"WHERE FACTS YIELD THEIR SECRET SENSE" -- ANNALS OF THE DEAR UNKNOWN: INTRODUCTION

 I hope to publish several chapters per week here from my latest book, Annals of the Dear Unknown: A Verse-Tale.  

Before I publish the first chapter, as well as a list of the characters ("named participants") in the story, I include below my Author's Note, which serves as a general introduction.  

After all twenty-seven poems have been reprinted here, I will, of course, add maps, a selected bibliography, acknowledgments, and several reviews.

I spent the better part of the COVID-19 pandemic years researching and writing Annals of the Dear Unknown. The book is dedicated to Rachel Tyler Munson (1736 - 1778), my fifth great-grandmother.

 

Author’s Note

 

Rose’s people came from Connecticut.

 

            That vague description of my great-grandmother, Rose Munson Chandler, as well as a sepia-toned family portrait of Rose sitting alongside her husband, Benjamin Chandler and their three sons, were all I knew as a child of my Munson family history. Like the protagonist in Thomas Campbell’s poem, Gertrude of Wyoming, I often thought about my own “dear unknown” ancestors who had emigrated from Europe to Connecticut, and from there to Pennsylvania.

            It wasn’t until the death of my father several years ago, when I came across and took possession of an old tome titled The Munson Record, that the Munson ancestry came alive for me. In tracing my lineage, generation through generation, back to Captain Thomas Munson who, along with other Pilgrims, sailed to America in 1634, I read the story of Rose’s great-great-grandfather, Obadiah Munson, his wife Rachel Tyler Munson, and their twelve children.

            I discovered that I was a descendant of one of those children, Walter Munson, who, with his older brother, Wilmot and other siblings, was part of a frantic evacuation from the town of Westmoreland at the time of the Battle of Wyoming in Wyoming Valley, Pennsylvania.

            During this exodus, known as the Great Runaway, over two thousand frontier settlers were forced to abandon their farms, taking narrow Indian paths and rudimentary roads over mountains and through dense forest areas known as The Great Swamp and The Shades of Death as they made their way to safety hundreds of miles away. Others escaped in canoes and rafts, desperately paddling and poling downstream on the Susquehanna to Fort Augusta and beyond.

            The history of Wyoming Valley, Pennsylvania in the years prior to and during the Yankee-Pennamite Wars and the American Revolution is complex on many levels. It is not the purpose of this collection to re-litigate the legal question and cultural notion concerning the proprietary right of soil. It will not question the wisdom—or lack thereof—of the military decision made on July 3, 1778, nor will it dwell on or dispute conflicting, exaggerated, and subsequently debunked accounts of its aftermath.

            Rather, Annals of the Dear Unknown is simply an honest and plainly told tale, written by someone who, in the words of Ralph Waldo Emerson in his essay, History, has hoped to “attain and maintain that lofty sight where facts yield their secret sense, and poetry and annals are alike.”

 

                                                                                                                                                                       

—Catherine Chandler

 

 STAY TUNED FOR MORE . . .

AMORANCE

 

Lilacs in a Window (Mary Cassatt, c. 1880-1883)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Amorance

 

Lilacs are often considered to symbolize first love.

                (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Syringa)

 

 

Brittle scattered heart-shaped leaves glissade

across the crusted snow, on days as thin

as twigs, and nights when dreams wind back to then.

Every dormant, overwintering bud,

defending future flowers, future seed

with overlapping scales of mauve and green

and ancient symmetries of fixed design

confronts the cold in armored certitude.

 

However, God may choose, next spring, to scatter

frost like ashes, and the snow like wool

and kill each blooming lilac panicle.

My January dreams are stinging, bitter.

Though we were brave, by force of circumstance,

Love of my Youth, we didn’t stand a chance.

 

 

What My Mother Kept

 

 

Mother's Day, and I miss my mother so much. 

She was born on a summer day in 1930, and died exactly eighty-one years later.

The poem below, "What You Kept" is one of the series "Four Songs of Parting" which appears in my collection, The Frangible Hour.

What You Kept

 

A mildewed trunk defending old receipts,

a cookie tin,

discolored carpets, pillowcases, sheets.

Easy enough, as are the Mason jars—

stuff for the trash or the recycling bin,

the church bazaars.

I toss aside what’s always needled me—

the plaque from John Paul’s Holy Jubilee,

the Norman Rockwell mugs, the Kinkade prints.

 

From underneath

a roll of batting and a bolt of chintz

I pull a faded ribbon-festooned box.

Inside, my fairy-stolen baby teeth

and first-shorn locks

acknowledge, in an elegant goodbye,  

that I was once the apple of your eye.

