tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-80671129667246733212024-03-12T19:56:26.726-07:00My Laureate's LassoKathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.comBlogger213125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-21103981484324562982010-02-12T14:46:00.000-08:002010-02-13T07:13:47.557-08:00NEW POET LAUREATE CROWNED<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jTG2mAnt4uKY7aR3v4rck__Emzz2OQba1scXP-zJvJW15AOAys6Xm4iVommEZL5oyHidkGxgMLewv0CGhGTBXPDwvJBnHcHsm96cJRBHtIYeDlG-5f9gUGfUia6iM-mNf3bgbppCpWy5/s1600-h/cathy,kayandlinda.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_jTG2mAnt4uKY7aR3v4rck__Emzz2OQba1scXP-zJvJW15AOAys6Xm4iVommEZL5oyHidkGxgMLewv0CGhGTBXPDwvJBnHcHsm96cJRBHtIYeDlG-5f9gUGfUia6iM-mNf3bgbppCpWy5/s400/cathy,kayandlinda.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5437493430357768098" /></a>(At the state Capitol with Linda <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Carlisle</span>, Head of the Dept. of Cultural Resources, and new Poet Laureate Cathy Smith Bowers)<br /><div><br /></div><div><br />On Wednesday Feb. 10, Cathy Smith Bowers was officially installed as North Carolina Poet Laureate. (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE"> </a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: 10px; white-space: pre; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE">http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0xAk6fOzaNE</a></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; white-space: normal; "> )I was delighted to place the laurel wreath on her head. My Lasso blog will now be archived here, so please visit it as often as you wish. The NC Arts Council will be setting up its own laureate website soon and will link to this blog.</span></span></div><div><div><br /></div><div>Thank you for visiting this blog. Please visit my other blog now--Here, Where I Am, where I will be now and then featuring poets and new books from NC and elsewhere. </div></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-23735988694758102842010-02-04T08:06:00.000-08:002010-02-06T14:56:34.706-08:00MOUNT JEFFERSON POETS--A CELEBRATION<div align="left"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLDUemHTcu0nY7sLcn3qGAFdJoh1zk60mbMjy66w10LkqZir879KcmHHuhpMu7Mv2DhF21ASz5O-cFz763T6W-aRTQkQGdfyMtNtqNEJRB1gBA_R1kknSamhq4X9BS_WJKMGVYQcxq6eC/s1600-h/moje_ice.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434484560031092834" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 275px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 183px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipLDUemHTcu0nY7sLcn3qGAFdJoh1zk60mbMjy66w10LkqZir879KcmHHuhpMu7Mv2DhF21ASz5O-cFz763T6W-aRTQkQGdfyMtNtqNEJRB1gBA_R1kknSamhq4X9BS_WJKMGVYQcxq6eC/s400/moje_ice.jpg" border="0" /></a> (Photo by Ranger Thomas Randolph, Mount Jefferson State Natural Area--<br /><a href="http://www.ncparks.gov/Visit/parks/moje/main.php">http://www.ncparks.gov/Visit/parks/moje/main.php</a> )<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />What every mountain needs is young poets like the ones below to celebrate it every year! Mount Jefferson is one lucky mountain. Thanks to Mount Jefferson State Natural Area and Park, it has a program designed to encourage students who live nearby to write poems about it, and it has Ranger Thomas Randolph, who is devoted to keeping this program going. Just look at Ranger Tom's face in these photos! He's loving every second of it. He's proud of these young students and proud of their accomplishments.<br /><br /><br />If you go to an earlier blog post you will find the poets I chose in last summer's poetry contest, along with the history of this program--<a href="http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com/2009/07/young-poets-celebrate-mount-jefferson.html">http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com/2009/07/young-poets-celebrate-mount-jefferson.html</a>Now, we celebrate Mount Jefferson's younger poets in grades Kindergarten-6, divided into two categories K-3 and 4-6. The theme was Mount Jefferson's seasons. I had a terrible time splitting hairs among these poems. I stood at my kitchen counter shuffling and re-shuffling poems. So many good ones! How could I choose? Here are my choices, along with photos of the poets. Congratulations to all of them.</div><div align="left"><br />And thank you teachers, students, and Ranger Tom for your good work in the name of NC's natural treasures and its poetry.</div><div align="left"><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: left"><br /></div><br />Addie Fairchild's poem in the voice of Mt. Jefferson right away caught my eye. I'll be honest--it was a toss-up between her excellent poem and Brianna McCoy's "Mount Jefferson Nature." Both had great images. Zachary Richards' "Mt. Jefferson's Bobcat" also thrilled me. It gave me goosebumps! Well, I even burned lunch while reading all these poems. That's what poetry does to you. Forget about multi-tasking while you are reading it. You have to give your heart and soul to it, all your attention.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DrvZW-XW_HkQwFMz0Sx1VvxVN52HF_TRHTOxacUit2Sn4jOuL64BSxw10ZhMODapUR-ZRKo4QAfz9h_xsSnEwMDYjAcWxXDjdRM4lL9eDcvFzQQRDWeMmOfZKhElMMXmxJTR77cnYwez/s1600-h/leaves.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434578230951497730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi_DrvZW-XW_HkQwFMz0Sx1VvxVN52HF_TRHTOxacUit2Sn4jOuL64BSxw10ZhMODapUR-ZRKo4QAfz9h_xsSnEwMDYjAcWxXDjdRM4lL9eDcvFzQQRDWeMmOfZKhElMMXmxJTR77cnYwez/s400/leaves.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I FEEL THE SEASONS (first place) This kind of poem is difficult to pull off, speaking as a non-human object or animal. She makes it work!<br /><br /><br /><br /><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">The trees that cover me are all f I feel the winter coldness on my face,<br />the trees that cover me are all frozen<br />My nose is frozen.<br />The air is windy<br /></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">The snow is all around me.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">I feel the spring breeze through my hair,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">From the bottom up I'm green all over.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">Animals waking everywhere,<br />Flowers swaying along with the wind,<br />Flowers all around me.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">I feel the summer sun on my shoulders,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">People climbing to my peak.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">The fiery warmth touches me day and night,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">Picnics on my tree covered skirt,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">Fireflies all around me.<br />I feel the chill of all through my ruffled coat,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">As time changes, days get shorter.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">Leaves are falling through the brisk air,</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><div align="center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">The temperature is dropping down low,<br />Bright Colors all around me.</span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;"><br /></span><br /><div align="center">by Addie Fairchild</div><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB81eGhLSjt7vB0XCTRoMlzFWcbhIPFao_JGeKhCsdgtpRKbT-0_hOlo-_VYA7FD5CpBR40Azw6bYKf7tqITXxWiHaTC2zonPLy4vzXDOW8g444Eue6qAJx3vKlAnDIe1Zq4QI0yrW13By/s1600-h/P1280112.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434422664330468482" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiB81eGhLSjt7vB0XCTRoMlzFWcbhIPFao_JGeKhCsdgtpRKbT-0_hOlo-_VYA7FD5CpBR40Azw6bYKf7tqITXxWiHaTC2zonPLy4vzXDOW8g444Eue6qAJx3vKlAnDIe1Zq4QI0yrW13By/s400/P1280112.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><b><span style="font-size:100%;">Westwood Elementary Schools</span></b><br />Westwood Elementary School<br /><br /></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">Addie Fairchild 1<sup>st</sup> Place (Tent) Far Left</span></p><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">Zachary Richards 3<sup>rd</sup> Place (Sleeping Bag) Second from Left<br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">Zeb Duvall Science in poetry (Tent) Third from Left<br /></span></p><span style="font-size:100%;"></span><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman" align="center"><span style="font-size:100%;">Jamie Richey Unique Poetic Vision (Telescope) Far Right</span></p><br /><br /><p style="MIN-HEIGHT: 12px; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman"><br /><span style="font-size:100%;">Zachary Richards, Third Place (second from left in photo above)</span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN20jTo64EFjGsXq3kbtCe891G0ZAqT_QOg8ABj03AeYbJ9lnzcxJergeeH7x0lseFj_zrLufMSpwWiFQHQ5EbSs0GKmbnFtscXk6CPvyE9GMjndFXzjjfLtzseV3U3_FYqWIQvUEA_m1y/s1600-h/jeff3.jpg"></a></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN20jTo64EFjGsXq3kbtCe891G0ZAqT_QOg8ABj03AeYbJ9lnzcxJergeeH7x0lseFj_zrLufMSpwWiFQHQ5EbSs0GKmbnFtscXk6CPvyE9GMjndFXzjjfLtzseV3U3_FYqWIQvUEA_m1y/s1600-h/jeff3.jpg"></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434453434539463026" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 261px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjN20jTo64EFjGsXq3kbtCe891G0ZAqT_QOg8ABj03AeYbJ9lnzcxJergeeH7x0lseFj_zrLufMSpwWiFQHQ5EbSs0GKmbnFtscXk6CPvyE9GMjndFXzjjfLtzseV3U3_FYqWIQvUEA_m1y/s400/jeff3.jpg" border="0" />Now, don't be confused. I'm skipping around to accommodate these wonderful photos Ranger Tom sent.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="font-family:Times New Roman;">Here is Brianna's second place poem, and you can find her in this photo, third from left.</span></span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sh_jGi3_M1DRLCNuv1MxkdSO5Ye1BL4E2AdZn4zbfySSHX51YYwjP-9y5LqcMMBPqS7En0xjNAmkgnILehXOpQY-I8mguz5RAK1w8JSHUZIgaeYst_JC3SjVRxVcwEDjRU-iih8OHxY4/s1600-h/BLRI2010.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434421449295557858" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5sh_jGi3_M1DRLCNuv1MxkdSO5Ye1BL4E2AdZn4zbfySSHX51YYwjP-9y5LqcMMBPqS7En0xjNAmkgnILehXOpQY-I8mguz5RAK1w8JSHUZIgaeYst_JC3SjVRxVcwEDjRU-iih8OHxY4/s400/BLRI2010.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><strong>Mount Jefferson Nature</strong> (second prize, 4-6)</p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">Listen quietly and you will hear</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">A musical sound that by no doubt</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#cc33cc;">brings Joy to us.</span></p><br /><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">The rippling brook gurgles quietly,</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">the water seems to say, "Peace, peace, peace.<br /></span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">A doe takes a drink form the gurgling brook</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">and swivels her head to take a look<br /><br />at her fawn, who is sheepishly trying to hide</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">while peeking out from his mother's side.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">A gray squirrel is alarmed to hear</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">the call of the wise old owl.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">He must gather acorns</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">for he knows that winter is near!</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">The old owl watches the gray squirrel,</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">amused by his alarm.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">As he glides swiftly down to hunt,</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">mice scurry all about.</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">So you see, Mount Jefferson Nature</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">has its own song,</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">to show us the way</span></p><br /><p align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">that the mountain animals</span></p><br /><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="center"><span style="color:#993399;">end their winter days.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">by Brianna McCoy</span></span></p><br /><br /><br /><p>---A lovely poem, isn't it? And I admire the way she uses rhyme.<br /><br /></p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WlDvCJpP3urSN6_n4-8zVt4tb481bQgkN4j3P008DWPOI1JBoqVfoNbteAxh_AmzTDpeP6NB3TiExvXU24x_hnr-qvaroufCobapXqfxoV3h6eILgHcLBejXaqGzUPz4gxnF5as3f6xA/s1600-h/P1280111.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434421470018823090" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj2WlDvCJpP3urSN6_n4-8zVt4tb481bQgkN4j3P008DWPOI1JBoqVfoNbteAxh_AmzTDpeP6NB3TiExvXU24x_hnr-qvaroufCobapXqfxoV3h6eILgHcLBejXaqGzUPz4gxnF5as3f6xA/s400/P1280111.JPG" border="0" /></a>(Westwood Elementary first through third prizes and Honorable Mentions )<br /><br /><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#ff0000;">Mountain View Elementary</span> students impressed me mightily, and I'd like to congratulate the teachers who have turned these very young students on so early to the joy of poetry.<br /><br />Mikayla Mullis's poem charmed me, especially her images of tree limbs shining like diamonds and clouds so thick they feel "like a blanket covering you." I loved the haiku -like poems by Yair Valcasar, Jordan Potter, and their classmates. I just couldn't decide, so I gave a tie to Yair and Dustin Sheets for third prize. What a great way to begin showing students how poetry helps you focus on what you see!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ytd5r-ohOVlWAlWiPaDEWZPQpM5Vbw9W-lFBGkQyPuTejV5U7B4fIMoQcidxjZ9HnX8SLWB5XYFtau_dAn7JhY2MfJ9C2nwXWuBJe4lP_HMQTecTdc6XSmREDQKoR-92XrEbS-OlI6x9/s1600-h/P1280090.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434421465539004594" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9Ytd5r-ohOVlWAlWiPaDEWZPQpM5Vbw9W-lFBGkQyPuTejV5U7B4fIMoQcidxjZ9HnX8SLWB5XYFtau_dAn7JhY2MfJ9C2nwXWuBJe4lP_HMQTecTdc6XSmREDQKoR-92XrEbS-OlI6x9/s400/P1280090.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px; FONT: 11px 'Times New Roman'; TEXT-ALIGN: center"><b><span style="font-size:100%;">Mountain View Elementary</span></b><br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Far Left </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">2</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">nd</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Place</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Mi Kayla Mullis (Back Pack)</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 36px; FONT: 11px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Back row far Left </span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">3</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">rd</span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> Place (tie)Dustin Sheets</span></b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and </span><strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Yair Valcazar</span></strong><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(Sleeping Bag)</span></p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span><p style="MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 36px; FONT: 11px 'Times New Roman'"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Honorable Mention EmilyFarmer, Victoria Osborne, Jordan Potter, Brandon Taylor, Quin Farmer</span></p><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:11;"><br /></span></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3YyPWmVyupxyLyDHXd8-2fI3yrCMgpsC9DuVCe_zqdlRMOOZ_D08PnFa1SjE6UuLzLrtSc8XIspSnvbz0JSU92qh01lF8Y9qVPt7uz-XDgrHvUg44Vl1dMg-xesKabBcXfjTjFS6Io8M/s1600-h/pict0020%5B2%5D.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434421455537872306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI3YyPWmVyupxyLyDHXd8-2fI3yrCMgpsC9DuVCe_zqdlRMOOZ_D08PnFa1SjE6UuLzLrtSc8XIspSnvbz0JSU92qh01lF8Y9qVPt7uz-XDgrHvUg44Vl1dMg-xesKabBcXfjTjFS6Io8M/s400/pict0020%5B2%5D.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><p style="MIN-HEIGHT: 12px; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 36px; FONT: 11px Times New Roman"><strong><span style="font-size:100%;">(Blue Ridge Elementary Honorable Mentions in Poetry)</span></strong></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh810a2bdUtumPcWpt7gVWcftvl-rsVRuTuIW7Db05BI6bOLg_7FHQu5ArP1fd2TBqzF7ER8A074RTvcm_YJh1tSVM-2x0a9_z7Ih86WNAyqvn57_aPVU9StkQlcCw2DfTRkOElnR0-qbC0/s1600-h/P1190033.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434421450837437298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh810a2bdUtumPcWpt7gVWcftvl-rsVRuTuIW7Db05BI6bOLg_7FHQu5ArP1fd2TBqzF7ER8A074RTvcm_YJh1tSVM-2x0a9_z7Ih86WNAyqvn57_aPVU9StkQlcCw2DfTRkOElnR0-qbC0/s400/P1190033.JPG" border="0" /></a>Blue Ridge Elementary School outdid itself in this poetry challenge. Brianna McCoy and Karoline Keith wrote two poems I just couldn't resist. I chose Karoline's poem for first in the K-3 division. You will see why when you read it.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_DCzR-dRVI8vzXrIp18uT1bSTdbPSQaQwfqH2Gv4Yg8Ij1rx6WUE7WJHsVjBh4sEDDZFMCt3c_u2pl1EOHyzbYeuZQjVDjwrpNGSADQDLW_b_LP-4OyxQDc1ykvrJY03WWB9v9vcIgl3/s1600-h/buttfly3.jpg"></a></p><p><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="TEXT-DECORATION: none" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_DCzR-dRVI8vzXrIp18uT1bSTdbPSQaQwfqH2Gv4Yg8Ij1rx6WUE7WJHsVjBh4sEDDZFMCt3c_u2pl1EOHyzbYeuZQjVDjwrpNGSADQDLW_b_LP-4OyxQDc1ykvrJY03WWB9v9vcIgl3/s1600-h/buttfly3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434583449903150178" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 366px; CURSOR: pointer; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjw_DCzR-dRVI8vzXrIp18uT1bSTdbPSQaQwfqH2Gv4Yg8Ij1rx6WUE7WJHsVjBh4sEDDZFMCt3c_u2pl1EOHyzbYeuZQjVDjwrpNGSADQDLW_b_LP-4OyxQDc1ykvrJY03WWB9v9vcIgl3/s400/buttfly3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(255,204,0);">MT. JEFFERSON STATE NATURE PARK</span></div><p><span style="color:#993399;"></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p align="left"><span style="color:#993399;"></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(255,204,0);">I think it is cool that I can see</span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;">Mt. Jefferson from my front yard.</span></div><p><span style="color:#993399;"></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">Mt Jefferson is big and tall,</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">It has lots of nature trails to walk and run</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">It is a great park for people and</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">animals to have tons of fun.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">It's a safe place for our wildlife</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">friends to be</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">They are protected by park Rangers for you and me.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">From the top of the mountain</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">you look out and see the horizon.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">There are huge rocks to climb on</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">to enjoy all the beautiful views.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">I'm so thankful to spend the day</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">with my family on Mt. Jefferson</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">to hide and play.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center" align="left"><span style="color:#993399;">I'm very happy Mt. Jefferson is in Ashe County!</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#993399;"><br /></span></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="COLOR: rgb(255,204,0)">by Karoline Keith, age 8, Second Grade</span></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><b><span style="color:#993399;"></span></b></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p><strong>Here is Mikayla's second place poem in the k-3 category. </strong></p><br /><br /><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Sun gleaming down on the trees filled with snow and ice.<br /></span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Tree limbs shining like a diamond from the sun.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Animals running around without a care in the world</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">They are as free as birds soaring like eagles.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">Mountains so high they touch</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">the sky. Sky so blue and clouds</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><span style="color:#3333ff;">so thick they feel like a blanket covering you.</span></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p style="TEXT-ALIGN: center">by Mikayla Mullis, grade 3, Mountain View Elementary<br /></p><div style="TEXT-ALIGN: center"><br /></div><p><b>Third prize is a tie. I was taken with Yair's poem, which has the immediacy of Japanese haiku.</b><br /></p><br /><p><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#009900;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Mount Jefferson</span></span> by YairValcazar</b></p><p><span style="color:#009900;"><b>Big trees </b><br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#009900;"><b>Lots of animals </b><br /></span></p><br /><p><span style="color:#009900;"><b>Gray rocks </b><br /></span></p><br /><p><b><span style="color:#009900;">Tall mountain</span></b></p><br /><br /><p><b>Dustin Sheets was straightforward in his praise of Mt. Jefferson:</b><br /></p><br /><p><b>Mt. Jefferson is a good place to live</b></p><br /><p><b><span style="color:#3366ff;">If you live there</span></b></p><br /><p><b><span style="color:#3366ff;">it is cool.</span></b></p><br /><p><b><span style="color:#3366ff;">It has a lot of stuff.</span></b></p><br /><br /><p><b>(grade 3, Mountain View Elementary)</b></p><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold">Here is another poem that I really liked from the k-2 division.</span><br /><b><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#cc0000;">Mount Jefferson</span></i> by Jordan Potter<br /></b><br /><b><span style="color:#663300;">I</span><span style="color:#cc0000;"> can see...<br />deer<br />bunnies<br />squirrels<br />I can hear...<br />birds<br />bears<br />leaves crunching<br /><br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYRf-4B2DmmtgY_eyZgKMsVo8DWhnNCEHSDSWuoS-NvuraP5JiGHrla62bvv8E4X9tsAoubtPznva1ZUEqkETYytD6s_km9R1bQqg6dWL7DR-2PMkAPkl0xG48Bt7w7c6GVE1SgK13cyV/s1600-h/IMG_0742.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434583442559023330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgMYRf-4B2DmmtgY_eyZgKMsVo8DWhnNCEHSDSWuoS-NvuraP5JiGHrla62bvv8E4X9tsAoubtPznva1ZUEqkETYytD6s_km9R1bQqg6dWL7DR-2PMkAPkl0xG48Bt7w7c6GVE1SgK13cyV/s400/IMG_0742.JPG" border="0" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color:#990000;">If we had more poets celebrating our best loved places, our homes, our mountains, our rivers, our seashores, perhaps we would all take better care of those places, making sure that they are there for future young poets to enjoy! A friend, Sheila Kay Adams, ballad-singer and storyteller from Madison County, recently told me, "We are losing our homes." She suggested the state ask each county to choose two writers to compose either poetry or prose about their places and have them gathered into an anthology for North Carolinians to read and enjoy. These young poets have begun that project already. I salute them and urge other institutions around the state to do begin their own poetry projects. In this, my last blog post as NC Poet Laureate, I ask anyone who reads these student poems to write a poem or brief essay about a loved place that you hope will be saved and protected. You can email me through my other blog, "Here, Where I am." I will post what you send me.</span><br /><p><br /></p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3w3BpEplNmHCy064byg7alvjWSCFwntp27-gYCXTn-xNaEsvTPV_OL5DL5KrLWUyTpro6HM1Rv7ASsQ3W9-tkGuVWtKfnd1tbJqiOWvfp0BGyrQTflIATWgfO-vhRd5adLwv9E-loC4e/s1600-h/jeff5.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5434465897978930242" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 1px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 1px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjT3w3BpEplNmHCy064byg7alvjWSCFwntp27-gYCXTn-xNaEsvTPV_OL5DL5KrLWUyTpro6HM1Rv7ASsQ3W9-tkGuVWtKfnd1tbJqiOWvfp0BGyrQTflIATWgfO-vhRd5adLwv9E-loC4e/s400/jeff5.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /></b><strong></strong></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-2931728324275452772010-02-02T14:29:00.000-08:002010-02-02T14:40:49.367-08:00UPDATE ON FUTURE OF "MY LAUREATE'S LASSO"<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh444B0qW78jZK_74dfIgcvSwIkkFzWuCnpbjo2e2coSm3IGoYxYG4bZJ58MdkhiXCksujy0RrcuEKrCc4P1Vf0UiSRKoGojrY29TL1zV6cetcwrMhqIujGROtR-92zdtVazjHynzbbj-Gm/s1600-h/teapot.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh444B0qW78jZK_74dfIgcvSwIkkFzWuCnpbjo2e2coSm3IGoYxYG4bZJ58MdkhiXCksujy0RrcuEKrCc4P1Vf0UiSRKoGojrY29TL1zV6cetcwrMhqIujGROtR-92zdtVazjHynzbbj-Gm/s400/teapot.