Wednesday, January 31, 2018

VIEW OF THE MISSISSIPPI FROM FORT HILL AT THE VICKSBURG BATTLEFIELD NATIONAL PARK AND CEMETERY




     From the wide, meandering drive
     you look away, beyond the lines
     of white anonymous markers,
     down to where the barges
     are pushing past the piers,
     as slowly as the hour hand of a clock,
     while tiny speedboats whine
     as they skip up and down
     like mosquitoes, skimming the water
     to better their times.

     The digital tour guide at Fort Hill
     makes it a point to say
     that the River isnt what you see 
     —“the River” around here
     always means the Mississippi—
     but the Yazoo Diversion Canal,
     an artificial waterway
     created by the Army Corps of Engineers
     after the River slid away
     and left Vicksburg behind.

     The real Mississippi winds,
     like a snake uncoiling, on the other side
     of the shifting sandbars and temporary islands
     that lie in the distance, looking like solid ground
     crowded with undergrowth, cottonwood, willow, and pine.

     Several hours farther down,
     at New Roads in the Parish of Pointe Coupée,
     the River once twisted itself out this way.
     On the farther, lower side
     they made the old bed into a resort,
     a playground for aquatic sports,
     called False River Lake.
     They have sail-boating and water-skiing there,
     and trolling and fishing from the shore,
     lined now with substantial real estate.

     It all sounds fairly dull and safe,
     and perhaps it is.
     Perhaps there’s a point to be made
     for placidity, though: There are some who say,
     with mandarin politesse,
     “May you live in interesting times,”
     —when they don’t mean to bless.

     But more than once the River has
     struck at a town:
     of that rip-roaring sinful place,
     Natchez-under-the-Hill,
     there isn’t much left now;
     and at Grand Gulf,
     half an hour south of here,
     fifty-six blocks of busy, sleepy people
     sloughed off into the water
     bit by bit, without a sound.

     Only a few minutes farther away,
     antique and beautiful,
     the clock-faced steeples of Port Gibson wait,
     set back decorously not-too-near
     the soft slopes of the Little Bayou Pierre,
     a minor tributary that everyone there
     calls “By a Pier.”
     They watch the town’s two bridges—
     the skeletal old one, mostly sucked down
     in the great storm of  ’Fifty-Four,
     and the squat, heavy new one, 
     that brute mass and weight
     have held in place so far.
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