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COPYRIGHT INFORMATION
Borgo Laureate Series
ISSN 1082-3336
Number Ten
Copyright © 2001, 2012 by Michael R. Collings
Published by Wildside Press LLC
www.wildsidebooks.com
DEDICATION
To the Collings Cousins,
no matter how many times removed
INTRODUCTION
The following pages contain all that I have been able to locate of the many verses written by my paternal grandmother, Nellie Hunt Collings. Most are drawn from one of two sources: 1) a typescript prepared by her youngest surviving son, Ralph Willard Collings (my father), sometime after her death, drawing on her handwritten journals, scrapbook, and other primary materials; and 2) a second typescript of just the poetry, prepared by Ralph Willard even later and mimeographed for a number of her descendants—the copies of this mimeographed version that I have seen are now almost illegible. Unfortunately, as far as I have been able to determine, most of the original materials were subsequently destroyed or have been lost.
Several months ago, another of Nellie’s grandchildren, Brian Cooper, contacted me about a transcription he had made of the poems for an internet site—as a result of our email discussion, he sent me a copy of his transcription, which I added to the two already available to me. From these varied sources, then, comes this book, composed variously of Grandma Collings’ poetry, segments of her journals that introduce, discuss, or otherwise relate to her poetry, photographs illustrating her life and her history, especially as they relate to the subjects of her poetry, and several life records—including the marriage certificate that, startling to many of her descendents, gives her full name as Nellie Eliza Hunt.
In part this project has been aimed at the dozens of cousins—first, second, and third, by now—who knew Nellie only as an elderly and increasingly frail woman…or who never knew her at all. By reproducing her verses and bits from her journal, I hope to help us all recover who she truly was, the kind of mind and spirit she preserved throughout her life, the compassion she felt for others’ losses, and the joy she felt in their happiness.
In a larger part, however, Lines from Collings Hill is a personal tribute as well. I did not know until after her death that my grandmother wrote poetry. No one ever mentioned it; no one ever showed me one of her pieces; I have no recollection of her mentioning it. Of course, at thirteen, I was probably too young when she passed away to care much for poetry, but that perception has changed radically over the years. For over three decades now, I too have turned to poetry in times of sorrow and loss, of joy, of loneliness, of fear. And in doing so, I have discovered connections with my grandmother that I never imagined existed, I have felt nearer to her than ever before, and I have understood in greater detail the strengths that supported her throughout her life.
—Michael Robert Collings
Thousand Oaks CA
September 2001
TO NELLIE—FROM THE PERSPECTIVE OF A CENTURY
How lonely. How distressing.
A farmstead cabin trapped in snow,
No faces to see
But family—
No other voices, thoughts, minds
To share her dreams,
Her words.
How lonely. How distressing.
Day upon day no mail nesting in the
Rural box
Beyond
The gate where peeled cottonwood
Uprights took root
And grew.
How lonely. How distressing.
A daughter lost just as they began
To mesh in mind—
A son required
By war to travel over seas and then
Returned to wed
A distant love.
How lonely. How distressing.
To watch her one love age and twist—
To know her home
Once more as loss—
To feel a mind grow wretched and
Infirm—then vague—
And finally gone
How lonely. How distressing.
To know her only through old blurring
Photographs—see
Her but not hear her,
Not partake of laughter, wit,
Or voice, or heart,
Or Poetry.
—Michael R. Collings,
With Love
ON FIRST SEEING PHOTOGRAPHS OF MY GRANDFATHER IN HIS MIDDLE-AGE
He always seems unfinished—cheeks
Rough with whitened whiskers, hair
Corn-shock coarse and peppered black
On white, lips thin and quavering and
Querulous in coming age. Even when
I see him young, ambitious, smooth,
Eager to consume the world;
Or later, hearth-black by his forge,
Leather apron glossy in the heat;
Or later still a hatted silhouette
Among the corn—even then
There is about him that which cries
For grinder, sander, lathe, and polish to
Finish incompleteness—give him life.
—Michael R. Collings
With Love
LINES FROM
COLLINGS HILL
