Page 58

By Jack Joseph Smith

Oor Little Earth, or Temperal This star I found, this madness I have created The endurance lives I've touched have shown Trees whose leaves single out bodies of stars Valleys that run corn and hybiscus across creeks, and the lonely hats bent last by their family straws Rivers gullied off the canyons of disbelief Never caught to carry a century of dreams Flat nosed negros and drawed chin Anglo Saxions Roll eyed Spanish speaking knife fighters, and closed up thinned than a cross, wild American Indian drunks, All stand as the the trees left, never to be glossed, there words unshaken, deliberate Alone our Sun is not the judge of our end, so many years from now it will come and rap it up, our outrage plays to God, the abstract one, Convincincely the one we can not see, while my luck has me in North America. which seen is the best the planit has, and so through this we of course are fashist; afraid and stuck to our condinsation more than ever our mid western cattle and crops, we go to bed and whine our way through drawing moons, the stars tell our toil at hairdresser shops and over coffie. while some pack up the foil of a wrench, and like Dartanion go to put brotherhood back together, YET once again, will be our first time

Original Scan

AI Interpretation

GPT

The speaker gathers landscapes and peoples into an account of Earth, then calls for brotherhood despite fear and prejudice.

The speaker calls North America the best place on the planet while naming its fascism and fear. The title is Oor Little Earth, or Temperal, retaining the handwritten spelling Oor. The ending pairs YET once again with our first time, presenting the effort to put brotherhood back together as a beginning as well as a return.

Claude

In 'Oor Little Earth, or Temperal' the speaker surveys 'This star I found' through trees, 'Valleys that run corn and hybiscus across creeks' and a harsh catalog of peoples, 'Flat nosed negros and drawed chin Anglo Saxions', 'Roll eyed Spanish speaking knife fighters', 'wild American / Indian drunks'. He places himself 'in North America.', admits 'we of course are fashist; afraid', and ends with some who 'go to put brotherhood back together, YET once / again, will be our first time'.

The poem swings between cosmic scale and small domestic scenes, stars read 'at hairdresser shops and / over coffie', so that the planet and the kitchen share one frame. Its catalog of crude stereotypes sits beside a self-accusation of fear, and the handwritten ending turns the effort at brotherhood into something always beginning again.