 

 

[© Catherine Chandler, 2026]

 

"Mayflies" by Richard Wilbur

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

HERE is a short video of Richard Wilbur reading his beautiful poem, "Mayflies." 

"Can Poetry Matter?"

 

 

 

Thirty-five years ago, the essay "Can Poetry Matter?" by Dana Gioia was published in The Atlantic Monthly. It is the title essay from his book, Can Poetry Matter? Essays on Poetry and American Culture, first published by Graywolf Press in 1992.

It is one of the best essays on the subject I have ever read, and lifts my spirits, even now, when I feel that no one really cares about poetry anymore.

Very Far South

 A new poem of mine, "Very Far South" has been published in the current edition of Able Muse Journal. This news article was the inspiration for the poem.  HERE is more information on the ruddy turnstone.

 

A ruddy turnstone

 

Very Far South

 

A ruddy turnstone with her I.D. band

has flown down from Québec to winter here,

like me, in Uruguay. I watch her land

upon the rocks beside the harbor pier

 

to share a mussel feast with golden plovers,

oystercatchers, terns and cormorants,

while overhead a scold of seagulls hovers,

mewing above the boundless blue expanse.

 

For years we’ve been migrating back and forth

exchanging latitudes for warmer weather.

With austral autumn, though, we’ll fly back north

exchanging panic-grass for firefly heather.

 

Inside Carrasco terminal, I’ll play

the lacquered Yamaha that sits beside

Salidas in the busy passageway;

then as my fingers tentatively glide

 

along remembered keys to Oiseaux d’Eau,

I’ll marvel at my feathered counterpart

who knows by instinct when it’s time to go

six thousand miles without a map or chart.

 

For now, though, I’m content to while away

the early morning hours by the sea,

where, on this brilliant January day,

the turnstone calls, oblivious of me.

 

 

 

(Catherine Chandler, 2026)

 

 

 

For Brady, With Love, Granny

As Autism Acceptance Month comes to a close on April 30th, I would like to share a poem I recently wrote for my grandson, Brady. The poem will soon appear in The Lyric and in my next book as well.

April is Autism Acceptance Month, designated to promote understanding, inclusion, and celebration of autistic individuals, while shifting focus from mere awareness to active acceptance. Celebrated throughout April, with World Autism Acceptance Day on April 2nd, it aims to reduce stigma, highlight unique strengths, and encourage supportive environments.

The poem's title comes from John Greenleaf Whittier's poem "The Barefoot Boy."

Brady studying the fish in his aquarium

 

 

 

 

 

 

Blessings on Thee, Little Man

Autism is a gift wrapped in a mystery.

                — Keri Bowers

 

A meadow stirs in small reverences ―

a late moth lifts into the pastel sky

a pollen beetle climbs a dandelion

butterflies and bees wait motionless

for the sun to warm their wings so they can feed

on nectar pooling in a thousand clovers.

As animated choristers stake claims

of territoriality, the bold

metallic trill of a red-winged blackbird fills

the air with an exultant song of praise.

 

Brady charts the field’s perimeter

where oak-tree shadows fold into the grass.

He kneels to touch the texture of a stone,

reading the secret in its ancient grain.

He senses keenly every gust of sound ―

a power line’s shrill whine, a village bell,

the thrum and rumble of a distant train.

But now he registers the heat-bug’s buzz

the hopper ticking on a thistle stalk

the rustle of a wren’s wing in the brush.

 

And when the morning wind shifts, Brady turns

to hear the sacred music of the spheres.

Although he moves along unfurling hours

on different pathways parallel to mine,

through brilliant patterns hidden from my eyes,

I’m thankful for the mystery of his ways

and for the gentle lesson of his wonder;

how his silence gathers up and holds ―

for all of us to see ― the beauty in

the blessed light of God’s imperfect world.

 

(by Catherine Chandler 2026) 

  

If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.

― Henry David Thoreau, from Walden

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: AVARITIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Avaritia

 

They say Imelda owned three thousand pair
of shoes. The ones with Duracells would flash
as she merengued on the dance floor. She
would buy, with tidy sums of laundered cash,
Gucci platforms, pumps from Givenchy,
Ferragamo flip-flop leisurewear;
not to mention Halston golden calf-
skin spike-heeled boots. Her size, eight-and-a-half.

She ran the Beatles out of town, pell-mell,
then fled herself, accused of gross misdeeds.
Back in Manila now, she struts, undaunted,
in cap-toe slingback sandals by Chanel.
Lennon was right. Love’s all one really needs.
Perhaps that’s all Imelda’s ever wanted.

