Poodie James

excerpt

town and the prospects. He listened carefully to the details of the
planning. The enthusiasm of his own replies still rang in Jeremy’s
mind.
“Dad, the state is only 13 years old. There’s opportunity everywhere.
East of the mountains, they’re bringing water to the land.
It’s going to bloom and it’s going to make people rich. It’s in the
center of the state, on the river, on the railroad that runs east and
west. They’re already shipping apples to Chicago and back east.
They’ll need a good newspaper. A paper can make a difference in
how that valley develops. The man who owns that paper will be an
influence.”
“And Winifred? Is it right to take your young wife away from all
she’s known, into a wilderness?”
“It is not a wilderness.” Jeremy reached into his breast pocket for
a post card and handed it to his father. Zeb Stone studied the
scene: A few buildings, a handful of carriages, a line of poles, the
blurred image of a man striding across a dirt street that stretched
into an infinity of sagebrush and bare hills. He looked up and contemplated
the club’s spread of gardens, fairways and trees. Jeremy
was determined to go west with or without his father’s approval,
but he ached for the endorsement. The perspiration and the dread
accumulated as he waited. The severity of the look his father
turned on him, his relief when a trace of a smile appeared and his
father offered to help with finances; it was all as clear as the day it
happened.
“As it is, sir, I’m going to use your money” Jeremy told him. “I
haven’t touched the trust fund since I turned 21. I’ll take money
from that and my savings and, if need be, Win will chip in from her
inheritance. We want to do this on our own.”
“If you ever decide to go back into banking, tell me,” Zeb Stone
said. “A growing town will need a good bank.”
Jeremy never dreamed that 25 years later he would turn his
newspaper over to his wife and plunge fully into banking. Winifred
had turned out to be as good a publisher as he was, and a better,
tougher editor. He had stayed out of the paper’s business since

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Twelve Narratives of the Gypsy

and if you told us that we’d return
to our lively starting point that
has no borders and all are mixed
up in it, the mountains, verdure,
all gigantic and tied together by
certain magical powers, your
first motherland awaits for you
to give you an unexpected glory
that bestowed unto wise men, and
heroes, oh tent people, it will set
the throne of Maharaja for you
and it’ll place in front of you, the
lotus flowers adorned along with
all the holy prophets and ascetics.
We’d then shout at you: we don’t
want you to ruin our festival; we
celebrate the breaking of the chains
of whatever kind, of diamonds or
gold; we’re the delivered ones.
Wail and wail to all motherlands!
And if we have tumbled down
to depths unknown that no other
race ever descended time will
come when we’ll ascend to
immeasurable heights onto
the gleaming heavens; we’re
the race who are meant to erase
the concept of a motherland,
the precious maya of Brahman
the race of which hands weave the joy
of gods and mortals, its miracle
its best surprising deed.
The whole world is a gypsy,
that sits on a throne and using
his hammer and violin, creates
the flawless Ideal; universe turns
into an orchard and a May festival
for our only motherland: earth.

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Marginal

VI
Come, my sweet, sit next to me
and let us remember of the struggle
and the revolution we didn’t start
let’s talk of the world we didn’t change
and for the heroes who lost their lives
let us recount all the excuses
we presented about all of us
who never became heroes
let’s talk of the insignificant toil
and let’s remember the new world
we have never fought to create
come, let’s sing in one voice
for all the incidentals
who didn’t have the courage
to raise a flag or any banner
and for all of us who never made it
to the borders, who didn’t get
injured and who never breathed
the choking air of the hutment.

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