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433779311781720706" /></a><br /> Contrary to an earlier post, our new poet laureate Cathy Smith Bowers will not be posting to this blog. She will have her own site through the NC Arts Council's projected "umbrella site", which will also link to my Lasso archive. I will move a few of my Lasso features over to my "Here, Where I Am" blog, such as features on specific poets and new books I like. These posts will focus mostly on NC writers, but I am now able to give more attention to work outside our state. I invite you to visit "Here, Where I Am" and post comments. I'm also hoping to set up some "assignments" for interested writers, readers, and teachers.<div> </div><div><br /></div><div>I'll keep you updated on the status of the Arts Council's laureate site. </div><div><br /></div><div>In the meantime, I'll be making the transition from Lasso to kitchen window! See you there!</div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-90113845772163717252010-02-01T10:51:00.000-08:002010-02-01T17:23:50.356-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: JOHN YORK<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvvWaw5Tksd99UzV4NSPCCFeZPNocFh21iQ0-BHwBidmPCXabNuQNJv0HeYvmKHZ4XajPVMyAdy_V-I7vuTZ7rXwssVJTJwQYaMUJGkkXD1b05m6DQ7fR9yos_ExTeJPGl-BTVbJgjs2N/s1600-h/john+york"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5433354543804583922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQvvWaw5Tksd99UzV4NSPCCFeZPNocFh21iQ0-BHwBidmPCXabNuQNJv0HeYvmKHZ4XajPVMyAdy_V-I7vuTZ7rXwssVJTJwQYaMUJGkkXD1b05m6DQ7fR9yos_ExTeJPGl-BTVbJgjs2N/s400/john+york" border="0" /></a> (John York, NC Teacher of the Year, at the NC English Teachers Banquet in Winston-Salem)<br /><br /><div>John York has been a friend of mine for many years. He teaches English and creative writing at Penn-Griffin School for the Arts, has been a devoted member of the NC English Teachers Association, winning their Teacher of the Year award, and best of all, is a splendid poet, one of the best in our state. His chapbook titled <strong>Naming the Constellations</strong> will be published this summer in Spring Street Editions' chapbook series. He's a graduate of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">UNCG</span> MFA program; his work has appeared in numerous journals and magazines, as well as in several chapbooks. His prizes for writing include a Literary Award for Poetry from Greensboro Review and the Poet Laureate Award, in 2008, from the North Carolina Poetry Society.<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, serif; font-size: 12px; "> </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Helvetica, serif; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> His poems have recently appeared in <i>Appalachian Journal, International Poetry Review,</i> and <i>Pembroke</i><i> Magazine</i>. The titles of his chapbooks are <b>Picking Out</b> (Nebo Poetry Press) and <b>Johnny's</b><b> Cosmology</b> (Hummingbird Press).</span></span></div> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">"Naming the Constellations" appeared in Pine <b>Needles </b>and those who are interested may find it at NCPS website:</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><a href="http:// My poems have recently appeared in Appalachian Journal, International Poetry Review, and Pembroke Magazine. The titles of my chapbooks are Picking Out (Nebo Poetry Press) and Johnny's Cosmology (Hummingbird Press). "Naming the Constellations" appeared in Pine Needles, of course, and those who are interested may find it at NCPS website: http://www.sleepycreek.org/poetry/laureatepoemlist.htm">http://www.sleepycreek.org/poetry/laureatepoemlist.htm</a></span></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><div>Here are two poems from his forthcoming publication.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><strong>Egret</strong><br /><br />1<br /><br />Against the black pines,<br />a great egret, so large, so white, wading,<br />then freezing above its reflection.<br /><br />2<br /><br />Every Independence Day<br />it returned to our pond where it pretended<br />to be two reeds and a patch of sunlight,<br />until the splash, the snaky lunge,<br />the image shattered, rippled, coming back,<br />the beak pointing skyward,<br />the momentary swelling of the neck.<br />How I wanted to sneak in<br />for a closer look but had no cover,<br />so the alarmed bird would spring up,<br />laboring, beating the air,<br />circling, then heading over the horizon<br />to another pond, a quieter place.<br /><br />3<br /><br />And I imagined the minnows, frogs, salamanders<br />all relieved, all gathering in the dark<br />to tell horror stories<br />of Snapping Turtle, Mr. Cottonmouth, Big Daddy Bass—<br />but saving a shuddering whisper for the Lightning Striker,<br />Death’s Angel,<br />and proclaiming the name sacred, a secret.<br /><br />4<br /><br />But here, smelling the shore mud<br />and listening to the water, the wind as quiet as bird’s breath,<br />I pretend to be the plumed wonder,<br />and, solitary, I wade in deeper, one step,<br />then, another—wishing I were never distracted,<br />never deceived by the radiant image<br />(a long beak, hidden wings)—<br />I concentrate, waiting for what’s moving below the surface,<br />a flicking shadow, breathing, moving toward my feet.</div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><strong>Substitute<br /></strong><br />It was a long day for my father, milking<br />to be done by sunrise,<br />then the noise, the shouting of drivers,<br />dump trucks kicking up dust,<br />rushing back and forth between the field<br />and the wide trench silo—<br />carved by a bulldozer, the one<br />that scraped away the apple trees—<br />trucks loaded by the green harvesting machine<br />eating its way down the rows of corn<br />leaving nothing but stumps,<br />the trucks roaring back to the trench, silage mounded,<br />the men putting it to bed<br />under a black plastic tarp, my father using old tires<br />to hold down the edges—<br />all the men sweating and covered in dirt,<br />tassel, bits of corn leaf.<br /><br />After the fields were sheared clean,<br />after I brought in the herd, my father went<br />to do the evening milking.<br />How were four children to know that the tarp<br />was sacred, that the claws<br />of the dog, chasing us again<br />and again over the black mountain,<br />would make enough holes to ruin everything?<br /><br />Daddy came in at dusk,<br />raged his dead cigar back to life:<br />with the voice of an angry god,<br />Dad commanded Smoky to come to the chain,<br />Smoky the blond shepherd-collie mutt,<br />Smoky the laughing dog,<br />and with tail between legs Smoky obeyed,<br />Dad attached the chain to the collar<br />and threw the dog into the car, sped over the hay field<br />down to the trench, jerked<br />Smoky around and yelled as he beat<br />the yelping, writhing animal with his fist, with the chain—<br />and I was the dog writhing and yelping,<br />it was all my fault.<br /><br />I sat with my dog long<br />into the night, there under the clothesline,<br />until my mother coaxed me into the house.<br /><br />And Smoky followed the sharecroppers one day,<br />up to the main road, where he was killed chasing cars.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-37462726189850906682010-01-29T12:28:00.000-08:002010-01-29T12:41:32.345-08:00CATHY SMITH BOWERS IS NEW NC POET LAUREATE!<span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCr8Q9R6KdjM6KCY-KxMH8PR6stjoaqO54Yk5VOt80GqNo0sO8R0ynF86vAJ5r5izkv29lpxNoXDVuDiqlFPsFmwJnoP9NojbOr0lj2kyI7nR015sYhyphenhyphenJ7lVNMhHHtrMl8aTE27KRkYi02/s1600-h/csb_09150008.JPG"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392150265539473058" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCr8Q9R6KdjM6KCY-KxMH8PR6stjoaqO54Yk5VOt80GqNo0sO8R0ynF86vAJ5r5izkv29lpxNoXDVuDiqlFPsFmwJnoP9NojbOr0lj2kyI7nR015sYhyphenhyphenJ7lVNMhHHtrMl8aTE27KRkYi02/s400/csb_09150008.JPG" border="0" /></a> <em><span style="font-size:78%;">Photo credit: Jeff Davis. This photo of Cathy was snapped at the studios of </span></em><a style="FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://www.wpvm.org/"><span style="font-size:78%;">WPVM</span></a><em><span style="font-size:78%;"> when she appeared earlier this year on WordPlay, the station's program by, about, etc., "writers, their craft and ideas."</span></em></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><em><span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">At last I can break the news! My friend Cathy Smith Bowers, a poet whose work I've long admired, has been chosen to serve as North Carolina's new Poet Laureate. Cathy will be "crowned" on Feb. 10 in Raleigh. More about that later. Right now I want to congratulate her and thank the search committee for its fine work. I pledge whatever help I can give to Cathy. She will be taking over this blog shortly, though I'll also be contributing now and then, as Cathy and I deem fitting. I'll keep my "Here, Where I Am" blog going, so visit me there. </span></em></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large; white-space: pre-wrap;"><i><br /></i></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><em><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">In the meantime, go to the sidebar of this blog and click on Cathy's post in the Poet of the Week column.</span><div> <br /><div> </div></div></em></span></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-63533187800424497502010-01-26T12:16:00.000-08:002010-01-26T12:34:44.231-08:00GIVING MYSELF OVER TO GREEN<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigC9VeMGd0WgijlCiNDh3pVWm7YJnA8mlT2ZyZa2cmu7ZWLSIN6cjxqFH85WAFVYGTu7JGI6DaHYm4-9lNhhogZMf9IhdORH6WUsEBZxk61Gjys_zAC93f07HBlc7Rv-ifjo1CB1TqtTWH/s1600-h/aerogrow.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEigC9VeMGd0WgijlCiNDh3pVWm7YJnA8mlT2ZyZa2cmu7ZWLSIN6cjxqFH85WAFVYGTu7JGI6DaHYm4-9lNhhogZMf9IhdORH6WUsEBZxk61Gjys_zAC93f07HBlc7Rv-ifjo1CB1TqtTWH/s400/aerogrow.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431146795662081682" /></a><br /><br /><br />Two weeks ago, redroom.com asked its members to blog on the topic of "my favorite poem." How could I choose? One poem from all the ones I love? Then I took a look at our Aero garden and knew. <i>Verde, que te quiero verde!</i><div>---------------------<br /><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> Poets are fickle creatures. We fall in love over and over again.We can never remain faithful to only one poet. I began to understand this the day I forsook Wordsworth in my college Spanish class. My poetic guide. My first love. How could I?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> What was I doing in a Spanish class anyway? Hadn’t my father instructed me to take either French or German, the latter being his grandmother’s native tongue? </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> He would have found it silly, the way my infatuation began, with a 75 rpm record bought during my senior year in high school. <b>The</b> <b>Music of Spain</b>. I listened at night after lights out to “Granada” and “Malaguena.” The hair on the nape of my neck trembled. The dark outside my windows beckoned. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> And so, on the first day of classes in a small woman’s college in Georgia, I sat down to learn Spanish from a short rotund woman who demanded we call her La Senora, although she had never married. I read the classics of Spanish literature, moving inexorably toward the 20th century where in the anthology’s last section, I found <i>Romance Sonambula </i>and, and in the burst of a <i>verde viento</i>, the English Romantic poets became as dust to me. I fell in love with Federico Garcia Lorca. In Spanish. No matter how many translations of his work I’ve read over the years, the original Spanish has never lost its seductiveness, whether I read it silently or, better, aloud.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica; min-height: 22.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Verde que te quiero verde. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Verde viento. Verdes ramas. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">El barco sobre la mar </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">y el caballo en la montaña. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Con la sombra en la cintura </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">ella sueña en su baranda, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">verde carne, pelo verde, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">con ojos de fría plata. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Verde que te quiero verde. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> Not that I agreed with La Senora that everything sounded better in Spanish. Shakespeare? Wordsworth? Keats? No, I already knew that the language of poets is beautiful, no matter what it is. Hungarian, Romanian, Polish, French, English....Cherokee.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> Garcia Lorca’s poetry spun me around, gave me a new way of experiencing language, my own language, which was now infused with the <i>cante jondo </i>of Andalusia.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> Even now, years later, I recite those lines as a kind of mantra, <i>Verde, que te quiero verde... </i>and I still love the feel of them in my mouth. I love the deep song of them in my viscera. I have dreamed of trying to save Lorca in the olive grove, with only my child’s fingers pointed like guns at his assassins. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><i><br /></i></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> <i>Verde, que te quiero verde. </i> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> Not even these lines can stop bullets. Hurricanes. Earthquakes. I know that.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> But they live on in our daily lives, these words we love. They wait patiently for us. I had to reach middle age before Garcia Lorca’s <i>duende </i> found its way into my own poems.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica; min-height: 22.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"><b>Gone</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Long before I could read Lorca</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">I wanted to give myself over to green</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">as he had and be lost like a sleepwalker</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">in it. I wanted to hide in the honeysuckle</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">and never come home if it meant I must stay</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">by the telephone, waiting for someone</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">to call with the doctor’s pronouncement, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">my mother then turning to us saying</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">over and over again in my memory, <i>Gone</i>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">Such a word I would never repeat </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">to the oaks that held sway round my favorite pasture,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">or blackberry bushes I dreamed would stay</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">unscythed by road crews sent forth to claim</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">right of way. <i> Verde, que te quiero verde</i>,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">I’d gladly have cried if I could,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">but where are such beautiful words</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">when we need them? And what if that’s all</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">this poem means now I’m middle-aged: words </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">as a way to want green back again </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">and myself in the throes of it, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">even though I’ve learned enough about Lorca</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">at last to be quite sure that no <i>verde</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">anywhere spending its June on this earth</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">could have outstayed for one blessed</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">second what waits at the end</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">of the line, always some bloodless voice</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">trying hard to sound human across so much</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia">distance, its words still escaping me. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Georgia; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">(from <b>The Store of Joys, NC Museum of Art</b>)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica; min-height: 22.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 18.0px Helvetica"> W.H. Auden said that art is a way of breaking bread with the dead. Each time a poet begins to write, or to read a poem, she takes the bread of those gone before and places it in her mouth. She does this over and over again. With one poet. Another, and yet another, living or dead. She loves the taste of the bread they share. So many poets. So many poems. By the end of her life she will contain, like Whitman, multitudes, and will never again try to answer the question, “What is your favorite poem?” </p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, serif;font-size:180%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:18px;"><br /></span></span></div></div></div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipu0A5mWeTwqdFR7n427XTDvSd3jcEOXyATRW7HCOrKUbg-DoCOqV8YU_bUeGq4_sh7CCEcl12vNDes6MyYmMgL5kOfebB7HIkwok2oKigsmC2PTr1YaQtkJMfwUNOy2LxNCVLwOHQ0JJJ/s1600-h/green2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipu0A5mWeTwqdFR7n427XTDvSd3jcEOXyATRW7HCOrKUbg-DoCOqV8YU_bUeGq4_sh7CCEcl12vNDes6MyYmMgL5kOfebB7HIkwok2oKigsmC2PTr1YaQtkJMfwUNOy2LxNCVLwOHQ0JJJ/s400/green2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5431146787403774114" /></a>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-56293538305060878922010-01-18T07:51:00.000-08:002010-01-18T13:56:52.563-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: ALEX GRANT<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkORPj9nheeq6GiVV4NPF3nULH_-_JFyCnddpROgm4IBOI2r5aKr3J1LOfohRpvCA_SoUIibwC8dByZGzzOeO5_o6nUs_2r9PHlLWrXQyRrwnYWg8VCwZFr_n3m57JNqfWbhP72L-O7cmm/s1600-h/alexgrant.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkORPj9nheeq6GiVV4NPF3nULH_-_JFyCnddpROgm4IBOI2r5aKr3J1LOfohRpvCA_SoUIibwC8dByZGzzOeO5_o6nUs_2r9PHlLWrXQyRrwnYWg8VCwZFr_n3m57JNqfWbhP72L-O7cmm/s400/alexgrant.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428109730474532690" /></a><br /><br />Alex Grant is a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Promethean</span> poet, which I know sounds maybe a bit pretentious. But he seems to be everywhere--publishing poems in just about every journal and e-zine, writing poems non-stop, posting on <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">facebook</span>, making numerous friends. How does he find such energy, this transplanted Scotsman? Is he a shape-shifter? He calls himself Alex Cougar Grant, but I think he must be Coyote! His sense of humor runs non-stop. He's a craftsman of great facility and sometimes, I think, trickery. He loves a joke. He loves the English language and how to play with it and let it play him.<div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleuTMZB2AacOAyCvGkmxow57uVEQ0De_R2dUIfJhmHhuXjjQLkNkJHdMWEohMEY4IJgFog5kFdq1RQQLQiYH5Fs5_NQkJH4mrLS-pPuLT_wTZjfXcPj2bCALjx9ZS2sUdYhTHrPjD9oik/s1600-h/alex3.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 262px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgleuTMZB2AacOAyCvGkmxow57uVEQ0De_R2dUIfJhmHhuXjjQLkNkJHdMWEohMEY4IJgFog5kFdq1RQQLQiYH5Fs5_NQkJH4mrLS-pPuLT_wTZjfXcPj2bCALjx9ZS2sUdYhTHrPjD9oik/s400/alex3.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428109733836570498" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><div> His new book <b>Fear of Moving Water</b> was released last fall from Wind Publications -<a href="http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com/2010/01/poet-of-week-alex-grant.html">http://windpub.com/books/movingwater.htm</a>- and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize. Google him, find out more about him, read his poems. You'll be pulled in and realize again the pleasures of language</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;font-size:small;"><i>Fear of Moving Water</i> is available from your local bookstore, from on-line vendors such as <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1936138026?ie=UTF8&tag=windpublica0b-20&linkCode=as2&camp=1789&creative=390957&creativeASIN=1936138026">Amazon</a> or Barnes & Noble, or from the publisher.<br /><br /><i>Fear of Moving Water</i>, $15.00,<br />59 pages, ISBN 978-1-936138-02-9<br /><br /><br />Wind Publications<br />600 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Overbrook</span> Drive<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Nicholasville</span>, KY 40356<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVONjFYDWpmeADw3yV2YDj13CPyncFI4kL3h2_gEqW4qkJJfuizTAFTtnNUSlEbbedpXRAOk2IIckufWfrGG5rWmiUh5q9zcuUyGWO_0a54JfAJssq-S_3kl-OQ28bW9N9fNbphTTeCLrF/s1600-h/fearofmovingwater.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 268px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVONjFYDWpmeADw3yV2YDj13CPyncFI4kL3h2_gEqW4qkJJfuizTAFTtnNUSlEbbedpXRAOk2IIckufWfrGG5rWmiUh5q9zcuUyGWO_0a54JfAJssq-S_3kl-OQ28bW9N9fNbphTTeCLrF/s400/fearofmovingwater.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428109725222992098" /></a><br /><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Times;font-size:medium;"><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial;font-size:small;">Alex's chapbook <i>Chains & Mirrors</i> (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">NCWN</span> / <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Harperprints</span>) won the 2006 Randall <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Jarrell</span> Poetry Prize and the 2007 Oscar Arnold Young Award (Best North Carolina poetry collection). His second chapbook, <i>The White Book</i>, was released in 2008 by Main St. Rag Publishing. His poems have appeared in a number of national journals, including <i>The Missouri Review</i>, <i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Smartish</span> Pace</i>, <i>Best New Poets 2007</i>, <i>Arts & Letters</i>, <i>The Connecticut Review</i>, <i>Nimrod </i>and <i>Seattle Review</i>. A recipient of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">WMSU</span>’s Pavel <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Srut</span> Poetry Fellowship and the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Kakalak</span> Anthology of Carolina Poets Prize, he lives in Chapel Hill, NC, with his wife, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Tristi</span>, his dangling participles, and his Celtic fondness for excess. He can be found on the web at <a href="http://www.redroom.com/author/alex-grant">www.redroom.com/author/alex-grant</a>. </span></span></span></p><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Here are some testimonials to his work:</span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;">"Alex Grant is a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">fabulist</span> who spins language acrobatically into tales, tales into music, music into myth. Reading him (preferably aloud) is pure pleasure for the imagination, the mouth and the mind."<br />--- Susan <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Ludvigson</span><br /><br />"If you value linguistic fluency, the flow of the English language along the warp of syntax, the weaving of image and rhythm into a tapestry of sound, you will find yourself immersed in <i>Fear of Moving Water</i>. Alex Grant brings his keen sense of language to every poem and he writes unashamedly out of the sheer pleasure of that language. Where does a poem's sense of place begin? In the naming of things. Grant names the world in all its multitudinous glories and terrors. Reading his poems kindles our desire to live again in that world."<br />--- Kathryn Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Byer</span>, NC Poet Laureate & author of <i>Coming to Rest</i><br /><br />"I've always believed that poetry depends on two truths: the probity of mystery versus obscurity, and the musical resonance of words within the poetic line or phrase. Alex Grant probes a menagerie of mystery in these poems, and among the younger poets I've encountered, he is more finely attuned to the music of poetry than most. He is a poet to be reckoned with, and he is worth every nuance of the serious reader's reckoning. This is a book that compels our reading, and our re-reading."<br />--- Martin <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Lammon</span>, <i>Arts & Letters</i> editor<br /><br />"These historically savvy, philosophically ambitious poems demonstrate as much linguistic and syntactical dexterity as they do an expansive literary mind at work. Alex Grant casts his visionary net far and wide, capturing the dark and shimmering..."