Andrew Hudgins

(22 April 1951 -- / Killeen, Texas)

Steppingstone - Poem by Andrew Hudgins

Home (from Court Square Fountain—
where affluent ghosts still importune
a taciturn
slave to entertain
them with a slow barbarous tune
in his auctioned baritone—
to Hank Williams' headstone
atop a skeleton
loose in a pristine
white suit and bearing a pristine
white bible, to the black bloodstain
on Martin King's torn
white shirt and Jim Clark's baton,
which smashed black skulls to gelatin)
was home, at fifteen: brimstone
on Sunday morning, badminton
hot afternoons, and brimstone
again that night. Often,
as the preacher flailed the lectern,
the free grace I couldn't sustain
past lunch led to clandestine
speculation. Skeleton
and flesh, bone and protein
hold—or is it detain?—
my soul. Was my hometown
Montgomery's molten
sunlight or the internal nocturne
of my unformed soul? Was I torn
from time or was time torn
from me? Turn
on byzantine
turn, I entertain
possibilities still, and overturn
most. It's routine
now to call a hometown
a steppingstone—
and a greased, uncertain,
aleatory stone
at that. Metaphors attune
our ears to steppingstone,
as well a corner-, grind-, and millstone—
all obtain
and all also cartoon
history, which like a piston,
struck hard and often
that blood-dappled town
scrubbed with the acetone
of American inattention. Atone
me no atoning. We know the tune
and as we sing it, we attain
a slow, wanton,
and puritan
grace, grace can't contain.


Comments about Steppingstone by Andrew Hudgins

  • Susan Williams Susan Williams (1/12/2016 4:01:00 PM)

    I am in awe of the talent of Andrew Hudgins, He awakens a sense of history in our souls to give us a look at where mankind has been and where we are going if we do not heed the warnings history is liberally strewed with.- - - -
    Look at this monumental display of talent- - - - - -
    Metaphors attune
    our ears to steppingstone,
    as well a corner-, grind-, and millstone—
    all obtain
    and all also cartoon
    history, which like a piston,
    struck hard and often
    that blood-dappled town
    scrubbed with the acetone
    of American inattention. Atone
    me no atoning. (Report) Reply

    15 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • Darlan M Cunha Darlan M Cunha (1/12/2016 5:53:00 AM)

    I remember the lunatic is on the grass... The lunatic is in my head... (Pink Floyd) . Excellent poem.
    Congratulations. (Report) Reply

  • Manonton Dalan (1/12/2016 3:00:00 AM)

    i am trying to find something
    in this poem... maybe when
    i read it second time (Report) Reply

  • Edward Kofi Louis Edward Kofi Louis (1/12/2016 2:03:00 AM)

    As we learn the ways of life. Thanks for sharing this poem with us. (Report) Reply

Read all 4 comments »



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Poem Submitted: Friday, March 16, 2012



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