Within the Walls

I thought we might discuss something a little different today so a few words about history. I wrote today’s poem while leaning against a crumbling, and obviously ancient, wall in France. As I sat there I got to thinking about all the things that might have happened within or around that wall over the centuries. Today we use the cute expression, “if these walls could talk.” Indeed, if only they could. I happen to have a great affinity for all things old. Trees, buildings, walls, whatever. To me, they provide a connection to another time. Just as the ring of a tree, when studied, provides a great deal of information not only about the tree, but also the time period in which each growth ring was formed. I always have that feeling about the elements of nature, and the things man has wrought make me feel as though I can better understand those who made them. It’s a forensic approach to history. Yet, for me, it leads to an emotional connection, as if I am sharing something with people long past who might, if I am patient, reveal some of their forgotten secrets to me. Of course it’s wide open to conjecture, but as a writer I feel that a part of my gift is the intuitive ability to experience something of the heart of my predecessors by coming in contact with what they have left behind. That is the beautiful thing about history. It takes us back, helps us consider why and how others lived. This helps us to rethink our own identity and, perhaps, avoid some of the mistakes made by those who came before. It can be very enlightening to stand at the brink of history and gaze into its murky depths. The images aren’t always clearly discerned, but for me it is a comfort just to know that they are there. That is the reason, for instance, that family heirlooms are so important to people. Knowing something about “who we were” can shed a great deal of light on “who we are.” So I encourage us to preserve, to cherish, all that is old. I supposed that would include people as well, as I have touched upon previously. We have a responsibility to the future to protect the past, for the twain are inextricably entwined within our present.

Within the Walls
Where the stucco falls away
and betrays the stones of old
It reveals a treasure, precious more
than silver or of gold
For the workmanship of ancestors
contains their and sweat and tears
The heart of all our heritage
which beats throughout the years
Each rough-hewn block which
stands the test of time, a monument
That speaks for those who placed it there
it is their testament
The foundation of the lives we live
was laid by such as these
Supporting all that we’ve become
like the roots of mighty trees
Each nail and timber still in place
remains with courage and with pride
Instilled by calloused hands that lived
and loved and worked and died
When I lean against a tired wall
and listen carefully
It can tell the tale of this land
like the rings within a tree
It betrays the bitter anguish
that all things old have borne
Reveals the hate and prejudice
cracked with worry, care and scorn
But it also tells the joy it knew
when it was young and strong
The love it sheltered through the storms
and echoed notes of mirthful song
It tells of truth and chivalry
when once they were revered
Rings with laughter of the children
who, within, were born and reared
A tired wall of weathered stone
may be all that we can see
Yet it grows tired merely from
the weight of bearing history
Parched by centuries beneath the sun
and decades of neglect
Perhaps it sags forlornly
due to shame and disrespect
We must nurture, we must cherish
what our ancestors have wrought
For the wisdom which remains therein
is great ... and dearly bought
By Frank Carpenter ©