simila - Reader
Listen: Barbara Simila reads her poems The Immigrants, Heritage and Walking On Water
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Michigan’s Upper Peninsula poet Barbara Simila reads her poems "The Immigrants", "Heritage", and "Walking On Water."

Transcript:

(00:00:12) The immigrants they came here with crates of dreams and not much else to greet them but the winter and the water and the pain of loss they struggle to survive like some heroic swimmers locked into a freezing sea, they fought their battles here not in. In war where blood is shed for ambiguity? And the soil is lost in ochre stain, but in their hearts were the life spark drew them into crowded wooden Steamers and Ellis Island wastelands before this blue edge land of ice and snow could blossom into home.
(00:00:59) Heritage
(00:01:01) log by log. He tore down the sauna dragged it for miles to the Backstreets of Fulton transplanted the careful tongue-and-groove behind the house where it blossomed with wood smoke and Birch leaves two small rooms one for changing one. Bathing and a kerosene lamp in the window between riverbed rocks in the stovetop benches and buckets and ladles and steam a place to celebrate the Finnish heart. It's steady life beating in the sweet Cedar
(00:01:36) Heat.
(00:01:46) walking on water like the Vista of the planes from are the ice that Jacobs Phil spreads before us the flinty black Surface pocked by wind a mosaic of Milky Fisher's Parcels out the boundaries in the Copper Country We Carry On we strap on cleats pull the sled Drive the auger through the glacial ice between our tents bikes and the currents of the Sweetwater see We are suspended on this broad coldfield of Heaven. I am content huddle in the cocoon over ice the purest radiant blue and feel my Lord drop toward the murky distant bottom. I catch a good trout long and lean no belly fat Native red and gleaming silver flesh. We walk back in tandem. There are the grave Sandstone Cliffs of winter ice Falls clinging to their flanks. We are silent or hesitant feet on Water 2 miles to the
(00:02:51) shore.

Transcripts

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[MUSIC PLAYING] SPEAKER: The immigrants, they came here with crates of dreams and not much else to greet them but the winter and the water and the pain of loss. They struggled to survive like some heroic swimmers locked into a freezing sea.

They fought their battles here, not in war where blood is shed for ambiguity and the soil is lost in ocher stain. But in their hearts, where the life spark drew them into crowded wooden steamers in Ellis Island, Wastelands, before this blue-edged land of ice and snow could blossom into home.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Heritage. Log by log he tore down the sauna, dragged it for miles to the back streets of Fulton, transplanted the careful tongue and groove behind the house where it blossomed with woodsmoke and birch leaves.

Two small rooms, one for changing, one for bathing, and a kerosene lamp in the window between. Riverbed rocks in the stove top, benches and buckets and ladles and steam, a place to celebrate the Finnish heart, its steady life beating in the sweet cedar heat.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

Walking on water. Like the Vista of the plains from air, the ice at Jacobsville spreads before us. The flinty black surface pocked by wind. A mosaic of Milky fissures parcels out the boundaries.

In the copper country, we carry on. We strap on cleats, pull the sled, drive the auger through the glacial ice between our tent spikes and the currents of this sweet water sea. We are suspended on this broad, cold field of heaven.

I am content. Huddle in the cocoon over ice, the purest radiant blue and feel my lure drop toward the murky, distant bottom. I catch a good trout, long and lean. No belly fat. Native red and gleaming silver flesh. We walk back in tandem. There are the grave sandstone cliffs of winter, ice falls clinging to their flanks. We are silent, our hesitant feet on water two miles to the shore.

[MUSIC PLAYING]

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