POET OF THE WEEK: REBECCA PIERRE

I met Rebecca Pierre several years ago when I was invited to read at North Carolina State University and judge their annual poetry competition for NC residents. Her poem was clearly at the top of my judge's list, and I awarded it first place, a tie with another poem that I had found worthy. As it turned out, this poem had only a few days before been accepted for publication by a journal, thus eliminating it from consideration. Rebecca came to my reading, though, and we have been in contact, off and on, for quite a few years. I admire her poetry for its visual and musical effects. Her book, A MYSTERY OF MOON, was published in 2006 by Main Street Rag Press and was selected to reside in the NC Historical Archives at UNC Chapel Hill.




Rebecca lives, writes and plays in the clay on Oak Island, NC where the sea is her muse. She settled there after living many lives mostly in the eastern US. An accomplished Clay Artist, she is addicted to pots, poetry and the poetry of pots. Through the years she has received numerous awards for her poetry as well as a grant for a week-long workshop at Wild Acres in NC and one for a month-long residency at The Vermont Studio Center in Johnson, VT. Her poetry has been published in such publications as: Asheville Poetry Review, Wellspring, The Cancer Poetry Project, The Peralta Press, Lullwater Review, NCPS Pinesong Awards, Of Frogs and Toads, Illya’s Honey and others. She hopes that her words will touch a place in you that may have remained untouched without them. An ambitious dream, but one that she carries in her heart always.

As a Southeastern NC writer she was interviewed by an MFA student and a DVD of that interview now resides in perpetuity and available to be viewed by any interested party in the William Morrison Randall Library Special Collections Archives at UNC Wilmington.

A piece of her clay art titled 'Licorice Twist' (see below) was chosen for 'The Power of Art: Preserving the History of the Fine Art Community in Southeastern North Carolina' and remains on display in the William Morrison Randall Library at UNC Wilmington.

Rebecca's clay art website is www,pierreswares.mysite.com. (A wonderful site! Please visit.)


------------------------------
For for this feature I have interwoven images of Rebecca's pottery with her poetry. Enjoy the poetic and visual treasures in this post.



(MEDUSA)

The first three are from a series Rebecca calls "Beach Walks" that she hopes to publish with paintings. May she find a publisher for it soon!



THE BEGINNING

The beach is empty
this morning. Wild waves
stir up seafoam like
soapsuds that cling
to the tideline in
clumps. Clouds, gray pillows,
smother the sun. Houses
are painted derelict by
mist. No wonder laughing
seagulls share a joke.
No wonder millions
of tiny pieces of
seashells whisper underfoot,
This is our eternity. This
is the world as it was in
the beginning, before I set
foot upon the sand. This
is the world as it will be
in the end, still turning
and singing its song.






(FISHWIFE)



WINGS


A leisurely walk. A lone sandpiper
skitters constantly, seeking food.
To avoid my advance she moves
quickly away, Not heading toward
the beach but toward incoming
waves. My breath catches for
an instant before I realize
she is smarter than I. She knows
she must merely lift her wings
and fly. I must remember that
I have wings.




(SAGO PALM LEAF VESSEL)





GREAT BLUE

And on the way home,
as I pass Heron Lookout,
I catch a glimpse through
tall marsh grasses of a
Great Blue Heron perched
atop a birdhouse in the
canal. I step gently forward
for a closer look but her keen
eyes, born to catch the tiniest
movement, catch mine. She lets
out a cry that sounds like the
breaking of a branch, spreads
her glorious wings and carries
my soul with her, sailing low
over the water then swooping
up to her nest in a tree.





(DAPHNE)


HAMMOCK


This hammock, connecting
tree to tree, becomes a
suspension bridge for ants
who travel the rope that
borders the edge. Focused,
they never lose their way,
never deviate into the web
of highways, the tempting
byways of the green
knotted network that forms
the bed. While live oak branches
bow in an elegant sweep
to the ground, pieces of sky
hide among the leaves overhead.
A blue jay startles herself
by landing too close to
the hammock. A mockingbird,
so enraptured by his own song,
lifts straight up from a fence post
at intervals in his singing.
A grey squirrel sits in
a patch of sun, holds
a toadstool in her paws,
turning it with her delicate
fingers as she eats her
way around the edge. This
is the business of the world.
Our business is not to miss it.





(TRUNK SHOW)


COUGAR

John’s Island, SC

Early Sunday morning,
walking to the pond,
suddenly I stop.

Upwind, a cougar,
tawny and sleek,
regal head raised
searching for a scent
on the air.

I think of the leopard
lying in the painting
that hung above
the fireplace in a house
I once called home.
A place I left
like the cougar leaves
gliding through long grass
as if she had never been there.




( LICORICE TWIST)




WALKING THE WALK


All day it rains
as if the sorrow
is too much to bear
without weeping skies.
Finally, they walk out
together let the rain wet
their hair, their clothes,
and still they walk
knowing walking is not enough,
nor is crying,
nor talk of the past,
the uncertain future.
Knowing that they must
each put one foot
in front of the other,
going apart, coming together,
going a bit farther, coming together,
until their walking takes them
beyond return.




(LARGE TWISTED VESSEL)



THOUGH I KNOW IT ISN’T SO...

I like to imagine
the potter at her wheel
slamming the clay down
onto the wheel-head,
bending forward, her elbows
locked against her knees,
eyes closed to better feel
the centering. The clay,
dug from the earth,
wet with water,
spinning in her hands
to a burnished ball,
the precise size to fit
smoothly in the cup
of my hip where it
glides with each step,
with each movement
of my leg. A ceramic
ball fired expertly to
the perfect temperature
so that the surgeon
cannot help but turn it
in his hands, admiring
the artistry that combined
with his skill, will make
me pain-free and whole
again.




(WHICH KEY OPENS THE LOCK)