My grandmother wrote poetry that she rarely let other people read,
And the words were sweet, though they never did meet with critical acclaim,
But the ones who read it, they often said, “This ought to be published, this ought to be read,”
But she would not agree, and they said it was a shame…
That the world could continue to turn, unaware and unconcerned,
And never even know it, that she was a poet…poet in her own time.
From the time she was a gangly girl her books took her off to another world,
Of Ivanhoe, Henry David Thoreau and Edgar Allan Poe,
But in Mississippi, people don’t generally read; they just look at pictures in magazines,
So it’s not a surprise that she kept to herself and spent her time alone.
And she did pretty well in school, she went to teacher’s college too,
The teachers didn’t know it: my grandma was a poet…a poet in her own time.
Well, she met and she married a railroad man,
She didn’t do much writing then, but his work made them travel about,
“Southern Serves the South”
And the great depression, it set on in like a cold, unexpected northern wind,
He forgot to come home one day and she was left with three kids to raise.
And then there was nothing else a woman could do except draw her paycheque teaching school,
And the pupils didn’t know it, but teacher was a poet…a poet in her own time.
Now my grandmother lies in a crumpled bed, and at night she hears voices in her head,
And the family worries in the whispering dark if she’s got her religion right,
It’s a hardening of the arteries, it’s a softening of the mind,
I mean to go and see her, but I cannot ever seem to find the time.
And at the nurse’s station at night, they work crossword puzzle by the switchboard light,
And the nurses don’t know it: grandma was a poet…a poet in her own time,
Yeah, the nurses don’t know it: my grandma is a poet…a poet in her own time.