<br />--- <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Dorianne</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Laux</span></span></p><hr /><p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></span></p><p><span style="font-family:Arial;font-size:85%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande', serif;font-size:11px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pqy8wBIo9KCN3FeeIemC6zX0Or6eppPwwI6x2KVFugJUo2uvWrVDuFRfnlVQtnc0DV-wUECnIVk1L34apLRKyapC41ENSyLEnXfDRBOosZTjOSQVl_nagSRkus9Oqy2XvIHN3g5hmF81/s1600-h/alex2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 130px; height: 97px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9pqy8wBIo9KCN3FeeIemC6zX0Or6eppPwwI6x2KVFugJUo2uvWrVDuFRfnlVQtnc0DV-wUECnIVk1L34apLRKyapC41ENSyLEnXfDRBOosZTjOSQVl_nagSRkus9Oqy2XvIHN3g5hmF81/s400/alex2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5428109733326131698" /></a></span>From the book:</span></p><div align="center"><center></center></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">N</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">ERUDA</span></span></b><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">’</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">S SUICIDE NOTE</span></b><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"> - In memory of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Spalding</span> Gray </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">They say nothing ever changes </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">but your point of view. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Nothing – “some thing </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">that has no existence” – </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">this makes no sense. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I sit in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">catacumbas</span> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and listen to the rain </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">pound the papaya leaves - </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">my skin like confetti, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">my heart a cheap lottery. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">I have seen the tiger’s stripes – </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">they live between </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">the fine linen sheets </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">of an office-girl’s bed, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in the afternoon <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">fumblings</span> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">of someone who is no-one, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">with a heart bursting </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">like a red balloon </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">on a tap – the pieces fly </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in all directions, you cover </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">your face with your hand, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and it sticks to your skin </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">like confetti, like phosphorus </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">launched from a Greek warship, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">like the skin of a plum </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">peeled by a broken nail. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Times; min-height: 13.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 10.0px Times"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">SECRET SONNET FOR THE COCKROACH</span></b> <span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"> </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">They live without their bodies for a week, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">you know – subsisting on the head, the mind </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">alone - they flit like frogs beside a creek </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">whenever pounding footsteps come to grind </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">their crunchy shells into some pristine hard- </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">wood floor. You stamp on one, and six white eggs </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">are jettisoned inside a fibrous shard </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">they say is tougher than a whiskey keg. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Four billion years and evolution’s passed </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">them by – this crevice-living dinosaur, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">resisting every futile fog and gas- </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">filled labyrinth - unlike the Minotaur - </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">bull-headed, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">eggless</span> doorman of the maze - </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">that mythic locus Theseus embraced. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:9px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">THE LONG</span><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">,</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> SLOW DROP </span><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"> </span></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A wedge of salted cantaloupe </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">sinking in blue agave. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A bruised peach </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in a white porcelain bowl. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The heart’s iambic thud, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">like steps on maple floors. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Four strands of hair </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in a lover’s mouth. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A zinc nail sunk in bitumen. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A black-haired boy </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">seen in a rear-view mirror. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A plum tomato skewered </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">on a bamboo stave. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">A Chinese flag buckled </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">in the monsoon’s lull. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The white afternoon </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">turning to November dark. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"><br /></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Helvetica, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:100%;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:12px;"><div> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">- <b>For the Haiku Master <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Issa</span>, and his father</b> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">19 days into the late spring moon, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Issa</span> pours sugar down his father’s </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">throat, rubs his feet and shoulders, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">listens, in the early hours, to breath </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">labor like fading wind. He watches </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">him mouth unheard prayers, hears </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">the rattle in the gullet, the invitation </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">to the moon to walk with him again. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Delirium comes in many forms, but </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">none so blatant as necessity, none </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">so welcome as the inevitable stone </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">sinking back into amniotic blue. </p><div><br /></div><p></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica"></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><b><br /></b></span></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">H</span></b></span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">IS HOLINESS THE ABBOT</span></b><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 9.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">IS SHITTING IN THE WITHERED FIELDS</span></b><span style="font: 12.0px Helvetica"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span></b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">- after <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Buson</span> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The mortal frame, the Haiku Masters hold, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">is made up of one hundred bones </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">and nine orifices. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">The mind this frame contains can be used, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">or not used, to make the poem, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">or become the poem. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Becoming is accomplished without thought, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">making requires the application </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">of intent and will. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">All change comes from objects in motion. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">To capture the thing at rest, you </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">must be moving. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">So, 7 days bereaved, Issa made his father’s </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">death poem: “A bath when you’re born, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">a bath when you die – how stupid.” </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">Grief is a silk neckerchief covering a burn </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">around the throat, holding sound </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">down in the body. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica; min-height: 14.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">And so we make these sounds without </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">thought – the heretic body burns, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Helvetica">intends, and moves. </p><div><br /></div><p></p></div></span></span></div><br /></span></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-69529342123730265442010-01-15T09:05:00.000-08:002010-01-15T09:14:44.761-08:00READING AND SIGNING: CHEROKEE LITERATURE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil02YvmV3V6eTPrTVmTqoPwRHxnnC0eO32h3PVgbrSyaRxI98mD3dOs7ehIvnMMPGrehW_EmGpQ4hXIA_02zAXEhrLp1d8KW-r84GqWJRt7dbVpuTq-B1Arzi3Z3FlBlXAndtu6iMAFPiN/s1600-h/appher.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5427015461315809730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 264px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEil02YvmV3V6eTPrTVmTqoPwRHxnnC0eO32h3PVgbrSyaRxI98mD3dOs7ehIvnMMPGrehW_EmGpQ4hXIA_02zAXEhrLp1d8KW-r84GqWJRt7dbVpuTq-B1Arzi3Z3FlBlXAndtu6iMAFPiN/s400/appher.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div>Reading and Book Signing: Cherokee Literature in <em>Appalachian Heritage</em> . </div><br />(Please go to <a href="http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com/2009/11/appalachian-heritage-special-cherokee.html">http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com/2009/11/appalachian-heritage-special-cherokee.html</a> to see the post on this special issue.<br /><br /><div>The Museum of the Cherokee Indian will host a reading and book signing Sunday afternoon January 17 from 2-4 pm in the Multi-purpose room of the Education and Research Center. Michell Hicks, Principal Chief of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, will introduce Cherokee writers featured in the new issue of Appalac<strong>Appalachian Heritage: A Literary Quarterly of the</strong> <strong>Appalachian South</strong>. This issue features works by twenty-one members of the Eastern Band of Cherokee Indians, with cover artwork and illustrations by Sean Ross, (EBCI.) Featured author of the issue is Robert Conley (Cherokee Nation) who is also Distinguished Sequoyah Professor at Western Carolina University and keeps office hours at the Museum of the Cherokee Indian as well. </div><br /><br /><br /><div>This volume is the largest collection to date of contemporary literary efforts by members of the Eastern Band, and includes poetry, prose, essays, stories from oral tradition, and artwork. The Editor, George Brosi of Berea Kentucky, will attend the event, where Conley will read from his work. Authors will be available to sign copies, which will be sold through the Museum Store at $8 each. </div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-56929452528733214192010-01-06T13:55:00.000-08:002010-01-07T09:26:03.481-08:00MARGARET RAAB: In Memoriam<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdUWsXcl87mA3Ucw7VaCCKCBT596CXNYOaGWkBC192gYRP1uKjMy4YokxHVeCVqvz7bjGunldZuqfbFd6yFkb_u3k3XeZ49wWWI1PEL_yPw8PvlJbh4inE6So1UBufvdgZMumnRldjA2C/s1600-h/raab.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiOdUWsXcl87mA3Ucw7VaCCKCBT596CXNYOaGWkBC192gYRP1uKjMy4YokxHVeCVqvz7bjGunldZuqfbFd6yFkb_u3k3XeZ49wWWI1PEL_yPw8PvlJbh4inE6So1UBufvdgZMumnRldjA2C/s400/raab.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5424047255917169618" /></a><br />Margaret (Peggy) Raab, one of NC's most accomplished and acclaimed poets, has died much too soon of cancer. Her funeral will be Friday in Chapel Hill. For her obituary, please go to <a href="http://www.chapelhillnews.com/news/story/54472.html">http://www.chapelhillnews.com/news/story/54472.html</a>. For a podcast of Peggy reading from her work, go to<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu-Udyk_9PU"> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu-Udyk_9PU</a>.<br /><br />Here are a few of Peggy's poems, as well as some comments by her many friends and admirers. <div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"> </span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Paul Jones: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Peggy was always talented and giving. In her last years, she realized many of her ambitions including becoming a full time faculty member in creative writing as director of the program at wichita state</span><a href="http://www.wichita.edu/thisis/wsunews/news/?nid=397" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">http://www.wichita.edu/thi</span></span></a></span></span></div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.wichita.edu/thisis/wsunews/news/?nid=397" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">sis/wsunews/news/?nid=397</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br />She also published at least three great chapbooks. Here she reads "Low Owl Illusion"</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uu-Udyk_9PU" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">http://www.youtube.com/wat</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><wbr></span><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">ch?v=uu-Udyk_9PU</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> and "Transvestites in Waukegan"</span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ysVvVAz0Mo" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "><span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">http://www.youtube.com/wat</span></span><wbr><span class="word_break" style="display: block; float: left; margin-left: -10px; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; "></span></a></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ysVvVAz0Mo" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; ">ch?v=-ysVvVAz0Mo</a></span></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;color:#333333;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:-webkit-xxx-large;"><br /></span></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" color: rgb(51, 51, 51); font-family:'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;font-size:11px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-size:11px;"><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-ysVvVAz0Mo" target="_blank" rel="nofollow" onmousedown="UntrustedLink.bootstrap($(this), "7ad0a2466ca9cb23b4cff15a9a185076", event)" style="cursor: pointer; color: rgb(59, 89, 152); text-decoration: none; "></a></span>Susan Meyers: Peggy was such an inspiration to so many, such a kind soul and so talented.</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"><br /></span><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:13px;"><p style=" padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; font-family:Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:10pt;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Dogwood Alarm</span></b><br /><br /></p><p style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">by Margaret Rabb</p><p style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">By pairs and threes they crash<br />and spin to the shoulder, drivers<br />stunned, unable to keep their eyes,<br />wheels, the tingle in their fingertips<br />from bark and open drifts of silk,<br />the looseblown momentary bloom.</p><p style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">April. They pass, retreat sideways,<br />floating away from the little accident.</p><p style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">A specimen tree in a suburban yard<br />is one thing, fertilized, gravid, buds<br />popped out all over, azaleas snapping<br />at its knees. But the woods at the edge<br />of plowed fields are another story, a waltz<br />at the dogwood diner, the dance that slays us:</p><p style="font-size: 10pt; font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; padding-top: 0px; padding-right: 0px; padding-bottom: 0px; padding-left: 0px; ">four or five flowers hover over a branch,<br />crossed, notched, whiter than this world allows.</p><div><p color="#007700" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; "><b><br /></b></p><p color="#007700" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; "><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700"><b>Two poems from Margaret Rabb's<i> Shoulderable Shine</i></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #007700"><b><i>followed by a note on the author</i></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700"><span style="text-decoration: underline"><b>Dante's Anteroom</b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">1</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">In the middle of my life I found myself in a dark wood.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">On one side, clouds settled like three or four trouble notes.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Then they moved, right to left, a slow freight</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">shuddering by the crossing grade. Or – I was looking</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">out the grate as a whistle shifted bars across the gate.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">2</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">In the middle of life's way I found myself in dark woods.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">On a landing a broom leaned out of a bucket.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Beyond the ferry wake, a slanted plume. Sunrays</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">slipped, then caught a jib and mainsail. Runnels hissed</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">to the rocks. White sheets cupped and held.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">3</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">In the midst of life I found I was in a dark wood.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Rain scrimmed the air. It was all unclear,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">a sandblasted flood I squinted through. <i>Great</i>,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I'd say, and try the other glasses in my pocket</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">but they only focused drops against the gray.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700"><i>Just what I need now</i>, cut loose and nearly blind,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">an unknown coast closed in with rime.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">4</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Midway on life's journey I found myself in the dark woods.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">At night the island might still be overgrown with fir,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">starless but for piers and porches across water.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Black-green drooping boughs stir a diffuse</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">and moonish glow behind the clouds' light cover.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">5</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">In the middle of the night my daughter's call –</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">old anger she'll never get over, oil and vitriol</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">against too much, too little, pitched and caught again.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Next night my mother's voice, scratched in pain,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">near panic, twisted gut. Back to the ER</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">because – what else is there to do for her?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">6</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">In my middle age, that darkening wood, I found myself</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">across the continental shelf from home. The flight back</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">skimmed high plains. Now I can't recall the place</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">for a waterglass, which drawer holds stamps.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">No light outside since lightning hit the lamps.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">7</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Midway through my life in the dark wood</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">of Sylvania County, I found it was a hemlock forest,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">a rhododendron hell. What could be more manifest</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">than native laurel thickets three stories high</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">holding pale petal spikes to claps of thunder in July?</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">My mother, nearly ninety, will not bathe or brush her hair</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">but sits askew all day in the black reclining chair.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">8</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">After the middle of middle age a vision,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">airy or ordinary, will not engage</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">but only aggravate a reader. Reactive fission</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">fuels the middle of middle age. A vision</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">from a line of Dante? Rescue mission.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Infernal fizzle pushed to the nuclear stage</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">over the edge of the middle. A middle-aged vision-</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">ary? Her ordinary will? Disengage</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">the dazzle. Any pen to any page.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">9</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">For the straight road was lost. How hard a thing</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">to tell what wild, rough, dense or wooded was.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I turned too soon and drove too far, climbing</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">a one-lane gravel path. The gearbox buzzed,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">the drop sheered off. Pines on that steep side.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Mills River understory ginseng and Solomon's seal.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I forced myself to turn back at the final hairpin.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">10</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">For I had missed the right road. What hard work</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">to imagine for you, reader, this wood, savage and tangled,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">and down where we breathe, air like condensed milk.