THIS BLOG IS NO LONGER OPERATIONAL. PLEASE ENJOY WHAT IS HERE, AND DO LEAVE A COMMENT IF YOU WISH. NORTH CAROLINA'S NEW POET LAUREATE IS CATHY SMITH BOWERS. SHE WILL SOON HAVE HER OWN WEBSITE THROUGH THE NORTH CAROLINA ARTS COUNCIL SITE. I WILL BE SHIFTING MY ATTENTION TO HERE, WHERE I AM, (SEE SIDEBAR)USING IT TO DRAW ATTENTION TO WRITERS WHOSE WORK DESERVES ATTENTION. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT ME THERE. For a video of the installation ceremony, please go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE.
Go to http://www.yourdailypoem.com/, managed with finesse by Jayne Jaudon Ferrer, who says, "Our intent is to make visitors to Your Daily Poem aware of the joy and diversity of poetry."
Thursday, October 30, 2008
End of October
Here is a spine-tingling poem for the season, by my friend Isabel Zuber, poet and novelist. It is from her as yet unpublished manuscript of poems, RED LILY.
END OF OCTOBER
Tonight's their time but they came early, have been here all day, watching from among the trees, rustling faded grass. They speak in whispers too low for sound, seem to approve the way we've let the place go to wild and ruin, its hedges pokeweed-- bright, beautiful poison-- tangles of rose, honeysuckle.
Clouds come and go as I hang out the clothes with them still observing it all. Then later I sense what could have been their breath as I unpin warmed white sheets, sun-fragrant towels, the shirts.
Do they think they've been summoned? I know better than to do that, yet strain to hear voices in the leaves. "Why have you left me?" they call. But to the evening's strange and rising wind I say nothing. They linger for any who will listen but by now they have no differences and all their smiles are grave.
I've lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina since 1968, though I'm a native of SW Georgia. My paternal grandmother was born in the Blue Ridge, and I grew up wanting to live here. Where I am.
I've published five collections of poetry, the most recent 4 being with LSU Press, and have published poetry in magazines ranging from The Atlantic Monthly to Appalachian Heritage. But I also hike, bang pots and pans around in my kitchen, and love several dogs who leave fur all over my carpets. I write poetry because it's my way of singing back to the world both within and without.