 

 

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: IRA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ira

 

The cheeky CEO — half-drunk, irate,

more sauce denied him — staggered to first class,

slapped down a flight attendant, bared his ass

and defecated on a dinner plate.

And then there was that weird kid down the block

who went to school hell-bent on a vendetta,

packed bitter rage alongside a Beretta,

an HP9 Norinco and a Glock.

 

Not quite the brutal killer nor the creep,

in quiet desperation, some of us

might temper fury with a finger, cuss

or try tai chi; while others opt to keep —

in case they ever need it, close, discreet —

a baseball bat beneath the driver’s seat.

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: GULA

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gula

 

She stood behind me in the checkout queue

last Saturday. She mentally weighed in

on items in my shopping cart. I knew

her thoughts: It’s no small wonder she’s not thin

like me. Look at that junk food - cookies, chips,         

that pint of Häagen-Dazs, those salted nuts . . .

She sized me up and down from head to hips

and measured both our budgets and our butts.

 

Clairvoyant she was not. Had she but seen

as with the scanner’s unassuming eye,

she might have figured out a lifetime lean

and hard. Before I wheeled my week’s supply

of relish out into the parking lot,

I whispered, Lady, this is all I’ve got.

 

 

 

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: INVIDIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Invidia

 

 

A scant handful of people stand beside

his grave, and I am one of them. His wife

ignores me. When I heard that he had died

I secretly rejoiced. His was a life

of pure divertimento; mine a bane,

a counterpoint of reverence and grudge.      

His popularity, no doubt, shall wane;

posterity will be the final judge.

 

The man is dead, but I am here to mourn

his music, held to rapturous acclaim;

and though I curse the day that he was born,

I bless the vagaries of fate and fame. 

A most horrific, premature decease —

Mozart is dead. And may he rot in peace.

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: LUXURIA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Luxuria

 

 

The grown-ups called her Boots. Stilettoed. Brash.

Hayna Valley girl. All skin-on-bone.

Afternoons, impassive as a stone,

she’d strut downtown to trade her time for cash

from randy college boys. As rumours flew, it

made me perk my ears. Living next door,

I learned new words like incest, jailbait, whore.

As for her real name, I never knew it.

 

And then she moved. The Amy Vanderbilts

sang hallelujahs. Thanked their lucky stars.

Boots could not belong. She came from Mars,

thumbing her nose at coffee klatches, quilts,

silk stockings, and the picket fences of

Earth’s fond contrivances passed off as love.

 

 

 

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: ACEDIA

The second sonnet in my series.

Acedia is more than laziness, it is one of the “seven deadly sins,” a subtle but toxic form of sloth, or spiritual weariness. 

Note: Twitter is now called X. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Acedia

 

 

You’ve seen him at the gym, the puffed-up puppy

on the treadmill, going nowhere fast;

the Volvo-driving, Twitter-texting yuppie,

the DINK, the wine and cheese enthusiast.

A trainer and a personal assistant

plan his every move from A to Z.

Blasé, his urbane life is child-resistant;

designer drugs dispel his deep ennui.

 

But nights are something else. The masquerades

have tired him out. He mouths a lame excuse

for love; and when Orion dips and fades

he asks the morning silence, What’s the use?

She finds him, later, hanging in the stair-

well. He didn’t care he didn’t care.

 

 

 

SEVEN DEADLY SONNETS: SUPERBIA

From my seven-part poem "SALIGIA" (Superbia, Acedia, Luxuria, Invidia, Gula, Ira, Avaritia - Pride, Sloth, Lust, Envy, Gluttony, Anger, Greed), first published in my second book, Glad and Sorry Seasons.

 

Superbia

 

Charles Blondin crossing the Niagara River in 1859

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The French funambulist of world renown

has come to carry out his daring act.

A swarm of tourists overruns the town;

bets are placed, escarpment benches packed.

Two hundred feet atop the misty pit,

with unaffected ease and nimble tread,

he sends the anxious crowd into a fit

of frenzy, tumbling, standing on his head.

 

The Great Blondin requests a volunteer

to piggyback across . . . a sudden hush

descends, betraying both desire and fear.

Tant pis!, he teases, perched above the rush

of raging water, waving to us all.

We hold our breath . . . and wait for him to fall.

 

 

 

 

 

(Niagara Falls, 1859)

 

A New Poem Accepted !

 

The Lyric Magazine - The oldest magazine 

in North America devoted to traditional poetry

 

Delighted to announce that my poem

"Blessings on Thee, Little Man"  

 will be published in the Spring 2026 issue of The Lyric Magazine.

 

 Thank you to Editor Jean Mellichamp Milliken