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I lay low, gave in, adored the genes</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">that cool my children's bloodlines.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">So bitter, so bitter is it, death is little more.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">11</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">Past my mother asking for her father,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">past my careless girls who husbanded nothing,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">no harbor but clouds, no train but grief,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I left the right road. But the good I found</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">may be told: a shale never broken,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">a shadow cove, whitewater at the cleft.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">I stepped into the stream, sleepwalker woken</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">midway – myself dark words, dark woods.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700"><b>Walking a Black Lab at Night</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700; min-height: 18.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">She pulled out to the leash's</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">end and disappeared.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">From then on it was weird</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">air-fishing through the reaches</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">the cable gave her – reeling back,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">casting and spinning – sudden slack</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">that dropped my wired wrist,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Arial; color: #007700">her hidden point I missed.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Times; color: #007700; min-height: 19.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #007700"><b> Margaret Rabb has been the artist in residence at the University of Central Oklahoma. She has taught at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, St Andrews College in Laurinburg, and the University of Washington in Seattle, and was awarded the 2006 Arts & Letters Rumi Prize by Coleman Barks. Her first book of poems, <i>Granite Dives</i> (New Issues Press, 2000), received North Carolina's Roanoke-Chowan Award. Her poems have appeared in journals from the <i>Kenyon Review</i> to <i>Light Quarterly</i> and have been awarded the <i>Louisiana Literature</i> Prize for Poetry, the Phyllis Smart Young Prize from the <i>Madison Review</i> at the University of Wisconsin, the <i>Lullwater</i> Prize from Emory, the Hackney Literary Award, and the Wood Award for Distinguished Writing from the <i>Carolina Quarterly</i>. Her new chapbook, <i>Old Home</i>, was chosen by Fred Chappell and published last November by New American Press. Next year Rabb will direct the creative writing program at Wichita State University.</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 13.0px Arial; color: #007700"><b>"Dante's Anteroom" was first published in <i>Chelsea</i>; "Walking a Black Lab at Night" was first published by the<i>Cincinnati Review</i>.</b></p> </div></span></div></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-82302927176087429352010-01-06T07:46:00.000-08:002010-01-06T08:12:02.601-08:00NAZIM HIKMET POETRY FESTIVAL CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kg3a-bUWq9dvQuxJFfEnYa2GAmFvGHiej3S9VrVhhp3SbLRsXEal0XhFFi46x2Q8D-c2Bea_IMtKEoxC8C3WXQc7hjvDDCnh4ztL742ZuU1iiZuL82ED_vkIII2eI-jz1tHJdAQ8rEbF/s1600-h/hikmet.gif"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 286px; height: 307px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2kg3a-bUWq9dvQuxJFfEnYa2GAmFvGHiej3S9VrVhhp3SbLRsXEal0XhFFi46x2Q8D-c2Bea_IMtKEoxC8C3WXQc7hjvDDCnh4ztL742ZuU1iiZuL82ED_vkIII2eI-jz1tHJdAQ8rEbF/s400/hikmet.gif" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5423655369364521682" /></a><br /><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">The second annual Nazim Hikmet Poetry festival competition is now open. The closing date is Feb. 19, so begin to think about the poems you wish to submit. For more information about the Festival, please go to </span><a href="http://: Deadline: Entries received by Friday, February 19, 2010 will be considered for selection. Submission Requirements: (*) All entries MUST be submitted via www.nazimhikmetpoetryfestival.org (*) All poems submitted to the Festival must be unpublished, original works. (*) Each poet can submit up to three poems. (*) The poems should be in English. (*) The selected poems will be published on-line at the Festival web site as well as in the Festival Chapbookl. By submitting their poems, the poets grant NHPF all rights to publish the poems at these venues. (*) After the festival, the chapbook will be available for purchase at amazon.com. The proceeds from the chapbook sales will be used to support future festivals. (*) The poets will retain copyrights of their poems. 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¡ÃÆââ¬Å¡Ãâñ http://www.nazimhikmetpoetryfestival.org"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">www.nazimhikmetpoetryfestival.org</span></a><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 16.0px Georgia"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 23.0px Georgia; color: #993333; min-height: 26.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color:#111111;">The second annual Nâzım Hikmet Poetry Festival will be held on Sunday, April 18, 2010 in Cary, North Carolina. As we bring together poets and poetry lovers, participation of area poets will be an essential part of this Festival. Interested poets are invited to submit their poems by Friday, February 19, 2010. The selected poems will be published on-line at the Festival web site as well as in the Festival Chapbook, and the poets will be invited to read their winning poems and introduce their poetry at the Festival. Each finalist will receive an award of $100. Last year's winning poems can be found at the <span style="color:#336666;"><b>festival web site.</b></span>The 2009 festival chapbook is available at <span style="color:#336666;"><b>Amazon.com.</b></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p color="#111111" style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; "><b>GENERAL RULES:</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111"><b>Deadline</b>: Entries received by Friday, February 19, 2010 will be considered for selection.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Submission Requirements:</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) All entries MUST be submitted via www.nazimhikmetpoetryfestival.org</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) All poems submitted to the Festival must be unpublished, original works.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) Each poet can submit up to three poems.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) The poems should be in English.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) The selected poems will be published on-line at the Festival web site as well as in the Festival Chapbookl. By submitting their poems, the poets grant NHPF all rights to publish the poems at these venues.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) After the festival, the chapbook will be available for purchase at amazon.com. The proceeds from the chapbook sales will be used to support future festivals.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) The poets will retain copyrights of their poems.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Selection & Notification</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) Submitted poems will be evaluated anonymously.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) The contact information provided by the poets will not be disclosed to other individuals or organizations.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">(*) The poets will be notified of their poem’s status by March 22, 2010.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111"><b>POETRY SELECTION COMMITTEE:</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">John Balaban, <i>Professor of English, Poet-in-Residence, NC State University</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Kathryn Stripling Byer, <i>2005-2009 NC Poet Laureate </i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Greg Dawes, Professor, <i>Department of Foreign Languages and Literatures, NC State University</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Joseph Donahue, <i>Senior Lecturing Fellow, Department of English, Duke University</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Jackie Shelton Green,<i> Piedmont Laureate</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">Hatice Örün Öztürk (ATA-NC Representative),<i> Associate Professor, Department of ECE, NC State University</i></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111"><b>ABOUT THE ORGANIZERS:</b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111">This event is organized by the American Turkish Association of North Carolina (<span style="color:#336666;"><b>www.ata-nc.org</b></span> )</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111"><b>Organizing committee:</b> Buket Aydemir, Pelin Balı, Erdag Göknar, Mehmet Öztürk, and Birgül Tuzlalı</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Verdana; color: #111111"><b>Contact:</b> contact@nazimhikmetpoetryfestival.org</p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Verdana, serif;font-size:100%;color:#111111;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:12px;"><br /></span></span></div></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 15px; color: rgb(255, 255, 255); font-family:verdana, arial, helvetica, sans-serif;font-size:12px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:6;color:#990000;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" line-height: 36px; font-size:23px;"><b><br /></b></span></span></span></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-91969562436156090532010-01-03T11:01:00.001-08:002010-01-04T07:06:04.304-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: JESSIE CARTY<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbpG5EYB6m0ezijYxgk4KrCcOKMXxhnH2tJQjok-6KT12z6yu9wUTQO5lT2pVrRKNxkyxpeKcdyzrqek3iAGIXahuNGwd_JbvCGkpULNZVvZGEVzqMYvbRk32yHBs_9DuuNucF-H6p30T/s1600-h/jessie.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUbpG5EYB6m0ezijYxgk4KrCcOKMXxhnH2tJQjok-6KT12z6yu9wUTQO5lT2pVrRKNxkyxpeKcdyzrqek3iAGIXahuNGwd_JbvCGkpULNZVvZGEVzqMYvbRk32yHBs_9DuuNucF-H6p30T/s400/jessie.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422590984163754690" /></a><br /><br /><div>No one deserves to be the first POET OF THE WEEK on my 2010 blog more than Jessie <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Carty</span>. Jessie is a young poet determined to follow the call of her passion for poetry. She will unashamedly share that passion with you, including her ambition to reach readers and other poets through as many avenues as possible She reads widely, she works hard to revise her poems, she submits work, and she remains open to as many guides and guidelines around her as possible. She is a faithful blog visitor, leaving supportive and appreciative comments, for which I am grateful. Jessie is the sort of young poet who will continue to grow, whose work will expand as her spirit expands through reading and, I hope, staring out her windows and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">letting</span> her imagination weave its webs. "You have to be stubborn to make it as a poet" Maxine <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Kumin</span> told me years ago when I was struggling to find a publisher for my first book. I'm pretty Sure than Jessie is stubborn enough to "make it."</div><div> It's a pleasure to introduce her as Poet of the Week.</div><div><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" ;font-family:Georgia, serif;font-size:16px;"></span></p><p style="margin-top: 0px; margin-right: 0px; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: 0px; line-height: 17px; font: normal normal normal 12px/normal Arial; "><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Jessie's poems and non-fiction have appeared in publications such as </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The Main Street Rag, Iodine Poetry Journal</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> and</span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Northville</span> Review. </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Her first chapbook, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">At the A & P <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Meridiem</span>,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> was released by Pudding House Publications in 2009. Her first e-chapbook/2</span></span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">nd</span></span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> print chapbook, </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">The Wait of Atom,</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> was released by Folded Word Press in November 2009. Her first full length collection </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Paper House</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> will be released by Folded Word Press in March 2010. Jessie works as a freelance editor, writer, and writing coach/teacher. </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">She</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"> is also the editor of </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Shape of a Box</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">YouTube's</span> first literary magazine. Jessie received her MFA from Queens University of Charlotte. She is a member of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">AWP</span>, Charlotte Writer’s Club, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">NCWN</span>, NC Poetry Society and will serve on the new board for the Poetry Council of NC. You can find her around the web but most often at her blog <a href="http://jessiecarty.wordpress.com/">http://jessiecarty.wordpress.com.</a></span></span></p><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></span></div><p></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From Jessie's first chapbook “At the A & P <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Meridiem</span>” (Pudding House, 2009)</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">6pm </span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b> </b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Outside the pan, then inside its lip,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">the rhythm of the dish rag</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">invokes a spell of domesticity</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">as the grease clumps</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">down the silver walls of the sink</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">and into the growl of the garbage disposal,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">all hungry like a spirit animal.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I set the oven to preheat at 450</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">while I chop up a fruit salad.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Out the sliding glass door,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I toss rings of oranges</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">puckered like over tanned skin</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">into a brown compost pile.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Improvising, I prepare</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">a pot pie of mixed, frozen</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">vegetables and sliced chicken.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Here is a dash of salt, a turn</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">of the pepper mill, a finger</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">making a furrow across the top.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I taste the raw beginning.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I set a timer for 45 minutes.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">As I wipe down the counter</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">and scrub up the sink, I stop</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">once in a while to flick</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">the light inside the stove—</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">abra</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">cadab</span>-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">ra</span></i>.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From –<b> The Wait of Atom</b>, her 2</span><sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">nd</span></span></sup><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> chapbook, Folded Word Press 2009</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">(first appeared in <i>Wild Goose Poetry Review</i>)</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><br /></b></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">The Wait of Atom</span><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space:pre"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;"> </span> </span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">It <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">wasn</span>’t that he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">wouldn</span>’t wait for her </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">or not even that he <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">didn</span>’t want </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">to wait for her, he just <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">couldn</span>’t </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">stand still. She <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">couldn</span>’t stand <i>it</i>, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">the way his eyes became nearly crossed, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">how he jangled the change in his pocket. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">She’d complained before. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">To keep his face from registering </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">annoyance, he began mentally listing </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">the noble gases by weight: lowest to highest, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">using his hands in his pockets to count each one. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">He could do this without moving his lips. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">His face relaxed even though she was still </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">transferring her personal items </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">from a brown purse to a black one.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">She had explained, on more than one occasion, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">how her purse had to match her shoes. How </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">his belt should match his shoes and he’d learned </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">to keep his eyes focused on a point</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">just over her shoulder while he let his brain </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">scan the periodic table of elements.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><span class="Apple-style-span" style=" white-space: pre-wrap; font-family:'Lucida Grande';font-size:11px;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd48MQndGLMcNCbq9VlcsTV-8463ckiF7EemmCFjTS2xJybZ5Gb0VyPMBjSb-dhXhJAu8hDAS8zkrlYidmGUc7wmOTMHNvW0VKVnEGfYRrWPJWuYvgNaL0qhUBlyXEuP_qpz7MGbZSDg2I/s1600-h/jessie2.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd48MQndGLMcNCbq9VlcsTV-8463ckiF7EemmCFjTS2xJybZ5Gb0VyPMBjSb-dhXhJAu8hDAS8zkrlYidmGUc7wmOTMHNvW0VKVnEGfYRrWPJWuYvgNaL0qhUBlyXEuP_qpz7MGbZSDg2I/s400/jessie2.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5422590983291715922" /></a></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Her upcoming full length book P<i><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">aper</span> House</i> will be out March 2010 from Folded Word Press.</span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Paper House</span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Fold a sheet of striped</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">notebook paper in half.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Draw the shape of a house.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Trim the edges to form a roof.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Where you want windows,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">cut a flap.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Place pieces of furniture</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">or people to peer at</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">when you peep</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">through the paper windows.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">On the first floor, in the kitchen,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Mom raises</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">her stick arms. She can almost</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">touch the ceiling.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">She’s closest to the door.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Above her is a bedroom</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">a girl looks out a window.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">She’s next to a desk</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">with her arms out straight </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">as if she was trying </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">3<sup>rd</sup> grade calisthenics. To the girls’ </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">right is another room</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">with a bed, a lamp. Downstairs, </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">next to the kitchen,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Dad lies on the couch wearing boxers. </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">Black and white can’t show </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">his cigarette dripping red-tipped ash </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">onto the carpet, forming a hole.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">From a project in progress. <i>Ology</i>. First appeared in <i>Blue Fifth Review</i></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Far and Wee</span></b><br /><br />I<br /><br />Breathing on trees was my hobby. I’d sit on the browned pine needles, leaning my head against the bark and I’d suck in as much air as I could through my nose then I’d let it go with my chin pointed up to the branches. I’d pretend I was blowing up a balloon as I willed my carbon to keep the trees growing up and out.<br /><br />II<br /><br />I was never good at making balloons. Impatience perhaps? The first long breathes are almost futile. The balloon just spurts the air back at you, but if you keep pushing past that the plastic will eventually give and expand from the center rounding out.<br /><br />III<br /><br />Mom was the best at tying the ends of the balloons but my brother would do in a pinch. Like when we were waiting in the car once and to o entertain us, my brother blew up a balloon for each of us. My sister was in the front seat, bouncing her balloon back and forth against the windshield but I had taken a dare from my brother. I put the balloon under my shirt to pretend I was pregnant. I was rubbing my new rotund belly, saying, “Feel it kick!” When it popped, shrinking against the skin of my stomach it pulled the flesh up and in.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">From an untitled project in progress but first appeared in</span><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"> The Dead Mule</span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><b></b><br /></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:large;">Marrow </span></b></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">When the contractor began flattening the fields I had sold,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">he turned over a small cache of bones.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">From my back porch I saw him remove his hat, pull</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">his browning hand across his forehead.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">He tossed the bones into the woods and leveled the spot,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">prepping it for concrete.