Harbor Park – along the waterfront in Charleston
South Carolina–specifically Charleston–is the setting for this week’s poem, but that’s a bit of trivia, since you don’t need to know it for the poem. Below is a picture of part of the park mentioned in the poem, the area shown leading eventually to Battery Park. Charleston was founded in 1670. so it’s a city with a lot of history. In fact, the sense of history is almost everywhere, from the size and spread of the trees to the architecture. The sense of accumulated history also creates a feeling of expectation, that this is not just some place dropped down in the middle of nowhere, newly built, for some industrial purpose, but that it has a life of its own, an intention.
Harbor Park
A fishing boat bobs by a gray dock. Winches dangle
empty. Beside a dry fountain shaped like a gargantuan pineapple,
a man opens a hatch set into walk. Another descends a ladder,
bangs and knocks about the space beneath
until the fountain gushes oil, then bleach-y water.
Live oaks shade a walkway, flank a string of empty benches
that gaze across the un-potholed street where
sagging homes peer through scaffolding. Windows
reflect early morning messages across the sterile park
dot dot, dot dash dot dot, dot dot dash.
Who receives those messages? And shouldn’t it all be
more promising, redolent of expectation? The ocean–
it’s right there, waves wanting to break upon the grass.
Of course, just because a place feels as if it is about to deliver an important message, some unknown wisdom, doesn’t mean it will do so on any particular timing. I certainly can’t claim any special wisdom from my visit to Charleston a few years ago.
If you want to learn a little more about Charleston, you can check out this wikipedia link.
If you enjoyed Harbor Park
You’ll find more of my poems on this blog or in the collection Stars Crawl Out From Their Caves, which is available in both ebook and print.
Missed a poem of the week? Links to prior weeks are on this page.