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."
Saturday, April 4, 2009
DON'T LEAVE HUNGRY: Four North Carolina Poets
I halve an apple on the radius and discover a star-shaped center. At the flowering end of the apple you see the same star only pulled in the way a turtle snaps back frightened into puckered skin
the way we clutch what we own don’t touch! don’t touch! as if this was likely preserved as we are and swathed to death.
But this inner star is open full of seeds jumbled like miniature boats robbed and left in an ancient tomb long since forgotten.
Every where hunger. Ferryboat seeds going out coming back oarless
the life inside waiting to be rescued.
A Tumbleweed from Texas
When the world is flat as West Texas and the only relief is the sight of someone else’s accidental fortune welling up and the sky seems the merciless iris of God, you begin to understand how regular people can rob banks or execute families out of plain boredom, and why, starved for motion, this grown weed will break itself off at the ground and roll away from its roots until it becomes pure economy of form, refined by the sun and wind into nothing worth loving, a nomad worshipping whatever moves him and spills his seed, a tinder- hearted exile, a bush ready for burning.
HEATHER ROSS MILLER
Thrusting west, Bright hairs combed out in a tail, The comet appeared, just visible, Over the beam of the barn. It had no business Flicking so nervously in the dark And scattering fiery hairs all over our yard. And neither had you any business sitting there So primly in the black grass, Your sharp bright face Sighted westward, Up skyward, Watching that comet usurp the sky.
Strangers appear. They get themselves born in country beds And are christened. Comets, without warning, seize the sky Late a country evening, While potatoes still bubble in the pot. And late a country evening, You watch the fiery sky And read a language written For your nebulous eye.
We ought to be thankful it grows wild on roadbanks, sometimes blond and curled. It holds earth together and still we hear Earth is falling.
Sink holes in the south swallow cars. We do not doubt, but can we help wonder what happens when the bottom drops? Maybe clumps fall with the Jeep
and the Porsche, forming the shoreline of a lake, in some posh suburb. Grass has a right to be cherished, Crowning Glory, clipped to perfection.
No matter where we sleep we live with threat hanging over our lawns. Who says we need more weapons? We want to know what will happen to grass,
grass everywhere, amber savannahs, sacred as the hair on our heads.
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.