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">In the dark of early evening I scooped up the bones. They were light</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">like bread and cold from the wet earth.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">I warmed them in the oven of my palms, wondering if once</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">they were worn down by hours leaning into an axe,</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">or perhaps from grinding against a mortar to resize corn. They</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">could have been the foundation of skin, hope and tendon;</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">they could have belonged to the builders of pillars, of stone</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">circles, of sacrificial mounds, of children.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">As I laid them down, I saw a body loose and those bones poking</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">through the skin like the skin was shale;</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">as the meat of the body moved down the shaft of the bone</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman">like a candle melting on stone.</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 15.0px"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'Times New Roman', serif;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:Arial, serif;"><br /></span></span><span style="font: 11.0px Times New Roman"></span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; line-height: 12.0px; font: 12.0px Times New Roman"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 10.0px 0.0px; line-height: 17.0px; font: 11.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 12.0px"><br /></p></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com12tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-16066032023086133512009-12-29T12:59:00.000-08:002009-12-29T13:06:52.562-08:00THE WORK OF WINTER<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJB5fCrolirsPQz6ihy0AyQ6_dC6MdExzM0EcxGX6pOVKUPfS_BknLqKDZA5InAZ54xA8fQ7wCQ33ADf_CDtPoXbBRjZRNWJkvSavHhrbRPw_gzT5qzl6J719G9uYCEPJDJCXH2ShaEof/s1600-h/snowdec09.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLJB5fCrolirsPQz6ihy0AyQ6_dC6MdExzM0EcxGX6pOVKUPfS_BknLqKDZA5InAZ54xA8fQ7wCQ33ADf_CDtPoXbBRjZRNWJkvSavHhrbRPw_gzT5qzl6J719G9uYCEPJDJCXH2ShaEof/s400/snowdec09.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420766711696597570" /></a><br /><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><b>The Work of Winter</b> (from www.ncarts.org)</p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial"><br /></p><p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 12.0px Arial">By Kathryn Stripling Byer </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This time of year poet Adrienne Rich’s words bubble up into my </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">consciousness: “The work of winter starts fermenting in my head / how with </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the hands of a lover or a midwife / to hold back till the time is right.” She </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">urges to “trust roots” and “learn what an underground journey / has been, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">might have to be; speak in a winter code / let fog, sleet, translate; wind, carry </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">them.” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">This time of year my imagination wants to trust roots. To go underground </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">where so much of our inner journey takes place. In other words, it wants </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">time to think about the origins of memory and language. It’s a time when I </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">pull out my Oxford English Dictionary, hold up the magnifying glass and </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">look up the sources of words I use everyday. Where did they come from? </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">How have they changed? Inevitably, this always leads me back to the </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">question, “How have I changed?” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Because I recently turned sixty-five, a truth that women of a certain age are </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">not supposed to own up to, I’ve been thinking a lot about the word “old.” I </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">don’t feel old, I just feel as if I’ve been around for a long time, learned a lot </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">(though not enough) and that I’m in my prime. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When I turned to the origins of the word “old,” I found that it’s a very old </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">word indeed, and that its root many centuries ago meant “to nourish.” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tracking it into Old English, I discovered that it becomes “oeld,” meaning </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">mature and lasting, something to be valued. The word appears numerous </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">times in medieval writings, and nearly always in a positive context. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Knowing this, I now no longer mind thinking of myself being described as </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">“old.” </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">When we begin to think about how our language began, we are drawn back </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">to a speech that sounded earthy, no trace of Latin in it. A language of </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">survivors in a cold, rough landscape. Over the years that language changed </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">by absorbing words from all over the planet, but mostly words from French </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and Latin. Just about any word one picks out of a dictionary contains a piece </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">of that history. The renowned English poet W. H. Auden once said that </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">every one of his poems is a hymn of praise to the English language. A poet </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">in any language feels the same way about what we call the mother tongue. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Our mother tongue nourishes us. Just as the word “eald” meant centuries </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">ago. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman; min-height: 16.0px"> </p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Each morning my husband reads a page from his “Calendar of Forgotten </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">English,” a ritual that began 5 years ago when I gave him the 2000 calendar </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">for Christmas. These calendars collect words no longer in use, or not often, </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">and they lie on our table, waiting to be read while my husband drinks his </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">coffee. Words like “flaws” (gust of wind) and “blague” (humbug). Old </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">words. And, finally, not forgotten. Here they lie beside the cereal box, the </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">jam and butter, another morning’s invitation to look back and realize what </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the word “old” really means. Still here. Ready for another year. Pick a word. </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Any word. And it will carry you back to the roots of our language, and </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">forward into a present made even richer for knowing how the past spoke </span></p> <p style="margin: 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px 0.0px; font: 14.0px Times New Roman"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">itself. </span></p>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-17930867213083087432009-12-22T12:13:00.000-08:002009-12-30T06:35:45.580-08:00WORDS SHINING IN THE NIGHT<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyYs-BEW2zUQPnHZ1FOYddZspH9evgOBA5wZMzR0v-jPZcGIDajH-n8mI0e1C2_ygti1fNbMX5gtsSeA7lYlrX4EdBlw8l0gzsZAmhXkv1JT0XWmBTgm4rkCyZLqw89wnRF0mEAZYdNfF/s1600-h/bluesunset.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdyYs-BEW2zUQPnHZ1FOYddZspH9evgOBA5wZMzR0v-jPZcGIDajH-n8mI0e1C2_ygti1fNbMX5gtsSeA7lYlrX4EdBlw8l0gzsZAmhXkv1JT0XWmBTgm4rkCyZLqw89wnRF0mEAZYdNfF/s400/bluesunset.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418179883369818434" /></a><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br />I wrote this column for my</span><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Language Matters </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">series during the winter of 2006. it seems as resonant now as it did then. I wish all my blog visitors a warm, safe, and restorative holiday.<br /><br /></span><span style="font-weight:bold;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Words Shining in the Night </span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /><br /><br />By Kathryn Stripling Byer<br /><br /><br /></span><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nothing brings our language into brighter focus than religious holidays. As we gather to</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hear the words of this holiday season, we have lately become more aware of how those</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">words can both bind us together and push us apart. Just last Christmas, there was an</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">uproar over greeters at various stores using Happy Holidays instead of Merry Christmas,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">as if the former somehow diminished the latter. Yet, many Americans do not celebrate a</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">traditional Christmas and many others do not celebrate it at all. Some, like certain Native</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">American tribes, never have, welcoming the solstice instead with their age-old earth-</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">based rituals.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">So, what to do in our increasingly pluralistic society, where Latino, Arabic, Jewish, African, and</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Asian voices are joining the chorus of celebrations? Can we agree at least on the meaning of this yearly</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">turning, that it pulls us back into the light, if we let it? And that the light can bring us</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">together, if we let it? </span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Perhaps learning some new words for light would be a good place to start. </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Tara</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, for</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">example. We English speakers think of Ireland and Scarlett O’Hara’s plantation. But the</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">word is also Urdu/Hindi for star, descended from the Sanskrit for “shining.” And this</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">time of year the star shining in the night carries special significance. In Spanish it is the</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">beautiful word</span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> estrella</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, and in French, </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">etoile</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">. The German star rings in the season as</span></div><span style="font-style:italic;"><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">stern</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, whose light cuts through the darkness and leads the way to revelation. In Arabic,</span></span></div></span><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">the haunting word </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">shihab</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> means flame. How can we deny this light shining in the</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">darkness, regardless of which word a culture uses to say it? We all light our candles this</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">time of year and watch the flames dance in the night.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">I like the word </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">shihab</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"> because it is the given name of a poet I admire, Naomi Shihab</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Nye, American-born daughter of a Palestinian journalist and an American Montessori</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">teacher. For years she has worked to bridge cultural and religious differences, to heal the</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">divide that keeps us from being able to communicate with one another. Her voice shines</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">like a candle flame in this season’s dark night of suffering and war.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">Her poem “Red Brocade,” begins: "The Arabs used to say,/When a stranger appears at</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">your door,/feed him for three days/before asking who he is,/where he’s come from,</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">/where he’s headed./That way he’ll have strength/enough to answer./Or, by then you’ll be</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">/such good friends/you don’t care. "</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">"Let’s go back to that," she pleads in the line that follows. No matter the language used, this</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">time of year we call out to light, not only to the flame of the sun returning to our</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">hemisphere, but also to the light of understanding. This season challenges us to believe</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">that our words for that light matter. Call it </span><span style="font-style:italic;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">luz, lumiere, shihab, tara</span></span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">, it means the same</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;">thing: the realization that we are called by the light to live together in peace.</span></div><div style="text-align: justify;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: small;"><br /></span></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIlR3Y140GY1tJHXpdVF8-_cwFET9cO2W9_6XMar1f4_HFpBfZhy30VnQzZb8NnuMj3A6WDbrcQsbDwZxQDzZ9BV5JB8a1Z1TsquTspQWYWksP2QqFpdTyB9CuEX6zlAe4KoR3LGStPfZ/s1600-h/IMG_2128.JPG"><img style="text-align: justify;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPIlR3Y140GY1tJHXpdVF8-_cwFET9cO2W9_6XMar1f4_HFpBfZhy30VnQzZb8NnuMj3A6WDbrcQsbDwZxQDzZ9BV5JB8a1Z1TsquTspQWYWksP2QqFpdTyB9CuEX6zlAe4KoR3LGStPfZ/s400/IMG_2128.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418179589809602546" /></a>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-34110881878705589872009-12-02T09:12:00.000-08:002009-12-02T11:42:45.070-08:00HOLIDAY GARLAND OF BOOKS, part 1<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxcGnq_BQ8O4E-bw_uWcm6RlCzipg3vrN-Jk-0Mvb9OjzWjok6ixD2LY57Ps1AWRTgbDUow07Pw6_rbTMTky7CcWGiThQ-k2Sxb40i30F47iqVtR19hz0dodEni6vzDfPUba4TNIRyfdI/s1600-h/holly.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410725485911897554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizxcGnq_BQ8O4E-bw_uWcm6RlCzipg3vrN-Jk-0Mvb9OjzWjok6ixD2LY57Ps1AWRTgbDUow07Pw6_rbTMTky7CcWGiThQ-k2Sxb40i30F47iqVtR19hz0dodEni6vzDfPUba4TNIRyfdI/s400/holly.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><br /><div>It's holiday book-buying time, so here are some additional suggestions for gifts. For more ideas, go to the side bar and take a look at the Books of the Week, as well as Poets of the Week. You'll find plenty to entice a reader there.</div><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div>In part one of our garland, I've gathered three current books NC or former NC writers.</div><br /><br /><br /><div>Here's a new book of stories by a long-time friend of mine, poet and Editor of <em>Shenandoah</em>, R.T Smith. I met Rod many years ago at the Critz Writers Workshop, where A. R. Ammons held forth to a motley crew of us aspiring writers in Virginia. Rod has published numerous books of poetry and has edited <em>Shenandoah </em>right up into the top ranks of the country's literary magazines.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AZsuJ8-JPsQsmTSJ6lhFsWE1EIYiUyDUbT1o8bnX7EaKknljgt44KXsoNhwhpW1f3kFePOUSrvosN131dAV6BlgML-UwikypO8tvXWE2jEYG9JdBrK-vJAYdue2z8EijlNLWUlDD9j4T/s1600-h/Smith_author_photo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410689390158935250" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 270px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 293px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5AZsuJ8-JPsQsmTSJ6lhFsWE1EIYiUyDUbT1o8bnX7EaKknljgt44KXsoNhwhpW1f3kFePOUSrvosN131dAV6BlgML-UwikypO8tvXWE2jEYG9JdBrK-vJAYdue2z8EijlNLWUlDD9j4T/s400/Smith_author_photo.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />This new collection, as Ann Pancake says, "is part bluegrass symphony, part speaking in tongues... it is the most beautifully sung story collection I have read in years."</div><br /><div><br />George Singleton calls some of the characters "wonderfully warped, melodic, Appalachian" and others "flat-out idiomatic poetic," which ought to whet any one's appetite.<br /></div><br /><br /><div>On the menu (consider them appetizers):<br /><em>Cockers for Christ<br />Tastes Like Chicken<br />Sugar<br />Fig Honey<br />Red Jar<br />Ruminants.....</em><br />Sound good? You can go to <a href="http://www.irisbooks.com/">http://www.irisbooks.com/</a> to order the boo<br /></div><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCA-oXlwJ3yFEoSU-ncDAQHlW2R8-_FmSQtHvnem_wTbc37QF5QoJJXZUT-_-o9U91bh1g48-_sp9l63GpipF1ZRFb1njA4o7uvhIl7dIunqPhdpG5gXWvaU459evNWryiGgjZJ7H293m/s1600-h/Calaboose_Epistles_Jumbo.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410691188569104162" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 272px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijCA-oXlwJ3yFEoSU-ncDAQHlW2R8-_FmSQtHvnem_wTbc37QF5QoJJXZUT-_-o9U91bh1g48-_sp9l63GpipF1ZRFb1njA4o7uvhIl7dIunqPhdpG5gXWvaU459evNWryiGgjZJ7H293m/s400/Calaboose_Epistles_Jumbo.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />**************************************************************<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLeje0QWz5tWd74rjpyeYuiRZO6vh88y9ffrFXZ3YB094nQwOAQRx6VHLjtm2GTQct2tdoXKRhirDfZzkl_S8lwE9ZzvZ-z9Bt1MVCRGFYYJFEB_dHpsHvHetBLQT35XTUNxYpQKuGkaX/s1600-h/AttheThresholdofAlchemy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410692469194451186" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 257px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGLeje0QWz5tWd74rjpyeYuiRZO6vh88y9ffrFXZ3YB094nQwOAQRx6VHLjtm2GTQct2tdoXKRhirDfZzkl_S8lwE9ZzvZ-z9Bt1MVCRGFYYJFEB_dHpsHvHetBLQT35XTUNxYpQKuGkaX/s400/AttheThresholdofAlchemy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />John Amen's new book, <strong>At the Threshold of Alchemy</strong>, holds the same intensity and surprising turns of language and perspective that have marked his earlier work. I find his poetry energizing, instructive, exhilarating, and for those long dark nights that follow Christmas, it would be ideal for keeping one's imagination pulsing. John will be coming to WCU in the spring to take part in our WCU Spring Literary Festival, so I will be posting more about him in March.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1AJO5G8ge5aKeB4F78iVmn4S0sOVj4QGU12SE6LwJJS9P-qpyZqoP-2EpmF24oJGRPWI4bIgMpvQ_ZYBww7EgG1LnX-ymKaDM4yaefSesjihCKVdQMm2x_TkezMdxt9BJ_t6rgxotFXw/s1600-h/JAPhotoforPedSite.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410720789207163362" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 153px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 190px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh1AJO5G8ge5aKeB4F78iVmn4S0sOVj4QGU12SE6LwJJS9P-qpyZqoP-2EpmF24oJGRPWI4bIgMpvQ_ZYBww7EgG1LnX-ymKaDM4yaefSesjihCKVdQMm2x_TkezMdxt9BJ_t6rgxotFXw/s400/JAPhotoforPedSite.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />"Poems such as these, and there are plenty in this book—John Amen’s third—keep resounding in the mind the way great poetry does...."<br />—Ricardo Nirenberg, Offcourse Literary Journal<br /><br />John is the author of three collections of poetry: <strong>Christening the Dancer </strong>(Uccelli Press 2003),<strong> More of Me Disappears </strong>(Cross-Cultural Communications 2005), and <strong>At the Threshold of Alchemy </strong>(Presa 2009), and has released two folk/folk rock CDs, <strong>All I’ll Never Need </strong>and <strong>Ridiculous Empire </strong>(Cool Midget). He is also an artist, working primarily with acrylics on canvas. Amen travels widely giving readings, doing musical performances, and conducting workshops. Further information is available on his website: <a href="http:///">http:///</a>. Contact: <a href="mailto:pedmagazine@carolina.rr.com">pedmagazine@carolina.rr.com</a><br /></p><br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><p>*********************************************************</p><br /><br /><p><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZkM5kqjUotY3knWSUekSp76BcLFdGa7mQt5QMdCzEKDSJeB1URmVvcrVotAcULLEIHamMo7ldL3MGuVNzyOCQ6PHccIxjfF-sOgzqCcd2vUxQ1c3_JNc5bw2C-kwVieiRpKgjcQbAFiR/s1600-h/Author_photo_for_Dirt_Sandwich3.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410722868771216306" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 339px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKZkM5kqjUotY3knWSUekSp76BcLFdGa7mQt5QMdCzEKDSJeB1URmVvcrVotAcULLEIHamMo7ldL3MGuVNzyOCQ6PHccIxjfF-sOgzqCcd2vUxQ1c3_JNc5bw2C-kwVieiRpKgjcQbAFiR/s400/Author_photo_for_Dirt_Sandwich3.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Linda Annas Ferguson now lives in Charleston, SC, but she is a native North Carolinian. Her latest book, <strong>Dirt Sandwich</strong>, is just out from <a href="http://www.press53.com/">Press 53</a> in Winston-Salem.<br /><br />Linda is the author of five collections of poetry, including <strong>Bird Missing from One </strong><strong>Shoulder</strong> (WordTech Editions, 2007); <strong><strong>Stepping on Cracks in the Sidewalk </strong>(Finishing Line Press, 2006); <strong>Last Chance to Be Lost </strong></strong>(Kentucky Writers’ Coalition, 2004); and <strong>It’s Hard to Hate a Broken Thing </strong>(Palanquin Press, University of S.C. Aiken, 2002). She was the 2005 Poetry Fellow for the South Carolina Arts Commission and served as the 2003-04 Poet-in-Residence for the Gibbes Museum of Art in Charleston, S.C. A recipient of the Poetry Fellowship of the South Carolina Academy of Authors, she is a member of the Academy’s Board of Governors. She was a featured poet for the Library of Congress Poetry at Noon Series. Her work is archived by Furman University Special Collections in the James B. Duke Library. A North Carolina native, she now resides in Charleston, SC. Visit her website at <a href="http://www.lindaannasferguson.com/">http://www.lindaannasferguson.com/</a>.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtoE5Fddgi-93rHlmnEX5xVCYBT9G-IaqXkJ0nBrnl9fffqzTszKsxdpgK3lr3BCAaS6hk1vkx5z4fI4hov_ukRxTFGGW30rtkcfWUqaENqIcKyj25oBXLax2mHW2J1A2W9rRYUNL1uze/s1600-h/Dirt_Sandwich_cover_web_shadow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410722876233858690" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 293px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmtoE5Fddgi-93rHlmnEX5xVCYBT9G-IaqXkJ0nBrnl9fffqzTszKsxdpgK3lr3BCAaS6hk1vkx5z4fI4hov_ukRxTFGGW30rtkcfWUqaENqIcKyj25oBXLax2mHW2J1A2W9rRYUNL1uze/s400/Dirt_Sandwich_cover_web_shadow.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-60885405483060298582009-12-01T08:58:00.000-08:002009-12-02T13:51:29.565-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: GLENDA C. BEALL<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7y-AE9nCwxQW-oF5zTeM8v4pV8NHV9su4AmA4NVz-RYBywKF-1OYZSIo09mruY5D9pDk7gnzBM68n-z0w-1sHaFCMhsnAX5m8ADN8j_zN8w4YBgYJqSJoXALamRPcJvGBTty7pwxAp4fk/s1600/GlendaBeallFirstchoiceforbook.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410314947307960674" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 300px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh7y-AE9nCwxQW-oF5zTeM8v4pV8NHV9su4AmA4NVz-RYBywKF-1OYZSIo09mruY5D9pDk7gnzBM68n-z0w-1sHaFCMhsnAX5m8ADN8j_zN8w4YBgYJqSJoXALamRPcJvGBTty7pwxAp4fk/s400/GlendaBeallFirstchoiceforbook.