LUCINDA MATLOCK and KNOWLT HOHEIMER
Edgar Lee Masters (1868-1950)

If the day ever comes when you have grown tired of novels and television shows, and are looking for something fun to do one night, go to a book store, buy Edgar Lee Master's Spoon River Anthology, bring it home, sit down in a quiet room alone, and pay a visit to the fictional, long-dead world of the small Midwestern village of Spoon River, Illinois, as told via the epitaphs of its best and worst citizens.

If, years ago, you happen to have read some or all of this book, it will bring a smile to your face as you recall the astonishing collection of characters whose lives are outlined, one by one, in the 214 short poetic sketches that comprise the book. If you have never read it, then I feel confident that you will wonder how you could have overlooked such a treat.

I would like to say that I chose these two selections from the book because they are better than the rest, or somehow special to me. But that isn't true. I chose them almost at random. I could have selected any one of dozens of others and been just as satisfied with my choice. In fact, offering just two verses doesn't do the book justice because much of the fun involves the interconnectedness of the characters, as they speak of one another from their resting places on "The Hill," "where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley, The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighters . . . All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill."

This book was Masters' masterpiece. It was published in 1914 and was highly controversial and widely read. At the time, Masters was a successful Chicago lawyer. He had practiced law for some 25 years, during which time he had written and published many books of poetry, all of which were, in the words of Louis Untermeyer, "derivative and undistinguished." He quit practicing law in 1920 and moved to New York City, where he continued to write poems, fiction, and plays, none of which ever duplicated the success of the Spoon River Anthology.

Lucinda Matlock

I went to the dances at Chandlerville,
And played snap-out at Winchester.
One time we changed partners,
Driving home in the midnight of middle June,
And then I found Davis.
We were married and lived together for seventy years,
Enjoying, working, raising the twelve children,
Eight of whom we lost
Ere I had reached the age of sixty.
I spun, I wove, I kept the house, I nursed the sick,
I made the garden, and for holiday
Rambled over the fields where sang the larks,
And by Spoon River gathering many a shell,
And many a flower and medicinal weed--
Shouting to the wooded hills, singing to the green valleys.
At ninety-six I had lived enough, that is all,
And passed to a sweet repose.
What is this I hear of sorrow and weariness,
Anger, discontent and drooping hopes?
Degenerate sons and daughters,
Life is too strong for you--
It takes life to love Life.


Knowlt Hoheimer

I was the first fruits of the battle of Missionary Ridge.
When I felt the bullet enter my heart
I wished I had staid at home and gone to jail
For stealing the hogs of Curl Trenary,
Instead of running away and joining the army,
Rather a thousand times the county jail
Than to lie under this marble figure with wings,
And this granite pedestal
Bearing the words 'Pro Patria.'
What do they mean, anyway?


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