Cities are a dying breed,
Though those who live in them know not.
They’re full of people, noise, and need,
Yet lack the treasures man forgot,
The joys of wind and sprouting seed
And peace of mind that can’t be bought.
Here in Cross Creek, my writing wakes,
Surrounded by the Spanish moss,
By sylvan streams that link the lakes
And tiny boats to get across.
I moved here for the silence’ sakes;
The lack of clamor is no loss.
My neighbors are a different folk;
Like me, they tend to stay apart,
To work beneath the ancient oak
And never reckon to depart.
We hear the frogs in chorus croak
And know the creatures’ songs by heart.
Cities are a dying breed,
Though some say nature will go first.
Yet renters ever will secede
To find the home for which they thirst.
Cross Creek and peace will thrive indeed
When all the cities have dispersed.
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(In honor of Earth Day, today’s NaPoWriMo prompt, and Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings’ distaste for cities, the poem today is a pastoral, focusing on nature and a bucolic setting, of which Cross Creek has no shortage.)
Cross Creek could be considered a VC Pick, since she loves this film dearly, but I’ve come to enjoy it nearly as much. It should have made my original list, but I couldn’t remember it well enough at the time. Based on the memoir of Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings, it stars Mary Steenburgen as the strong-willed but reclusive author who in 1928 bought a dilapidated house and orange grove in the Florida boondocks. Having lived in central Florida myself, I recognize the film as a tribute to the Florida “cracker” lifestyle, the rural frontiersmen who made a home out of the balmy wilderness. (I even remember taking field trips to Cracker Country, a living history museum that promotes knowledge of their early culture.) Rawlings comes to Cross Creek in search of silence to write but finds inspiration and love (with Peter Coyote!) in this unexpectedly homey landscape.
Watching the film again, it reminded me of another film about a famous divorced female writer who moves to a steamy countryside, falls in love with one of the first people she meets there, grows a tropical crop, bonds with the natives, and finds the inspiration for her best-known work, that film being 1985’s Out of Africa. Yet Cross Creek was released two years earlier and is less epic and more folksy than the later film. Instead of being a remake of Rawlings’ The Yearling, it offers a different yet recognizable sideplot involving the relationship of a child (a girl instead of the boy in the book) and a fawn (one of the most adorable things on four legs).
Made with the assistance of Rawlings’ husband Norton Baskin (who has a cameo toward the beginning), Cross Creek is charming and cozy, peaceful but tragic, and very well-acted. Rip Torn as Rawlings’ backwoods neighbor and Alfre Woodard as her devoted maid both received Oscar nominations, as did the costume design and the score (which is also slightly reminiscent of Out of Africa). Despite these honors, it’s a film that seems to have been forgotten for the most part, which is a shame. It’s most pertinent message for me as a writer is to write what you know, what you’re passionate about, rather than what is simply popular. Despite some awkward scenes and a conclusion that could have been strengthened by some added information, Cross Creek is a river well worth traveling down.
Best line: (Marjorie Rawlings, after a drunken night) “That is just the way I am. I go along quietly for a while and then out of the clear blue sky, I don’t know what happens to me, I just pick up a gun, and I shoot whatever makes me angry. I’m so afraid one day it just might be a person.”
Rank: List-Worthy© 2015 S. G. Liput
297 Followers and Counting
Rebecca is dead, but her room is the same.
The servants still miss her and whisper her name.
Her husband is grieving, and tries to move on,
But Mrs. de Winter is not fully gone.
Her secrets remain, as do Mr. de Winter’s,
Secrets that torture him daily like splinters.
His new wife is innocent, nervous, and shy;
She shouldn’t learn them, nor understand why.
But secrets have habits of being found out,
Casting suspicion and panic and doubt.
Rebecca is dead, Mrs. Danvers knows well,
And yet Manderley is still under her spell.
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Did you ever feel that you were being watched,
That someone saw each time you won or botched?
No one’s watching; don’t despair
(At least as far as I’m aware),
Yet Truman Burbank’s on TV,
Living life for all to see,
Quite contented in his dome,
Which he doesn’t know is home.
He has fans around the world who watch him daily
As he greets Seahaven every morning gaily.
No reality show’s greater,
Thanks to Christoff, its creator.