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Glenda Council Beall's new chapbook, <strong>Now Might As Well Be Then</strong>, from Finishing Line Press (<a href="http://www.finishinglinepress.com/">http://www.finishinglinepress.com/</a>) deserves many readers. I was honored to write a blurb for it. Glenda has worked wonders for NETWEST as Program Director and deserves our thanks for supporting the literary arts in Western North Carolina. Her new book would make a wonderful Christmas gift for family members. Several in my family will have this chapbook in their stockings!<br /><br />Often those "supporters" are so busy making sure other writers find what they need to become better at the writer's craft that they don't have time for their own work. That's why I'm so pleased to honor Glenda as Poet of the Week. She's a great SW Georgia girl, and, naturally, I believe those girls have a leg up when it comes to writing poetry!<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAtOqaEyfcIYeZfKJEsvKhEc4g7MFMi7f4U_p14N1CCAJftnqFkJzOBNjzD_pii6iCUZ_eX35xvlp-T5cnIOx68RWz9GdzcY200ApBrLXEPEVdz2T6xwRAxwGxLf5Kl2DbCvNXSEFpFk-/s1600/nowmightaswellbethen.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410318232623259298" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDAtOqaEyfcIYeZfKJEsvKhEc4g7MFMi7f4U_p14N1CCAJftnqFkJzOBNjzD_pii6iCUZ_eX35xvlp-T5cnIOx68RWz9GdzcY200ApBrLXEPEVdz2T6xwRAxwGxLf5Kl2DbCvNXSEFpFk-/s400/nowmightaswellbethen.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Here are a few of my favorite poems from her new chapbook.<br /><br /><strong>Woman in the Mirror</strong><br /><br />What happened to seventeen,<br />when I rode my mare<br />free as the river flows,<br />jumped over downed trees<br />splashed through narrow streams?<br /><br />What happened to twenty<br />when I danced in the moonlight,<br />my slender form dressed in a gown<br />white and shimmery as pearl?<br /><br />What happened to thirty<br />when I rode my Yamaha<br />down fire roads, mountain trails,<br />long black hair flying free?<br /><br />What happened to those days<br />I ask the woman in the mirror.<br /><em>Gone</em>, she says, <em>all gone, unless<br />you remember it.</em><br /><br /><strong>In The Dark</strong><br /><br /><br />Lying in bed, my cheek against your shoulder,<br />I remember a night, long ago, on your boat.<br />I was afraid. I felt too much, too fast.<br />But love crept over us that summer<br />like silver fog, silent on the lake.<br />We were never again the same.<br /><br />We stepped like children through that door that led<br />to long passages unknown, holding hands, wide-eyed, but brave.<br />Here I am years later, listening to your soft breath<br />and feeling your warm smooth skin.<br />In the dark, now might as well be then.<br /><br /><br /><strong>My Father's Horse</strong><br /><br /><br />Stickers tear my legs, bare and tan<br />from South Georgia sun. Long black braids<br />fly behind me as I sprint like a Derby winner<br />down the path.<br /><br />Harnessed with hames, bridle<br />and blinders, Charlie plods down<br />the farm road. Tired and wet from sweat,<br />he is perfume to my nostrils.<br /><br />My father swings me up. I bury<br />my hands in tangled mane. My thighs<br />stick to leather and damp white hair<br />high above the ground.<br /><br />I want to sing in glorious joy,<br />but only croon a child's nonsensical<br />words, grinning for a hundred yards<br />between field and barn.<br /><br />My father's arms are strong.<br />His hands are gentle. The horse<br />is all we ever share. For he has sons<br />and I am just a daughter.<br /><br /><strong>A Long Lost Year</strong><br />Music making was his talent<br />taken for granted like water<br />gushing from our well until<br />the surgeon’s knife nicked a nerve.<br /><br />The purple wreath of grief hung<br />over us until one day above the strum<br />of his guitar, his notes rang true ―<br />a lovely instrument restored.<br /><br />We wept with joy.<br />His voice is who he is,<br />has<br />always been.<br /><br />He sings to me again, that same<br />rich baritone that won me on that first<br />day we met. I listen with a new ear,<br />and like a Sinatra fan,<br />I mellow out.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisB42eRkuz66JOf_7Bu1CLXBDeIalHb0Eq5a0li2G0jhyN_apxQ1IWGcEUw7F7Lr4Z6rZt3nmuhW_776GOpzoI2ilSX8OMpxSKYXi6VSxANpwyWLqKl3aKEm_-d3bNKJoap80BfPMWAPo4/s1600/backcover.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410319131423030562" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 258px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisB42eRkuz66JOf_7Bu1CLXBDeIalHb0Eq5a0li2G0jhyN_apxQ1IWGcEUw7F7Lr4Z6rZt3nmuhW_776GOpzoI2ilSX8OMpxSKYXi6VSxANpwyWLqKl3aKEm_-d3bNKJoap80BfPMWAPo4/s400/backcover.jpg" border="0" /></a>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-77124278966277834622009-12-01T05:35:00.000-08:002009-12-01T05:47:32.169-08:00POETRY READINGS THIS WEEKEND<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjooBeysfzC1XSxUdg5JB_Wbtob8aQOBmeNYO2kYttUsVyfQtuYifLCMIoEI9xwDARsU5is_uslkCVZhAJltBWdylEcBTFbr_H_aidoAmnongf1IgzoVNmuWWV0kvaUwBj_E1OUkSaxSEpZ/s1600/Carpathia_Woloch.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410263236470056034" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 167px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 250px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjooBeysfzC1XSxUdg5JB_Wbtob8aQOBmeNYO2kYttUsVyfQtuYifLCMIoEI9xwDARsU5is_uslkCVZhAJltBWdylEcBTFbr_H_aidoAmnongf1IgzoVNmuWWV0kvaUwBj_E1OUkSaxSEpZ/s400/Carpathia_Woloch.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />This weekend offers two reading/signing events in the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">WNC</span> area. Cecilia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Woloch</span> and Kathryn S. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Byer</span> will be featured in both. On Saturday evening at 7:00 p.m. at City Lights Bookstore in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Sylva</span>,<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Woloch</span> and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Byer</span> will join Mary Adams as she launches her new chapbook <strong>Commandment</strong>, hot off the press from Spring Street Editions. Mary is a member of the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">WCU</span> English Faculty; she has been awarded an <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">NEA</span> fellowship and saw her first collection, <strong>Epistles from the Planet Photosynthesis</strong>, published by the University of Florida Press.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzP9RtLad6-iXzwQKxJwKuLZPVcVL_fQjUV_Hioh0Mnj1dtdQ7pCt8clexZ0e2ZG1VSLfs-Kfjr_dlnag5ToE2b1ilPeSgoCIsCHlKwCX7LSzSA1J-D6byJopGqN1C-Xmq9NYAlKZALfA/s1600/mary.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410263244931639010" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 72px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNzP9RtLad6-iXzwQKxJwKuLZPVcVL_fQjUV_Hioh0Mnj1dtdQ7pCt8clexZ0e2ZG1VSLfs-Kfjr_dlnag5ToE2b1ilPeSgoCIsCHlKwCX7LSzSA1J-D6byJopGqN1C-Xmq9NYAlKZALfA/s400/mary.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />On Sunday, December 6, 2009, Malaprop's Bookstore/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Café</span> (55 Haywood<br />Street in downtown <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Asheville</span>, NC) will host poets Kathryn Stripling<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Byer</span> reading from <strong>ARETHA'S HAT: INAUGURATION </strong>DAY, 2009; Julia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Nunnally</span><br />Duncan with <strong>AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY </strong>and new, unpublished poems; and<br />Cecilia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Woloch</span>, author of <strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">CARPATHIA</span></strong>.<br /><br />Kathryn Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Byer</span>, poet laureate of North Carolina from 2005<br />through June 30, 2009, was born in Southwest Georgia but moved to North<br />Carolina in 1968 and has lived in the Blue Ridge Mountains ever since.<br />She is the author of five poetry books, including <strong>COMING TO REST</strong><br />(2006), and most recently (in collaboration with Penelope <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Scambly</span><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Schott</span>) of the chapbook <strong>ARETHA'S HAT: INAUGURATION D</strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">AY</span>, 2009. Writing<br />on the topic "Why We Love North Carolina" for the February 2009 issue<br />of Our State magazine, Kathryn Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Byer</span> noted these particular<br />highlights of her term as Poet Laureate: the "generous community of<br />[North Carolina] writers . . . who continue to amaze me with their<br />talent and energy" and most of all, "the students I've met in our<br />schools . . . these young faces looking back at me, ready to say who<br />they are. May we all listen well to them." As poet laureate, Kathryn<br />Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Byer's</span> primary goal was to "help make poetry accessible in as<br />many ways as I could," through frequent visits to schools and with<br />writing groups; appearances at bookstores, literary events, and a<br />variety of public celebrations; a regularly updated poetry page on the<br />North Carolina Arts Council web site; and her own generous laureate<br />blog -- as well as by continuing to write and give public readings of her<br />own poetry. In the process, she has demonstrated the perseverance and<br />constant delicate balance of energies required to lead a very public<br />life as a dedicated writer. Asked why she writes poetry, she recently<br />replied, "It's the best way I know to sing with the world" (Writer's<br />Digest interview with Robert Lee Brewer, July 2009). We are very happy<br />to welcome Kathryn Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">Byer</span> back to "sing" her poetry at Malaprop's.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhHw0JRX4Wo7PegU3LYDQpbKZHRN0jpP6tcLqaawe1Nj3AkON3pv2shZhM9UrVYgbNL5U9vy0W1uU1P1GNVEvVplE37NeDCaBhbTMrNPO34mnHiTMsNeg92p-t3S_zYfrvf6IYqq1_5YM/s1600/JuliaNunnallyDuncanreadingatWesternCarolinaUniversity.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410263238364852626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 183px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 183px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBhHw0JRX4Wo7PegU3LYDQpbKZHRN0jpP6tcLqaawe1Nj3AkON3pv2shZhM9UrVYgbNL5U9vy0W1uU1P1GNVEvVplE37NeDCaBhbTMrNPO34mnHiTMsNeg92p-t3S_zYfrvf6IYqq1_5YM/s400/JuliaNunnallyDuncanreadingatWesternCarolinaUniversity.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Julia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Nunnally</span> Duncan writes both poetry and fiction. She has<br />previously published two collections of stories and a novel, and her<br />second novel, <strong>WHEN DAY IS DONE</strong>, is just out from March Street Press.<br />Her Appalachian poems have appeared in scores of literary journals,<br />and her first published collection of poetry, <strong>AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY</strong><br />(2007), was named a finalist for the 2008 Roanoke-<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Chowan</span> Award for<br />Poetry. She recently completed the manuscript for a second collection<br />of poems, AT DUSK. Rob <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Neufeld</span>, book columnist for The <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Asheville</span><br />Citizen-Times, wrote of Julia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Nunnally</span> Duncan that she is one of four<br />Western North Carolina "poets to watch." He remarked that her poems<br />"make the greatest possible use of line breaks, so that individual<br />phrases glow like haiku observations. Metaphors develop naturally and<br />emotionally." In a recent article in North Carolina Literary Review,<br />Jeffrey Franklin observed of <strong>AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY</strong>, "Duncan always makes<br />the place solid, the people real, the situation, in all its emotional<br />complexity and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">perilousness</span>, rendered with a deceptive simplicity that<br />quietly resonates. . . .[Her] people are as recognizably human as any<br />in Shakespeare[.]" Like our other readers for December 6, Julia<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Nunnally</span> Duncan is at once a dedicated writer and an experienced<br />teacher; she has served as a full-time English instructor at McDowell<br />Community College for nearly two and a half decades. At Malaprop's,<br />she will read selections from <strong>AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY </strong>and from her<br />manuscript, <strong>AT </strong>DUSK.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwW6FxaWQr7qnaAEDmwkjoA8Tz5xb_IFbmfVnuKJAA0WbSFtCyG8DJ4PycwWsk6ObhyfMJ96xAtlEn_a9bJHYLhNrri42TvIAL_LSSMw9fvMy04gm7VGp3ZeaxO_cGbvWNvUkjwLTRdbA/s1600/Woloch_2009_credit_Jim_Hall-198x300.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410263250499012530" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 198px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 300px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqwW6FxaWQr7qnaAEDmwkjoA8Tz5xb_IFbmfVnuKJAA0WbSFtCyG8DJ4PycwWsk6ObhyfMJ96xAtlEn_a9bJHYLhNrri42TvIAL_LSSMw9fvMy04gm7VGp3ZeaxO_cGbvWNvUkjwLTRdbA/s400/Woloch_2009_credit_Jim_Hall-198x300.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_28">CARPATHIA</span> </strong>is Cecilia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_29">Woloch's</span> fifth poetry collection. Published in<br />2009, it went into a second printing about two months after its<br />official publication date. Natasha <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_30">Trethewey</span>, Pulitzer Prize-winning<br />poet, has written of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_31">CARPATHIA</span>, "The poems . . . are guided by an<br />exquisite lyricism and heartbreaking emotional honesty. . . . This is<br />a gorgeous book by a poet who is passionately alive in the world."<br />Cecilia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_32">Woloch</span> has traveled widely and taught just as widely, offering<br />poetry workshops for children and adults across the United States and<br />in several locations abroad. She serves as a lecturer in creative<br />writing at the University of Southern California and is founding<br />director of the Paris Poetry Workshop. The recipient of numerous<br />awards for her writing, teaching and theatre work, in 2009 alone,<br />Cecilia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_33">Woloch</span> has been recognized as a finalist in the California<br />Book Awards of The Commonwealth Club of California for her 2008<br />chapbook, <strong>NARCISSUS</strong>; as a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize in<br />Poetry at Nimrod; as the first prize winner of the New Ohio Review<br />Prize in Poetry; and as a Fellow at the Center for International<br />Theatre Development/US Artists Initiative in Poland.<br /><br />Please join us in welcoming three distinguished poets on December 6,<br />and begin your holiday season with poetry!<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_34">Poetrio</span>: Kathryn Stripling <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_35">Byer</span>, Julia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_36">Nunnally</span> Duncan, Celia <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_37">Woloch</span><br />Sunday, December 6, 2009, 3:00 p.m.<br />Malaprop's Bookstore/<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_38">Café</span><br />55 Haywood Street<br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_39">Asheville</span>, NC 28801<br />(828) 254-6734<br />www.malaprops.comKathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-81463798370798805042009-11-28T05:57:00.000-08:002009-11-28T11:42:19.484-08:00APPALACHIAN HERITAGE: SPECIAL CHEROKEE ISSUE<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7-Ht3xeYJO8fqqgcOvxZNToJDhzJIuW7H8diGr1N_Mx-Crp4zmHx0g_5hGiy5DHN7A-XeKS_R5VN3y9dlfTxhG8_JjcIEUhoHJz44niL6RzbATWw64Pb4rXouZHwZRhBZQaolfb8Q7kr/s1600/appher.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409156161797983522" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 264px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEho7-Ht3xeYJO8fqqgcOvxZNToJDhzJIuW7H8diGr1N_Mx-Crp4zmHx0g_5hGiy5DHN7A-XeKS_R5VN3y9dlfTxhG8_JjcIEUhoHJz44niL6RzbATWw64Pb4rXouZHwZRhBZQaolfb8Q7kr/s400/appher.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />The fall issue of <strong>APPALACHIAN HERITAGE </strong><br /><strong>( <a href="http://www.berea.edu/appalachianheritage">www.berea.edu/appalachianheritage</a> ) </strong>catches the eye right away. Sean <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Ross's</span> <strong>Mask Dancers </strong>peer out from the page, as if ready to leap. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Ross's</span> paintings <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">invigorate</span> the interior pages where poems, stories, and essays, some translated from the Cherokee language, await the reader, reminding us that the Cherokee people still live in these mountains<em></em>, painting, writing, telling stories, and passing down their culture as they have always done.<br /><br /><br /><br />Novelist and poet Robert Conley, now at nearby Western Carolina University as the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Sequoyah</span> Distinguished Professor of Cherokee Studies, is the issue's featured author. Years ago I invited Mr. Conley, living at that time in Oklahoma, to be a part of the Visiting Writers Series that I then directed. Everyone liked him so much that we invited him back several times. Now he lives here!<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrHi8s8tr0NY6NRn1wGVMvv9K8juF7DpiFsROAAHhRYLyXi8V62WX-N-J4KDSPCTbnvjcniNWxcIEYs4d6bCHkTu68VmKQYuXpKc_ofl32_QXY09ACu7rDfA8Bd9fr1PLl3-5fYVt-lHk/s1600/conleyV2sm.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409158342053396610" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 262px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 363px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdrHi8s8tr0NY6NRn1wGVMvv9K8juF7DpiFsROAAHhRYLyXi8V62WX-N-J4KDSPCTbnvjcniNWxcIEYs4d6bCHkTu68VmKQYuXpKc_ofl32_QXY09ACu7rDfA8Bd9fr1PLl3-5fYVt-lHk/s400/conleyV2sm.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />The issue contains a poem by a former student of mine, Debora <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Kinsland</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">Foerst</span>, the amusing "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Settin</span>' Up."<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQmI26sVlqTSTShMe3Ec_6Dun_bx-O1GbvlB3Bv5krPxr0-2HAP60pwt8ocUehXCR1ZiZQNCyUOsbS6g0QCzNAXLpGNG5TP0J-ZtsN47480r0Ui1DpQOliTrfPlO0NDxQEqkcVhvOOjgO/s1600/dkFoerst.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409237905695133730" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 109px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 109px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtQmI26sVlqTSTShMe3Ec_6Dun_bx-O1GbvlB3Bv5krPxr0-2HAP60pwt8ocUehXCR1ZiZQNCyUOsbS6g0QCzNAXLpGNG5TP0J-ZtsN47480r0Ui1DpQOliTrfPlO0NDxQEqkcVhvOOjgO/s400/dkFoerst.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Debora has had her poetry and prose published in <strong>The Raleigh News-Obs<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">erver</span></strong>, Writers and Books on <a href="http://www.ncarts.org/">www.<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">ncarts</span>.org</a>, <strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Kakalak</span></strong>, and numerous other publications and anthologies.<br /><br />And there's Mary Brown's recipe for apple stack cake! Preceded by her poem in both Cherokee and English.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtIULE8_SJ11qrAtnEM6N6dFK6KPE0xpUdQFCS_fjXzVU3Tn6limL8nhzrQrSEuOSz0GD4VtiVO7NlLYhfX0eMACiIadS83t7cvJtUUwQa_X2vjx_rzzFPjBc1gR7BtMdmq4Mj4OH4fgV/s1600/marybrown.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409160540467069650" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 249px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGtIULE8_SJ11qrAtnEM6N6dFK6KPE0xpUdQFCS_fjXzVU3Tn6limL8nhzrQrSEuOSz0GD4VtiVO7NlLYhfX0eMACiIadS83t7cvJtUUwQa_X2vjx_rzzFPjBc1gR7BtMdmq4Mj4OH4fgV/s400/marybrown.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>MariJo Moore's poem closes out the issue.</div><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">MariJo</span> (<a href="http://marijomoore.com/">http://marijomoore.com/</a>) presents <em>Spirit Speaking Gatherings & Intuitive Consultations</em> and resides in the mountains of western NC, where she is currently working on <strong>The Boy With A Tree Growing From His Ear & Other Stories</strong>.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVExj69a4DfttEew5KE8Px3raO_Ty280UiCDOt8q3jjJo-M3NPPvhRoQg3Aqu7HT4dj-AyeBewSHbqhbtGUoGpisHopfh9wxMf2HHrWt300r9E6Dp_xhfKrCzQ6MRmkaEWsZOrI2LoIW_/s1600/sun-moon-MJM.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5409233802452075330" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 298px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCVExj69a4DfttEew5KE8Px3raO_Ty280UiCDOt8q3jjJo-M3NPPvhRoQg3Aqu7HT4dj-AyeBewSHbqhbtGUoGpisHopfh9wxMf2HHrWt300r9E6Dp_xhfKrCzQ6MRmkaEWsZOrI2LoIW_/s400/sun-moon-MJM.png" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><div></div><br /><strong><em>Traditional Mysteries Remain Still<br /></em></strong>(Inspired by the painting “The Booger Dance Interrupted” by Sean J. Ross)<br /><br /><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">MariJo</span> Moore © 2009<br /><br /><br />Rattle of old gourd seeds<br />keeping mysteries intact.<br />Red bandannas atop white sheets<br />floating in musical silence, impending beats of drum.<br /><br />Masked dancers moving<br />among the senses of imitation,<br />feigning attacks,<br />pressing desires, causing women’s laughter.<br /><br />Old ones draining shadows, gaining<br />strength from the young.<br />Young ones gathering wisdom, taking<br />experience from the old.<br /><br />Interruption! Masked as righteousness<br />nevertheless, interruption<br />causing<br />cracks in the gourd rattles.<br /><br />Seeds dispersing<br />falling onto dismembered grounds.<br />Going not to water,<br />germinating into silenced, soiled pauses.<br /><br />Imitation no longer masked:<br />Cherokee see, Cherokee do, Cherokee “saved.”<br />Becoming simply stirrups<br />loosely attached to the saddles of plenty-costing religion.<br /><br />But here, painted somewhere<br />in the darkest dawn of remembrance,<br />traditions continue and gourds mend.<br /><br />Rattling of hidden seeds keep mysteries intact.<br />Colors imitating dance imitating<br />olden life.<br />Dance, Boogers, dance!<br /><br />Note: The Booger Dance of the Eastern Cherokee is interpretive of the reactions to the greed of various invaders. By wearing masks that resemble the invaders, the dancers imitate their actions to lessen the seriousness of the intrusions. Once thought gone due to the Christian religion, the Booger Dance is now being reinstated.<br />*************************************************************<br /><br />A fine Christmas surprise for family and friends would be a gift subscription to <strong>Appalachian Heritage.<br /></strong><div></div><br /><br /><br /><div></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-26682888632978580082009-11-23T09:06:00.000-08:002009-11-23T09:33:27.407-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: TERRI KIRBY ERICKSON<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbbh3TONP8s5cRDDLszWz0SJVffyIAKQX7QuA0J9zju9dn1Jh4KktIBUlToC2ouTxCNQxzn5CiMbodXOAwCPeQ72gHUqB85h8iWS9mRofQKkKfnxQAX6gJdbOkJN6EfjxZlwf5WLCVbyL/s1600/Terry_Ericksen52.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407348557906860882" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 266px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggbbh3TONP8s5cRDDLszWz0SJVffyIAKQX7QuA0J9zju9dn1Jh4KktIBUlToC2ouTxCNQxzn5CiMbodXOAwCPeQ72gHUqB85h8iWS9mRofQKkKfnxQAX6gJdbOkJN6EfjxZlwf5WLCVbyL/s400/Terry_Ericksen52.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div><div>Discovering a new poet whose work I really enjoy is like finding the perfect Christmas gift under the tree, something I've been thinking about lately, as the holiday season approaches. Terri Kirby Erickson is such a poet, and her new book of poems would make the perfect for gift for readers on your Christmas gift list. That Terri is a native North Carolinian and published by a Winston-Salem publisher, <strong><a href="http://www.press53.com/">Press 53</a></strong>, only makes discovering her "more perfect." (Poetic license, there!)