Restland Cemetery— What If Its Inhabitants Could Talk to Us?

April is national poetry month. Surely we cannot let the month pass without recognition of such a necessary part of life. As very young children we begin with verse, we graduate to Shel Silverstein, then in high school we explore Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, and a host of others with hopefully everyone having a poet, a poem, some collection that warms their soul. One of my favorite collections is Spoon River Anthology. In this collection of poems, poet Edgar Lee Masters gives voice to more than two hundred deceased citizens of Spoon River who are laid to rest in Oak Hill Cemetery, known to the locals as The Hill. Masters’ fictional cemetery was closely tied to Lewistown, Illinois, where his grandparents resided, and he had, no doubt, heard stories of the town’s many inhabitants—both good and bad. In Masters’ poems, these fictional unliving who dared not in life confess their deepest secrets, disappointments, frustrations, and joys to the living did so without fear in the form of brutally honest free verse poems. And every time I think of this poetry collection, I think of Roxton’s unliving up on Our Hill. In Master’s book each postmortem poem is titled with the name of the citizen who reveals some truth about their daily existence in Spoon River. In some cases, Masters barely changed their names. Henry Phipps was really banker Henry Phelps. Harry Wilmans was Henry Wilmans. In a few instances, he used real names. As one reads the poems, single lines and fragments contained in individual poems come together to weave a tale. For example, Minerva Jones tells us she was raped by Butch Weldy and died during an abortion. Mrs. Meyers, the doctor’s wife, believes her husband who helped Minerva deserved the town’s scorn for breaking “the law human and divine.” Butch Weldy, on the other hand, never mentions the rape but tells us he “got religion and steadied down.” So the anthology is really a series of stories in verse that the reader has to piece together. Hmmm, I bet Restland has some interesting stories to piece together. However, I muse to myself, do I dare put these stories in verse? Published in 1915, the anthology was a huge success, but back in Lewistown the town was furious with “that scoundrel Masters.” Even though most names were fictitious, everyone in town knew exactly who he was talking about. Because of this, the book was immediately banned from schools and libraries in the area. The wounds have healed in Lewistown as successive generations joined their family and friends on The Hill, and the book’s banning was lifted in 1974. Do I dare risk it? I love this little town I married into and do not wish to cause pain to anyone living or otherwise. Heaven forbid I be banned from The Progress. So just for fun, I will tread lightly with a couple of initial poems that I know will do no harm to those living or un-living. One has a fictional name and one a real name. This has been a fun exercise in playing with poetry and recognizing poetry’s place in our world. If you like these and want more voices from Our Hill, let me know. I hope you enjoy. Miss Julia Tisdale Well, here I am back to the beginning today. I left this little town it seems a lifetime ago. And I have done a lifetime of living since. I would have rather stayed—or I thought so anyway. One’s true love is hard to leave behind. Yet if it can’t be, leaving is kind—somewhat. So travel I did—to places my friends never imagined. I would rather have stayed—but distance dulls heartache. I had a career and friends and adventures to fill my days. He had his life and friends and kept to his rowdy ways. We remained in touch— he was always in my heart. I would have rather stayed—but distance dulls heartache. My life was long and full--another love I failed to find. His life was short and full— void of another love as well. Two people who let family disdain chart their course. I would rather have stayed—but I have tasted life fully. I have returned tightly sealed in a little box. And he’s just over there, slumbering in an adjacent plot. Perhaps a friend will cast a bit of me there— together at last. Eternity is very long— or I hope so anyway. Poor Little Jimmy Cooper I grew up and like most young men left Roxton. But I guess I neve r r e a l l y l e f t . Whenever I returned, It was always, “Little Jimmy’s home.” The poor lad who lost his mother at ten and was raised by the town. The stories are many—and mostly true. Everyone claims to have fed me—Ruby Lee, Josephine, Eleanor. Everyone claims to have raised me—aunts, uncles, neighbors . The whole town had a hand in my upbringing— it’s all true. My father Clov is and brothe r Doug helped as well, But the town liked to claim their part in my growing up. And it seems those claims resonated deeply with me For I guess I never really left. Aftercollegeandacareer, I got back as fast as I could. Poor Little Jimmy had come home to the town that raised him. Moved down the street from my childhood home And found everyone had a poor little Jimmy story to tell. Became Mayor. Imagine that! Little Jimmy Cooper. And I spread the word about my great little town until I passed. I now hold my meetings with friends up on the hill. Dink, J. T. , Phi l - lip, Kenneth and all those who raised me. Some call burial on Our Hill coming home. Some of us never really left.