Due to Christoff’s shrewd promotion,
Truman’s frightened of the ocean,
So he never leaves his isle,
Though he’s tempted for a while.
Truman’s been content with blinders since his youth,
But he starts to have an inkling of the truth.
From a star that might be fake
To a radio mistake
To endorsements from his wife,
Things revolve around his life,
Such that he begins to wonder
What conspiracy he’s under.
He attempts to leave his quaint, idyllic course
But is urged to linger, even if by force.
When at last he gets away,
Sailing off across the bay,
Christoff tries to be his guide
From the unknown world outside.
Truman doesn’t want ideal;
He would rather have what’s real.
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A man is sadly at his least wise
When he prefers work above his own loveliest prize.
Wisdom can spring from pain or the past;
How you and I choose is our generation’s contrast.
Journals and annals have much to tell:
Listen and look to find in them what lessons may dwell.
Dreams are perhaps best when advertised:
Speaking them may render them more potent when realized.
Regret grows when foolish sleepers wake;
Contentment grows from dodging someone else’s mistake.
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Deep in Siberia, prison of nature,
Brig of the barbarous Soviet ship,
Men were convinced there could be no escapers;
No one could hope to survive such a trip.
Janusz, a Pole locked away by betrayal,
Hoped and gave hope when it nearly was dead.
Rushing from Russians through snow-glutted gale,
Seven escaped from the Gulag and fled.
Journeying south through the frost and the firs,
Through hunger and fears that they may not arrive,
Ever they traveled with personal spurs,
Keeping the world-weary rovers alive.
Onward and onward, from hills unto lakes,
Lakes unto hills unto plains unto sand,
Onward through nature’s unbearable aches,
Onward they walked over merciless land.
Husband and artist, accountant and priest,
Father and criminal—all carried on.
Though they were free, some were further released
To journey no farther until the last dawn.
Sojourning south through the sting of the sun,
Through thirst and through fears that they may not arrive,
Ever they traveled till travels were done,
Clinging to that which keeps all men alive.
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X-Men United? Well, not all that much.
There’s six or so heroes, and Rogue who can’t touch.
The rest of the mutants unfortunately
Line up with Magneto or stay absentee.
A cure for mutations has been synthesized,
And soon its great risk is sensationalized.
Meanwhile, Jean Grey has returned from the grave
To murder the friends that she perished to save.
As evil Magneto initiates war,
The X-Men fight back, as they’ve all done before.
For those wishing for Bryan Singer on hand,
This thankfully isn’t the X-Men’s last stand.
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To soldiers we send to the other side
In pain and grief and bodies still—
Esteem is the least we can provide.
When enemies suddenly surfaced to kill,
Due honor was given to young Private Chance
In pain and grief and bodies still.
His body and others would no more advance.
Homeward he went with Marine Michael Strobl;
Due honor was given to young Private Chance.
Everywhere everyone noticed the noble,
Mournful delivery, precious cargo.
Homeward he went with Marine Michael Strobl.
No greater debt does society owe
To those who return in a flag-buried box,
Mournful delivery, precious cargo.
We mustn’t ignore those who bear our worst shocks.
To soldiers we send to the other side,
To those who return in a flag-buried box,
Esteem is the least we can provide.
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Brave Athos and Porthos and Aramis three
Fell victim to fraud that they could not foresee.
These fine musketeers were the heroes of France
But now are in need of a grand second chance.
When reckless D’Artagnan arrives with his sword
And makes first impressions that garner reward,
The Cardinal Richelieu plots and conspires
To trigger a war with a helper he hires.
It’s up to D’Artagnan and those musketeers
To launch the great quest of their noble careers.
For king, queen, and country, and also romance,
They’ll sail for adventure to rescue all France.
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(Today’s
We are watchers on the wires;
We are tenants of the skies;
Symbols of when man aspires;
Keepers of the flinching eyes;
Witnesses of every creature,
Evil, good, and in between,
Whether as a nimbus reacher
Or a prisoner to preen.
We are victims cursed by weakness,
Kept by cage or mortal mesh;
Though you know us by our meekness,
We will feast upon your flesh.
We are biders of the ages;
We are conquerors in wait.
When our wingéd warring rages,
You will comprehend too late.
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