</div><div></div><div><br /></div><div>Terri is an award winning poet. Her first poetry collection, <strong>Thread </strong><strong>Count</strong>, was published in 2006. <strong>Telling </strong><strong>Tales of Dusk </strong>was published in 2009 by Press 53. Her work has appeared in numerous publications, literary journals and anthologies, including <strong><em>A Prairie</em> <em>Journal, Blue Fifth Review, The Christian Science </em></strong><em><strong>Monitor, Dead Mule, JAMA, Muse India, Oak Bend Review,</strong> <strong>Nibble, Paris Voice, Pisgah Review, Relief, Thieves Jargon</strong>, <strong>Toasted Cheese, Smoking Poet, Wild Goose Poetry Review</strong></em> and many others. In 2009, she was nominated for a Best of the Net Award and a Pushcart Prize. She has lectured at both the high school and university level, and has conducted numerous poetry workshops. Terri lives in Lewisville, NC . She has a beautiful website and welcomes her readers to visit:<br /><a href="http://terrikirbyerickson.wordpress.com/">http://terrikirbyerickson.wordpress.com/</a><br />><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2_kGJ1JseKZ2NxOyuZHU0zOEfAq4YAhxFQhRHZLKtj7WdIGEbIa8FSxkPKfeI1zBNEbOo0PzhVaLajxWd4QXyRkChePja69hwvuGDj0WjdyIgjJAq1e5v1bZojiJ4DSH0yQ-1Ss2NGHs/s1600/thread+count.jpg"></div></a><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407348568338576066" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 151px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 223px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ2_kGJ1JseKZ2NxOyuZHU0zOEfAq4YAhxFQhRHZLKtj7WdIGEbIa8FSxkPKfeI1zBNEbOo0PzhVaLajxWd4QXyRkChePja69hwvuGDj0WjdyIgjJAq1e5v1bZojiJ4DSH0yQ-1Ss2NGHs/s400/thread+count.jpg" border="0" /><br />Terri's first book, <strong><em>Thread Count</em></strong>, was published AuthorHouse in 2006<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPH5DN7_WailrSDNPmF0-_KAcYXosWmIRHoV95ytkgrqpnirWSzpCAOzD9GVQXKU2Bw8hZ3L4N3riZs71C_zjxiEkM6Krnn4A3_3AUtrp8yQS7qKBiAjzIsLw3kd61KsqpKcd8hbN3O8No/s1600/TOD_Cover_web_shadow.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407348566436230626" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 294px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhPH5DN7_WailrSDNPmF0-_KAcYXosWmIRHoV95ytkgrqpnirWSzpCAOzD9GVQXKU2Bw8hZ3L4N3riZs71C_zjxiEkM6Krnn4A3_3AUtrp8yQS7qKBiAjzIsLw3kd61KsqpKcd8hbN3O8No/s400/TOD_Cover_web_shadow.jpg" border="0" /></a> </p><p> </p><p><br /><divexcerpts><strong>Excerpts from <em>Telling Tales of Dusk(</em> 8.5 x 5.5 paperback, $12.00, <a href="http://www.press53.com/">www.press53.com</a>) <br /></strong><br /><strong>Queen Anne’s Lace<br /></strong><br />Queen Anne’s lace dandies up<br />a ditch, like embroidered hankies<br />in a farmer’s pocket.<br /><br />Such tiny seed-pearl petals<br />seem hand-sewn by<br />seraphim to their purple<br /><br />centers—yet they thrive<br />in common places, fine as tatted<br />borders, blanket-stitched to burlap.<br /><br /></p><p> </p><p><br /><strong>Papa Never Learned to Read</strong><br /><br />Granny sat under a shade tree,<br />fanning herself with corn shucks,<br /><br />while Papa stood waist-deep in<br /><br />the river, baptizing. Folks rose up,<br />sputtering, and waded back to shore—<br /><br />their sodden dresses and pant legs<br /><br />heavy against their skin, their souls<br />light as Easter lilies. “I see no need<br /><br />for such as that,” Granny said, to<br /><br />anyone who asked. Still, she read<br />Papa scripture—the words warmed<br /><br />by her breath and scattered into his<br /><br />brain like dandelion seeds—where<br />once a week, they grew into a sermon.<br /><br /></p><p><br /><br /><strong>Washing My Baby’s Hair over the Kitchen Sink<br /></strong><br />There is the weight of her small, solid head in my hand<br />and the feel of warm water, sluicing through her hair.<br />Eyes the soft blue-gray of herons’ wings,<br />follow my new-mother face, glowing.<br />Enthralled with each other, we<br />coo like doves in the milk-<br />scented air that my baby<br />breathes out and I<br />breathe<br />in.<br /><br /><br /><strong>County Fair<br /></strong><br />Pulled like rotten teeth from the open mouths<br />of mineshafts, massive pyramids of gleaming<br />coal dot the landscape of Kanawha County.<br />Coal dust fine and black as pulverized midnight,<br />covers everything for miles. Rows of ramshackle<br />houses kneel by the river like washer women<br />with their knees in river muck, and jagged<br />mountains cut the slate-gray sky<br /><br />to ribbons. But the Kanawha River is long<br />and winding, and leads to a lone Ferris wheel<br />rising up from the bottomland, jaunty<br />as an Easter bonnet. Its rainbow-colored gondolas<br />call to mind a different tune than the dismal dirges<br />of Black Lung and White Damp. They carry the sound<br />of children’s laughter through the ground<br />and into the mines, like light.<br /></p>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-29555316894701360822009-11-17T11:03:00.000-08:002011-08-19T12:47:51.206-07:00A Great Smoky Mountains Book Fair<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbbuCKJ5X7mhcKRvXkadBfT-CJkTSj6sIVZhwKM5TUyXjg_zI-QiMVGS5uYJgtbMAJtDjqETi8D04Qo8_T1z9zKwe5Uiso6SjingHyMNx7Shxg1PzJMcwW_UQexAugk9PieK1-1cs_LWr/s1600-h/smhswinners.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421035920263682642" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJbbuCKJ5X7mhcKRvXkadBfT-CJkTSj6sIVZhwKM5TUyXjg_zI-QiMVGS5uYJgtbMAJtDjqETi8D04Qo8_T1z9zKwe5Uiso6SjingHyMNx7Shxg1PzJMcwW_UQexAugk9PieK1-1cs_LWr/s400/smhswinners.jpg" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 268px;" /></a><i>(High School winners in the Great Smoky Mountains Bookfair Poetry contest: Mandi Dean, Edward Madill, and Nicole Bowers. Photo by Jackie Methven, Smoky Mountain High School, Sylva)</i><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EnTx8dKQnQJzJ_7EjchGOcXXA2XPJCmRyYvL21VkqOSWn5xYR2cMaBnP94PnYD4832IBxFQNEh-hBD2mJfAv1fQDRsP-u0LJlHqZG9XUvboh1BUM5L0x3_g65EFHiDxLHgCkH06eVMm6/s1600/014.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405161916620908338" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4EnTx8dKQnQJzJ_7EjchGOcXXA2XPJCmRyYvL21VkqOSWn5xYR2cMaBnP94PnYD4832IBxFQNEh-hBD2mJfAv1fQDRsP-u0LJlHqZG9XUvboh1BUM5L0x3_g65EFHiDxLHgCkH06eVMm6/s400/014.jpg" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 267px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a> <br />
(<em>The teacher on the left is Jennifer Nation, 6th grade teacher from Macon Middle School. The teacher on the right is Angela Pickens, 2nd grade teacher from Cartoogechaye Elementary School. In between are Allan Wolf, Newt Smith, and K. Byer in the rear, and up front are Caitlin, Celeste, and Brooke</em>.)<br />
As part of this year's Biannual Great Smoky Mountains Bookfair, we invited students from Haywood, Macon, Swain, and Jackson to send us poems for our first Bookfair Poetry Contest. Our categories were grades 1-5, 6-8, and high school. We didn't know what to expect. Would we get any poems? What would they be like? What would they be about?<br />
<br />
<br />
We needn't have worried about the poems. Or the poets. They sent us their poems, our judges Newt Smith and Mary Adams agonized over the rankings, and behold, here are the winners! I know there are other poems in the submissions worthy of attention and enjoyment, though, and I hope to be able to post them in the coming days. We want to thank all the teachers who encouraged their classes to write poems for us, and we send a special thanks to the parents who are raising their children to love language and poetry. I'd also like to thank Newt Smith for his hard work in administering and publicizing the contest.<br />
<br />
<br />
We announced the winners at our Poetry Alive session with Allan Wolf on Saturday afternoon. It was a blast, a rip, a jazzed-up experience with Allan's high energy presentation. The student poets were not intimidated, though. They all stepped right up and read their poems, not a quaver to be detected in their voices. As Laureate, I introduced each one, beginning with the 1-5 grade group.<br />
<br />
Here' is Celeste McCall's winning poem, a praise song for her friend, who loves rice and Chicken (so do I!). Even better, she makes the birds sing when she's around. We all need a friend like this.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Aaliya My Friend</strong><br />
<br />
Your eyes are sparkly brown.<br />
Your favorite food is rice and chicken.<br />
Your favorite sport is gymnastics.<br />
Your favorite vegetable is carrots.<br />
Your favorite fruit is apples.<br />
<br />
Aaliya, you make birds sing when you are around.<br />
You make everything right.<br />
You make me laugh.<br />
<br />
Aaliya, I love you.<br />
<br />
<strong>By Celeste McCall<br />
Grade 2, Cartoogechaye Elementary School<br />
Franklin<br />
Parents: J.J. and Leah McCall<br />
<br />
</strong><strong></strong><br />
<strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzipZZyEtdg2h8bgYSDf_FlqZJtwuMJAxsF7dVCt6FEsvgkBf7ddK0MXvXals-4zWJyNItKIsbcyJPhzxLfXayU9pi0ov0s4w4SRFFXqOfWgvpfsp2pyrlQBh9teikWCBXuEvAbOZ_fG2U/s1600/IMG_5026.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405161924473602370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzipZZyEtdg2h8bgYSDf_FlqZJtwuMJAxsF7dVCt6FEsvgkBf7ddK0MXvXals-4zWJyNItKIsbcyJPhzxLfXayU9pi0ov0s4w4SRFFXqOfWgvpfsp2pyrlQBh9teikWCBXuEvAbOZ_fG2U/s400/IMG_5026.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 262px;" /></a><br />
(Celeste reads her poem.)<br />
</strong><br />
<br />
Monika Palestino took as her subject the rose, that much loved subject. I especially admire how she says, "I/want you to/grow until you/get ready to go." Such a lovely poem. And by a 3rd grader. Was I writing poems like this when I was that age? No indeed.<br />
<br />
<strong>Rose</strong><br />
<br />
You bloom. You’re<br />
red. You’re pretty<br />
and beautiful<br />
and sometimes<br />
big and wide.<br />
<br />
People pick you,<br />
but I don’t. I<br />
want you to<br />
grow until you<br />
get ready to go.<br />
<br />
I take the<br />
petals off<br />
the stem. I<br />
put you in<br />
my Bible to<br />
remember you<br />
always.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Monika Palestino<br />
Grade 3, Blue Ridge School<br />
Cashiers<br />
Parents: Vickie and Zeirele Palestino<br />
<br />
Second Prize, Grades 1-5<br />
</strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUUqZJxf5dwa0RATiIf2jcwFVjNhtu51TzP7C1xs3oiP8WrXpjJvyyrO4L6HZO57QlvLira-cMgSC5uiQzgZOIRJTIH4_0qspb8v55tqJyiqzOf0FxY0C4uY0vRH1wXb7BvDIGxbyEq9z/s1600/IMG_5028.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405161927348431554" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUUqZJxf5dwa0RATiIf2jcwFVjNhtu51TzP7C1xs3oiP8WrXpjJvyyrO4L6HZO57QlvLira-cMgSC5uiQzgZOIRJTIH4_0qspb8v55tqJyiqzOf0FxY0C4uY0vRH1wXb7BvDIGxbyEq9z/s400/IMG_5028.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 310px;" /></a> <br />
(Monika and Ashley pose for photographs.)<br />
<br />
Ashley Foster's <strong>Sunshine </strong>makes me wake up and see sunshine as if for the first time. That light follows her everywhere, yes, it does, and I love her celebration of this everyday miracle.<br />
<strong><br />
Sunshine Everywhere</strong><br />
<br />
I love the sun.<br />
You’re with me.<br />
<br />
Sunshine<br />
here.<br />
Sunshine<br />
there.<br />
Every-<br />
where<br />
I go,<br />
it<br />
follows<br />
me<br />
day<br />
and<br />
night.<br />
I just love<br />
the<br />
morning light.<br />
Sunshine,<br />
sunshine,<br />
everywhere.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Ashley Foster<br />
Grade 3, Blue Ridge School<br />
Cashiers<br />
Parents: Stuart Foster and Cindy Stiwinter<br />
</strong><br />
<strong>Honorable Mention, Grades 1-5<br />
<br />
</strong>Caitlin Parris is a young poet bound to grow into the real thing. Her poem "Kathy" gives us the memorable details of this memorable woman's life. The ending is one I wish I'd written. Those water droplets dancing over the flowers---wonderful!<br />
<br />
<strong>Kathy</strong><br />
<br />
I loved to watch her<br />
in her big sunhat,<br />
wiping the sweat<br />
from her face,<br />
kneeling on the ground<br />
like she was praying.<br />
<br />
The flowers she planted<br />
were the most beautiful things<br />
I have ever seen.<br />
<br />
When she watered them,<br />
the water would dance across them,<br />
the sun shining over them.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Caitlin Parris<br />
Grade 6, Macon Middle School<br />
Parents: Angela and Kevin Jump<br />
<br />
</strong><br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03-MNI16VEujx7tdR5mg_c-THNfDFUmXtvZsfbvxSQ512rdg9Khrhx5xKUW_F_4jFgo7_fPGeRNYeor-5QJG5J2a_ApZZuRMuWolewNx2BWzxroAyNsFAmaNhyphenhyphenIpWqR2BKaE48wdSdDOT/s1600/IMG_5029.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405161932906349250" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi03-MNI16VEujx7tdR5mg_c-THNfDFUmXtvZsfbvxSQ512rdg9Khrhx5xKUW_F_4jFgo7_fPGeRNYeor-5QJG5J2a_ApZZuRMuWolewNx2BWzxroAyNsFAmaNhyphenhyphenIpWqR2BKaE48wdSdDOT/s400/IMG_5029.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 300px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 400px;" /></a><br />
<br />
<strong>First Prize, Grades 6-8<br />
</strong><br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
Collaborative poems are fun to write; here's one that knocked our socks off (How do you knock socks off, I wonder? That's a phrase these poets ought to take as their next subject!) Brooke and Allan Wolf had a good time performing this one. Damon couldn't attend.<br />
<br />
<strong>Braces</strong><br />
Under bite-----------------------Under bite<br />
two years ----------------------- three years<br />
Railroad tracks ------------------Metal Mouth<br />
Brace Face---------------------- Tin Grin<br />
Mouth Open--------------------- Stretched a mile<br />
Ow! -----------------------------Ow!<br />
Thread--------------------------- the floss<br />
up, -------------------------------down.<br />
Ow!------------------------------ Ow!<br />
Food stuck------------------------ Tongue it out.<br />
snthsn. ---------------------------snthsn.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Damon Johnson and Brooke Watson<br />
Grade 6, Macon Middle School<br />
Parents: Dennis and Diana Johnson<br />
and Kevin and Dawn Watson<br />
<br />
<br />
</strong>Second Prize, Grades 6-8<br />
<br />
<br />
Edward Madill will soon give Allan Wolf a run for his poetic money when it comes to bringing a poem alive for an audience. This is a witty, perfectly paced poem that leaves us with a profound sense of what the poet calls "the mystery of life."<br />
<br />
<strong>Your Mom</strong><br />
<br />
Your mom thinks she can talk,<br />
To animals.<br />
Which is cool….<br />
But I still get freaked out,<br />
Especially when she looks at my cat in the eye and<br />
Sincerely asks him<br />
“What’s wrong.”<br />
<br />
To this my cat licks himself<br />
(there were a couple of grungy spots).<br />
He saunters over to the litter box and pees.<br />
I smell a whiff of ammonia.<br />
Your mom sulks to the living room couch,<br />
dejectedly,<br />
Audubon prints hanging in the<br />
corner.<br />
<br />
Your mom thinks she can talk,<br />
To animals.<br />
Which is cool….<br />
But every time I see her walk past your “pets”<br />
(The man you keep in the hamster cage,<br />
the woman that lives in that cute miniature house<br />
Out in your front yard,<br />
Or even you—<br />
With your nice nose and your okay figure),<br />
I want to say:<br />
<br />
“Hey!<br />
Not only did you confuse the<br />
Piss out of my cat,<br />
But none of us know<br />
What’s going on in your head….<br />
Which is not cool.”<br />
<br />
And I still remember that day when you asked:<br />
“Doesn’t everyone’s mommy talk to animals?”<br />
And for show and tell you brought in a poem,<br />
Dictated to your mom by your parakeet.<br />
<br />
<br />
And all the while<br />
In the background of your house,<br />
People whisper unheard syllables<br />
About the sun, the moon, and the stars<br />
(And maybe<br />
Something about the circle of life,<br />
Our place in the world, and all those questions<br />
That keep us up at night)<br />
To the thinning air,<br />
<br />
Near the only window in your house.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Edward Madill<br />
Grade 12, Smoky Mountain High School<br />
Sylva<br />
Parents: Debbi and Ted Madill<br />
<br />
</strong><br />
First Prize, Grades 9-12<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQNaE19u-0g4wtI3rUnazNp2StKWuIO43JXXzLJU58xlTu4k5e22iyiDWxYM5v-BzJ-aGxwj0Qia8sIayQLX-dN1GQ48_fQnXQEWzfn9HNxfHhp4VcEuC78UC-Fu0CVS1oiGZnu0P1qFZ/s1600/IMG_5027.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405161921562996370" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbQNaE19u-0g4wtI3rUnazNp2StKWuIO43JXXzLJU58xlTu4k5e22iyiDWxYM5v-BzJ-aGxwj0Qia8sIayQLX-dN1GQ48_fQnXQEWzfn9HNxfHhp4VcEuC78UC-Fu0CVS1oiGZnu0P1qFZ/s400/IMG_5027.JPG" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 400px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 256px;" /></a><br />
(Edward Madill receives his check and certificate.)<br />
<br />
I was so glad to see a sonnet, a real sonnet among the winners. I've seen too many fourteen liners whose poets call them sonnets when they really don't have any of the sonnet's earmarks. The ear is where the sonnet lives; just listen to the rhythm and rhyme of this poem.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>The World’s Music</strong><br />
<br />
The noise that’s all around me fills my ears—<br />
The bouncing, laughing, bubbly shrieks of glee.<br />
A cry, a shout, and eyes welled up with tears;<br />
Arpeggios formed in oddest harmony.<br />
The school of bricks that looms two stories tall,<br />
It swallows me into its rooms of chance,<br />
With colors swirled on boards and down the hall,<br />
And waves of voices twirling in their dance.<br />
And when I seek my place of solitude<br />
The trees whisper their stories to the wind.<br />
The grasses sway and sunlight lifts my mood,<br />
While birds sing under skies that have no end.<br />
The music of the world is part of me,<br />
And with it from the world I am now free.<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Mandi Dean<br />
Grade 10, Smoky Mountain High School<br />
Parents: Jim and Lisa Dean<br />
</strong><br />
<strong>Second Prize, Grades 9-12<br />
</strong><br />
Nicole Bowers asks some of the most important questions a young woman can ask and she does this without sounding self-pitying. On the contrary she sounds mature and self-aware. Poetry enables her to say "out loud" what so many of us keep silent.<br />
<br />
<strong>Is it Bad?</strong><br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I don’t believe in myself enough to say “that hurt”?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I can’t say what my brain harbors and locks for days?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That even though on the outside<br />
I am shining,<br />
But so much more is wrong?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I, a passable and pensive little girl,<br />
Can’t decide what to do<br />
On my own?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I, even though I try, am still scared out of<br />
My mind to tell how bad<br />
That hurt?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I, build walls, and block everyone off<br />
To keep them from knowing<br />
How I<br />
Really feel?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I get jealous,<br />
And want so badly to be<br />
That?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I could never, even if the world were ending<br />
Could say this out loud?<br />
<br />
Is it bad<br />
That I am<br />
Quiet?<br />
<br />
<br />
<strong>Nicole Bowers<br />
Grade 10, Smoky Mountain High School<br />
Sylva </strong><br />
<br />
<strong>Honorable Mention, Grades 9-12 </strong><br />
<strong></strong><br />
<strong>Thank you, thank you to the students, teachers and parents who helped make this project a succes!</strong>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-61709792932308915842009-11-13T10:17:00.000-08:002009-11-13T10:21:13.853-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: MICHAEL CHITWOOD<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbkBa-nqz_vb_c9thMxFKDpfUT5_S25KGxdpZFCMuk_Qsks6lA8q3xyiEwsskEndJVEcNFAvm9q563I4o3EEpLuqzbBhkYIXErksJbP8EIFmZksMISWe6j6BjT7JeHNUtoGcHWGxNckCUL/s1600-h/chitwood_01_dla.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397052499627222370" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 400px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 267px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbkBa-nqz_vb_c9thMxFKDpfUT5_S25KGxdpZFCMuk_Qsks6lA8q3xyiEwsskEndJVEcNFAvm9q563I4o3EEpLuqzbBhkYIXErksJbP8EIFmZksMISWe6j6BjT7JeHNUtoGcHWGxNckCUL/s400/chitwood_01_dla.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Michael Chitwood is a free-lance writer and a lecturer at the University of North Carolina. His poetry and fiction have appeared in <em>The Atlantic Monthly, Poetry, The New Republic, Threepenny Review, Virginia Quarterly Review, Field, The </em><em>Georgia Review </em>and numerous other journals. Ohio Review Books has published two books of his poetry--<strong>Salt Wor</strong>ks (1992) and <strong>Whet</strong> (1995). His third book, <strong>The Weave R</strong>oom, was published by The University of Chicago Press in the Phoenix Poets series (1998). His collection of essays, <strong>Hitting Below the Bible Belt</strong>, was published by Down Home Press in 1998. <strong>Gospel Road Going</strong>, a collection of poems about his native Appalachia, was published in 2002 and was awarded the 2003 Roanoke-Chowan Prize for Poetry. In 2006, he published a collection of essays and short stories called <strong>Finishing Touches</strong>. His collection of poetry <strong>From Wh</strong>ence was released in March 2007 from Louisiana State University Press. Tupelo Press published his book <strong>Spill</strong> in October of 2007. Spill was named as a finalist for <strong>ForeWard</strong> magazine’s poetry book of the year and won the 2008 Roanoke-Chowan Prize.<br /><br />The following poems are from Michael's collection published by LSU Press, <strong>From Whence.</strong><br /><div> </div><br /><div><strong>At the Wilco with some Founding Fathers</strong><br /><br /><br />Down the Havoline, Quaker State aisle<br />goes Jefferson, if his shirt can be believed.<br />The red stitching over the right pocket<br />proclaims this man to be a namesake<br />of the author of the Declaration of Independence<br />and if you can’t believe a man’s shirt<br />what are you going to believe?<br />Hamilton, what a strange coincidence,<br />doubts aloud that the cashier<br />cannot access the safe and Franklin,<br />spook me out, is eyeing the better wines<br />while recommending the Appalachian spring water.<br />It’s all here—White Rain hairstyling spray, tic tacs,<br />flashlights, corn chips and nation-makers.<br />And now Jefferson, who wanted to be remembered<br />for penning Virginia’s statute on religious freedom,<br />says a standing silent prayer over a chili dog<br />before taking a bite and heading out<br />through the calibrated doors, he’s nearly six feet I see,<br />into the republic of Friday morning<br /><br /><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>Basement Barber</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />Here were said the words men say.<br />The oil stove winked its slit black eye;<br />it knew they did not have their way.<br /><br />A whitetail made for the edge of the page.<br />Vitalis came before the talc.<br />My father’s dark hair began to fade.<br /><br />Barrelhead Thurman palmed my scalp,<br />knuckled my ear when he was done<br />just to hear a little boy yelp.<br /><br />They rode, hats off, through years of lies<br />on bus seats the county junked,<br />out-fished, out-hunted the ones who’d died.<br /><br />My father’s dark hair began to fade.<br />The oil stove winked its slit black eye.<br />It knew he did not have his way.<br /><br />The dead grow long and beautiful hair.<br />They have said what they had to say<br />to stir that basement’s damp, sweet air.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Morning Walk, Holden Beach</strong><br />for Tom Andrews<br /><br />Ghost moon in the upper right-hand corner<br />where we used to write our names—<br /><br />Is it quiet there, Tom,<br />adrift from your drift of ashes?<br /><br />I strike out towards the rising sun,<br />your blank blue, your murmur in surf<br /><br />to my right, dunes and salt-blasted beachfronts<br />to my left. I can still see<br /><br />the scribblings sand crabs left<br />in their nightly scurry for the day’s discards.<br /><br />This page, like all the others, will be erased<br />soon, but for now there’s a line or two.<br /><br />The waves unscroll their best bond,<br />a finish like a mirror under the sandpipers.<br /><br />You’d like that, I think, text as pure reflection,<br />no scuff of us to mar the brief recording.<br /><br />There are no hills here to look to for help<br />though the ocean seems upgrade at the horizon.<br /><br />I sing a little under my breath, as the saying goes—<br />old JT, Dylan, even that God-awful<br /><br />song about West Virginia where your urn lies,<br />my honest friend, at Point Pleasant.<br /><br />The sun’s up now, full, and gulls yuck<br />at their own stand-up. I smell coffee<br /><br />and turn, my back to the sun’s hot yolk,<br />to head for home, following my shadow.<br /><br /><strong>Men Throwing Bricks</strong><br /><br /><br />The one on the ground lofts two at a time<br />with just the right lift for them to finish<br />their rise as the one on the scaffold turns<br />to accept them like a gift and place them<br />on the growing stack. They chime slightly<br />on the catch. You’d have to do this daily,<br />morning and afternoon, not to marvel.