Carla McGill over at writingcustoms.com has posted a lovely piece in appreciation of Pat Conroy, who passed away a few days ago at his home in South Carolina. She quotes a passage from his 2009 novel, South of Broad. The language put me in mind of a poem, and I could not resist the urge to shape it as such.
Charleston
I carry the delicate porcelain beauty of Charleston like the hinged
shell of some soft-tissued mollusk. My soul is peninsula-shaped and
sun-hardened
and river-swollen. The high tides of the city flood my consciousness
each day, subject to the whims and harmonies of full moons
rising out of the Atlantic. I grow calm when I see the ranks of palmetto trees
pulling guard duty on the banks of Colonial Lake or hear the bells of St.
Michael’s calling
cadence in the cicada-filled trees along Meeting Street. Deep in my bones, I knew
early that I was one of those incorrigible creatures known as Charlestonians.
— Pat Conroy, South of Broad, p. 1
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