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Letter to the Editor


One last poem for wall mural



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May 19, 2010 - Dear Jim,

As you probably know, my little ditty about having patience with mural artistry was on the front page of The Clarkston News on Dec. 17, 2008. I sympathize with the PR problems all this caused you, and if I made it worse trying to make it light, it wasn't intended.

In the same spirit, however, I offer below for your editorial pages a sequel inspired by something I read that someone now wants windows painted!

I'd suggest another go at a mural however, this time with an approval sketch beforehand of the scene which I suggest to be the 1941 fire, the trucks and the townspeople all watching, the result the blank wall.

It was the middle of the night and I too was there at age six, all also recounted below in 42 words. I recall the arch of water played only against the wall of your building, then Walter's Dry Goods, to save it.

There was no water on Rudy's because it was a tinder box and totally in flames. One of the two old town fire trucks that was there was around until the 1950s. I presume it's in somebody's collection somewhere now.

Tom Bullen

Clarkston

Whitewash

Clarkston, as with any small town,

For its quiet was quite well renown.

Rudy's had burned down in forty-one,

Wall and parking, a dubious outcome.

I was there that fire filled night,

For a boy of six, a spectacular sight,

Rudy's soon gone; it might have been all,

Except for hoses played on that wall.

Not much excitement after that,

Until an artist doffs her hat,

She presents a vision for that wall,

Something to inspire one and all.

But what for her was promise gaining,

Whined some others, "its chaos reigning",

They called for Kevorkian's bucket of paint,

Enough to whitewash town complaint.

Tortured wall gasped its last,

To its breast a brush filled asp.

Poisoning, covering color and breath,

A wash of white to simulate death.

How fitting the alabaster for its tomb,

Shrouded forever in stately gloom,

A memorial to intolerance, larded quite,

With rounded muscles wound too tight.

Now windows, some would paint,

To view a wall's soul? How quaint!

Are they wistful? Do they dream?

Recoverable, a loss unforeseen?

TK Bullen, May, 2010

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