<br /><br /><br /><strong>The One Day</strong><br /><br /><br /><br />We were behind on the job<br />so waited out the rain in the pickup.<br />Because the backhoe would mire<br />he shouldered the four-foot pipe joints<br />and brought them to us in the ditch.<br />The red mud clutched and tugged at his boots<br />and Bill laughed at his “Swan Lake”<br />as he fought through, lurching and staggering<br />when the mud would suddenly let go.<br />But he kept them coming, lugging the red joints<br />to us and then slogging back for another<br />while we slid on the gasket and fit the pipes together.<br />You can see how, pushing like that, he wound up,<br />two years later, with the tiny plastic piping of IVs<br />feeding into both arms and the three drainage tubes<br />snaking from under the patch on his chest.<br />His skin was a shade away from being same as the sheet<br />when I saw him in the ICU,<br />and he couldn’t have lifted the drinking straw<br />on the bedside tray.<br />But that one day he brought two hundred yards of pipe<br />and even the red earth couldn’t stop him.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-62776525019195077702009-10-31T15:11:00.000-07:002009-11-04T14:02:13.519-08:00POET OF THE WEEK: PETER BLAIR<div>While judging the Nazim Hikment Festival poetry contest last spring, I kept coming back to a set of poem that moved me with their perspective and their language. They turned out to be by Peter Blair, a widely published poet who is now teaching at UNC-Charlotte. Peter did not make the final list of winners, but his poems stayed with me. They deserve a wide readership.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6m5vJl-CdPk_im15jSX7_sRnfDUwTjdHqfkdf81qzguknBUkVHt_e9Q5sesOtnfbVMEURdjPzWn1f6j4REaBRlzvoafjW-2v0fdBD7J7KsJRfk3_-wtx3OQ_t0vOdQozdxVWoOyBV6ga/s1600-h/LARGEsalt.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396664250063291554" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 312px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhY6m5vJl-CdPk_im15jSX7_sRnfDUwTjdHqfkdf81qzguknBUkVHt_e9Q5sesOtnfbVMEURdjPzWn1f6j4REaBRlzvoafjW-2v0fdBD7J7KsJRfk3_-wtx3OQ_t0vOdQozdxVWoOyBV6ga/s400/LARGEsalt.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />(See review at end of post)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhI7F18NdklFH2o3pJamJFve52MAn4YF5pCJn5w8cejD2ko6e2FZKpTlLk3yMq_nJR3BM4tFJzR4sVmqCDP3O2_TecIKi7EEZt97pMOMRHa0Qaxzcce24cX2QTOmd8mpw_F5qoHU-7oez/s1600-h/ENGL_blair.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396664242137198018" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 100px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZhI7F18NdklFH2o3pJamJFve52MAn4YF5pCJn5w8cejD2ko6e2FZKpTlLk3yMq_nJR3BM4tFJzR4sVmqCDP3O2_TecIKi7EEZt97pMOMRHa0Qaxzcce24cX2QTOmd8mpw_F5qoHU-7oez/s400/ENGL_blair.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Peter Blair’s first full-length book <strong>Last Heat</strong>, won the 1999 Washington Prize and was published by Word Works Press. Born in Pittsburgh, he has worked in a psychiatric ward and a steel mill, and served three years in the Peace Corps in Thailand.<br />Peter Blair has a Ph.D. in American Literature from the University of Iowa. He has worked in a steel mill, a psychiatric ward, and served three years in the Peace Corps in Thailand. He has published three chapbooks, INSIDE THE TRACKHOE, A ROUND, FAIR DISTANCE FROM THE FURNACE, and FURNACE GREENS all of which won national contests. His first full-length collection, LAST HEAT, won the 1999 Washington Prize and is forthcoming in February from Word Works Press. About his work, Alicia Ostriker has written:<br /><br />"Peter Blair's poetry takes me right inside a place I've never been, the working life of a steel mill. God is in the details, and they are good and strong here."<br /><br />His poems have appeared in CRAZYHORSE, RIVER CITY, POETRY EAST, and WEST BRANCH. He has received two Pennsylvania Council On the Arts Grants for poetry.<br /><br />Peter lives in Charlotte, NC, with his wife and son.<br /><br /><strong>Walking the Crosses with Jim Villano</strong>,<br /><br />St. Vincent College Reunion<br /><br /><br /><br />The newly cut grass over the graves<br /><br />of the Benedictine monks says what<br /><br />it always says: I’m green. I grow. I die.<br /><br /><br /><br />The metal crosses marking each plot<br /><br />line up over the hill, contoured<br /><br />to the dips and knolls of the land.<br /><br /><br /><br />They proclaim their names and dates,<br /><br />like an inevitable iron grass that says what iron<br /><br />always says: I was hot. I cooled. I rust.<br /><br /><br /><br />Jim and I walk to the end of the line,<br /><br />the most recent crosses, Father Ronald,<br /><br />Father Alexander. We talk about all-nighters<br /><br /><br /><br />studying for Father Alex’s economics finals,<br /><br />Macro and Micro. Ronald, the Academic<br /><br />Dean, knew all the favorite student haunts<br /><br /><br /><br />off campus, told my father what he wanted<br /><br />to hear: that I should be a Bio. major to get in<br /><br />to Med. School. Heads down, eyes on the graves<br /><br /><br /><br />where the crosses enter the earth, we can’t<br /><br />say what we’re thinking. So we let the wind<br /><br />whisper and lisp, what the wind always<br /><br /><br /><br />says, I rush. I sigh. I’m nothing.<br /><br /><br /><br />____________________________________________________________________<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Discussing the Dream of Culture with Professor Kwaam </strong><br /><br />At the corner of Somprasong and Petchaburi<br /><br />we sit at a rickety metal table. Our soup steams<br /><br />in sidewalk sunlight. Cars crawl on the street<br /><br />like the streams of ants up and down the shop wall.<br /><br />His shiny head fuzzed with new hair,<br /><br />eyebrows shaved clean, Kwaam smiles, ethereal,<br /><br />kind: Thai and American cultures, two dreams<br /><br />of one world, the Dharma. A few months ago<br /><br />he taught me Thai and how to read palms:<br /><br />A good way to hold hands with a girl. He winked.<br /><br />Now, he's one day out of a monastery and saffron<br /><br />robes. Noodles slip off my novice chopsticks.<br /><br />My soup darkened by soy sauce, peanuts,<br /><br />sugar, the strands disappear in my bowl.<br /><br />Kwaam's noodles twine in clear broth.<br /><br /><br /><br />At the plywood counter, I buy another soup.<br /><br />The cook dunks a strainer of beef chunks<br /><br />in boiling water. The red meat turns gray<br /><br />and rubbery in bubbling froth. He dumps them<br /><br />into a bowl with cilantro, sprouts, broth<br /><br />and a fleshy lump of noodles. So, what is Dharma?<br /><br />I set the dish on the table. Dharma is the empty<br /><br />bowl. Joking, again. The sky's blue, like a bowl<br /><br />overturned on market stalls and bleached<br /><br />white buildings. The abbot took us to an autopsy.<br /><br />They cut open a woman, removed the heart,<br /><br />liver, intestines. He tells me about shriveled skin,<br /><br />hollow rib cages arching over tables,<br /><br />pails of limp, gray organs. Dharma.<br /><br /><br /><br />My soup steams. My abdomen's distended.<br /><br />The market gurgles ageless sounds around us.<br /><br />I can't look at Kwaam's sad, triumphant smile,<br /><br />or the emptiness deepening in his sunlit bowl.<br /><br /><br /><br />Previously published in <strong>Visions International</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The following were orginally published in <strong>Poetry</strong> magazine.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Bangkok, First day</strong><br />1<br /><br />100 off the plane.<br />Humid jet-fuel fumes<br />mingle with the jasmine lei<br />the Education Ministry staffer<br />eases around my neck.<br />In the distance<br />a mountain rises:<br />sapphire smog.<br /><br />2<br /><br />We drink quart beers at noon<br />in the outdoor market. Bright<br />blue tabletops. Tarps block<br />the white hot sun among whiffs<br />of charcoal and sweet coconut curry.<br />In the cool shadows of an overpass,<br />Pepsi crates totter on ice chunks<br />hidden under rags and sawdust.<br />Flames leap from a nearby wok.<br />The cook smiles: "Pak Fay, green<br />vegetables of fire. Eat them and cry."<br /><br />3<br /><br />On a blanket by the sidewalk,<br />people passing, a man's calloused toes<br />grip bamboo strands, thread them<br />through a round frame. His arm stumps<br />twitch above his lifting<br />calves and flexing knees. Beside him,<br />a stack of baskets grows on the cement.<br /><br />4<br /><br />At the temple, pineapple wedges<br />stacked crosswise gleam<br />on the vendor's cart, sliced<br />sunshine, brilliant<br />as the gold leaf peeling<br />from Buddha's face.<br /><br />5<br /><br />The exhaust-filled surges<br />of taxis, busses, trucks<br />thunder by the child<br />islanded in the intersection.<br />The twilight sun thickens<br />the air around him. He sells<br />jasmine flowers, holds them<br />dangling high over his head<br />as if saving them from a flood.<br /><br />6<br /><br />In a restaurant we order "soup."<br />Knotty viscera, tough gray rings,<br />and burgundy blood cubes<br />gleam in steamy broth.<br />"Come on," Ed laughs.<br />"Eat your entrails."<br /><br />7<br /><br />In the Mississippi<br />Queen on Patpong Road, her hands<br />rub my back, silky snakes<br />up and down my spine.<br />Swaying on platforms, girls<br />dance in bikinis, hypnotic<br />in swirls of incense and bar smoke.<br />I watch her oval sienna face<br />in the mirror's steamboat glitter,<br />eclipsed by naked legs. She whispers,<br />in my ear, "I do anything<br />for you. Try me."<br /><br />8<br /><br />"No one sleeps till dawn,"<br />we all say, walking, 4 am.<br />In a market gearing up<br />for morning, bloody eyes.<br />A just-slaughtered<br />buffalo's skull watches us<br />from behind the red mound<br />of its butchered flesh.<br /><br />9<br /><br />A sucking "woof," like a snuffed<br />candle flame against<br />my ear, the stone<br />clatters into metal<br />shop gates. "Farang! Foreigner!"<br />floats in from wherever<br />my fear is. We turn,<br />and six trishaw drivers lounge,<br />feet up on handlebars,<br />across the street.<br /><br />Bangkok Roundabout<br /><br />Movie billboards blot out a six-story building.<br />"This Week": a bare-chested man kung-fu kicks<br />on a flaming yellow background, leaps over<br />tiny scampering armies while cities burn.<br />"Coming Soon": a prisoner, handcuffed in blue rags,<br />towers sadly over the sidewalk. In painted insets,<br />a judge ponders scales, a woman fingers a gun.<br /><br />Below, where the scaffold-poles rise from grass,<br />families live. A mother shifts a steaming pot<br />on a charcoal brazier. Her boy chases chickens.<br />Their laundry hangs under the burning cities<br />and the huge feet of the prisoner.<br /><br />(originally appeared in PIGEON CREEK)<br /><br />Friday For the River<br /><br />After work, you bring a yellow envelope<br />stuffed with tips from The Wheel Cafe.<br />My check from St. Francis Hospital<br />bears the saint's image, arms raised in prayer.<br />This week we had two on suicide watch,<br />and a schizophrenic wrote his name in shit<br />on the quiet room wall. We stroll into the cold,<br />windless evening. It's Friday, an illusion<br />of completeness upon us. Walking twilit streets<br />to the river, we pass people jostling home<br />or cramming into happy hours. Lights switch on<br />along the wharf, and the sky's muted blue<br />corona fades behind Coal Hill.<br /><br />The river gives back everything<br />the sky sends down. The bridge arcs into<br />its reflection, a perfect ellipse of girders.<br />The hill carries its dark complement, houses<br />clinging to its underbelly. Along West End,<br />the lamps set down spikes of light<br />that shiver in the gloom of the river bend,<br />the water surface invisible. You lean<br />against me, your eyes luminous<br />as the blue water. We look over the levee,<br />down into a stillness that contains us,<br />a stillness where a red full moon rises<br />into the depths of the Allegheny.<br /><br />© All Copyright, 2000, Peter Blair.<br />All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />THE DIVINE SALT<br />by Peter Blair<br />Autumn House Press (2003) 64 pages<br />ISBN 0969941977, Poetry<br /><br />One of the qualities I admire most in a poet is good judgment, and Peter Blair has it in ample supply. In The Divine Salt, Blair tackles a tough subject gracefully with poems about his experiences as an aide in the psychiatric ward of St. Francis Hospital in Pennsylvania.<br /><br />His good judgment shows up first in the all-important choice of the opening poem, “Driving to Work,” which perfectly sets the tone of the collection. St. Francis Hospital/ looms above Bloomfield,/ two wings of burnt brick, its medieval/ spire a dark candle flame./ I’ve seared my mind in its heat:/ belted men to a steel bed/ . . . walked them/out of electroshock. . . With this passage, Blair establishes himself as both a participant and a witness to the inescapable emotional brutality of life—if you can call it that—in a psychiatric ward populated with characters who suffer from acute mental illness, are often tormented and sometimes violent.<br /><br />As a witness, the author is always present in the poems, though he wisely keeps the focus on the subject—usually a patient—rather than himself. In doing so, he tells a ripping good narrative in language that is plain but compelling, while managing to keep enough emotional distance from his subjects to avoid melodrama. In “Donna Lee Polito,” the speaker is a psychiatric aide (the author, based on his bio), who escorts a female patient from one floor of the hospital to another. We learn that the patient has been improving, or so it appears: this is her first time off the locked floor/ in months. . ./ She’s tried suicide five times in three years. . ./ She’s been fine for weeks: helpful, bright, written on her chart. Confident of her cooperation, the aide is stunned when Donna Lee makes a break for it. He chases her down the street, but she gets away. From the eighth floor window, nurses watched/ her run, a tiny wavering figure, escaping/ all of us. . . She jumped this time,/ vaulting over the red railing from the high cement/ of the Bloomfield Bridge down/ to railroad tracks and scrubby trees.<br /><br />The action and drama of the events depicted in Donna Lee’s rush to suicide are quite enough for the reader to handle without having the author report on his feelings. Assuming this is either a true story or based on real events, the author/narrator must have been devastated. Again, Blair has the good judgment to report the events objectively. It is only later, in “Lunch Break Between Wings,” that he chooses to let us see his remorse, and even here, he writes with commendable restraint: A cyclone of leaves and dust whirls/ . . . like the blinding/ restless grief// she must have felt on the bridge, high/ above the ragged treetops, Donna Lee,/ lost in the air// above the tracks. The rustling wind dusts my eyes. The passage ends with his too-late lament, Donna Lee, don’t leave.<br /><br />In “St. Francis Night Shift,” Blair speaks directly to the irony of trying to help people who don’t want to be helped. I’m an aide, but who do I aid,/ holding a patient down,/ as the nurse peels off jeans and underwear/ to expose the white flank of buttock/ to the needle? In “Doctor Strong,” a code phrase for “patient is violent, we need help!” we learn that Blair is sometimes the one helped and at other times, the helper. Sometimes I am Dr. Strong: my hands pin elbows and forearms, or pry a patient’s hand from an aide’s neck.<br /><br />I looked up the web site for St. Francis hospitals (there are many, all associated with the Catholic Order of St. Francis). One of their guiding principles is that they “never make inappropriate or negative remarks” about their patients. Though many of the characters in this collection behave quite badly—punching out the medical staff, screaming, soiling their sheets—Blair holds true to this Franciscan ideal throughout the book. Not once does he stoop to disparage those who are afflicted with mental illness.<br /><br />The title poem bears an epigraph in which the author reminds us that St. Francis himself was sometimes “laughed at as a lunatic and driven away with many insults and stones.” In contrast, The Divine Salt regards the mentally ill with compassion and respect. St. Francis would have been pleased.<br /><br />Richard Allen Taylor<br /><br /><br /></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-60895827378425666242009-10-28T13:50:00.000-07:002009-11-01T11:48:32.082-08:00THE SOUL TREE: POEMS AND PHOTOGRAPHS OF THE SOUTHERN APPALACHIANS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXDy11cjhIXJtiOCpzja7jbEF9lYL9Ty5HTXTjF2m0oKG3wJrPH-KH2RngJBFKMfJcGehw1RelHTSyBORv1YV1iswD_X9y1B_jBZHlfwLxN78VWoR8uqXwvbIbSHF7okz2zFYrFgvkzfG/s1600-h/soul+tree.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397759470768343778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 334px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 350px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAXDy11cjhIXJtiOCpzja7jbEF9lYL9Ty5HTXTjF2m0oKG3wJrPH-KH2RngJBFKMfJcGehw1RelHTSyBORv1YV1iswD_X9y1B_jBZHlfwLxN78VWoR8uqXwvbIbSHF7okz2zFYrFgvkzfG/s400/soul+tree.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Published and printed in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Asheville</span>, North Carolina by<a href="http://gratefulsteps.com/gsstore/Scripts/prodView.asp?idproduct=38"> Grateful Steps Publishing</a>.<br /><br /><strong>The poet and photographer will be at the Great Smoky Mountains <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Book fair</span>. The Soul Tree would make a perfect Christmas Gift. Or several. </strong><br /><br />To say that Laura Hope-Gill and John Fletcher, Jr. have put together one of the most beautiful books I've ever seen would be an understatement. Here is a collaboration that expands the definition of that word. It's a seamlessly <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">interwoven</span> collection of words and images that invite and inspire, in the the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">original</span> meaning of that over-used term. Laura's poems show the depths of her poetic "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">inseeing</span>, " Rilke calls it, and Fletcher's photographs open up the landscape that Laura sings into being with her words. <strong>The Soul Tree</strong> speaks to the landscapes of <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">internal</span> and exterior reality. In this collection those two landscapes have found harmony <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">through</span> two artists working together in celebration of what they love.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VGZ7imPiWBZyqpQl3J0O1oAbXnjmwU7eCB_-53Oq9CRVZ0w76qtLtU8oXM-qSWikX2UPLlW2DepWu77Oqt1wE6Ph6il9LswHUxuugCYa3J5DWx1jtm0HRNXd56SXoUeXJyIURJXNc1qh/s1600-h/lauraandjohn.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397760095003156226" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 232px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 170px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7VGZ7imPiWBZyqpQl3J0O1oAbXnjmwU7eCB_-53Oq9CRVZ0w76qtLtU8oXM-qSWikX2UPLlW2DepWu77Oqt1wE6Ph6il9LswHUxuugCYa3J5DWx1jtm0HRNXd56SXoUeXJyIURJXNc1qh/s400/lauraandjohn.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />Laura Hope-Gill is in the process of being certified as a Certified Applied Poetry Facilitator by the National Federation for Poetry Therapy, working under the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">mentorship</span> of poet and psychotherapist <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Perie</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Longo</span>. The Director of <strong><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Asheville</span> <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Wordfest</span></strong>, a free poetry festival which presents poetry as Citizen Journalism, she consciously pursues ways of revealing poetry’s relevance to every-day life and not merely an “art form” whose only use is to beautiful. <strong>The Soul Tree: Poems and Photographs of the Southern Appalachians</strong> (Grateful Steps, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Asheville</span>) is a collaboration with local photographer John Fletcher, Jr. and is an application of her vision of poetry as a conversation between inner and outer worlds.<br /><br /><br /><br />Renowned photographer John Fletcher has this to say about the beginnings of their collaboration.<br /><br />"After visiting my landscapes website in the spring of 2008, Laura replied with an email containing an attachment titled, 'The Soul Tree.' I was stunned after reading the poem, then I noticed that there were 35 more pages to the document. My jaw dropped a little lower each time I scrolled to the next poem…36 in all. I was speechless.Not only was her writing beautiful and poignant, but her poetry brought new life to the photographs. I was also quite overwhelmed by her choice of photos…not the pretty sunset pictures that most people like. She was inspired by the photos that were my favorites…the mysterious and more abstract images that I feel personify my experience and observations.<br /><br /><br /><br />Today I continue this pursuit by working as a staff<br />photographer for the <em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Asheville</span> Citizen-Times</em>, shooting<br />weddings, and freelancing for regional and national<br />clients including, <em>USA Today, The Associated Press</em>,<br /><em><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">MSNBC</span>, The Washington Post, The New York Times</em>, and<br />the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Asheville</span> Chamber of Commerce."<br /><br /><p></p><p>Images and poems from <strong>The Soul Tree</strong> may be found at <a href="http://www.thsoultree.org/">http://www.thsoultree.org/</a>, along with ordering information and more about the two artists who have brought this lovely book into existence.<br /></p><p>Here are two pages from the book. </p><p></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdZTI91OTuP5bU2URV0scaaRXCu_eTS5ecVd59atTXxXsq69yp6tLrh4gJrk_GFQ4iaNscb-v7AdfwI9I880NAkVGeoDD_5QFvmsq8VLvWSxuwVwXn2Brk-53GB_RWO8zeKvOJaKCXhqd/s1600-h/from+soul+tree.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397760101599568354" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 448px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 203px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZdZTI91OTuP5bU2URV0scaaRXCu_eTS5ecVd59atTXxXsq69yp6tLrh4gJrk_GFQ4iaNscb-v7AdfwI9I880NAkVGeoDD_5QFvmsq8VLvWSxuwVwXn2Brk-53GB_RWO8zeKvOJaKCXhqd/s400/from+soul+tree.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqeJH8IM2u_2W2-y2PCQwnXn9POTV04bU2gSzXP5ma4NoPBGqs7S3sRPEzffj4ymk1kEfNnA8U2nm6PhoJ51LGF7FGAWmoaebYBcSNM_51CKnzUPo5GFhQVjINL_vtoFjwnJN2mfLKUTQ/s1600-h/soultr.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397760106693983922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 445px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 203px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirqeJH8IM2u_2W2-y2PCQwnXn9POTV04bU2gSzXP5ma4NoPBGqs7S3sRPEzffj4ymk1kEfNnA8U2nm6PhoJ51LGF7FGAWmoaebYBcSNM_51CKnzUPo5GFhQVjINL_vtoFjwnJN2mfLKUTQ/s400/soultr.jpg" border="0" /></a>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-51025337663564652272009-10-25T11:17:00.000-07:002009-10-26T14:16:14.104-07:00COLLOQUY IN BLACK AND WHITE by NANCY DILLINGHAM<div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41-DD4_SClFojR8UsmE-4594Z6cyp6FoCTD7qiCxJpnrWzzX72Pzmip0nSL2QsXvhA9pvxCP-wV424HrxsrioCf5Br40Tzf64S2JyyL4TspCZeOG961dMw0icyHuAmkpM32cuxDYD6ups/s1600-h/colloquy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394006628416585778" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 272px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj41-DD4_SClFojR8UsmE-4594Z6cyp6FoCTD7qiCxJpnrWzzX72Pzmip0nSL2QsXvhA9pvxCP-wV424HrxsrioCf5Br40Tzf64S2JyyL4TspCZeOG961dMw0icyHuAmkpM32cuxDYD6ups/s400/colloquy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Nancy Dillingham has a new book of poetry out from Catawba Publishers (<a href="http:///">www.catawbapublishing.com</a>) titled <strong>Colloquy in Black</strong> <strong>and White.</strong> The poems are sometimes stark, always accessible. Nancy is a 6th generation Dillinghamm from Big Ivy in western North Carolina. She has published several books of poetry, as well as essays and articles. She lives in Asheville with her cat named Serendipity. </div><br /><div> </div><br /><div>Nancy has been growing by leaps and bounds as a poet, and this new collection shows ample evidence of her growth. She is becoming a fearless poet, taking on subjects that might daunt others. She's a mountain woman who knows her landscape and its dark places well. </div><br /><div>She can confront them, all the while singing the light and the love of place. She reads widely, she listens, she challenges herself, without losing the moorings that keep her steady as a poet and an inhabitant of these mountains. She will be at the Great Smoky Mountains Book Fair, and I hope that other festivals and reading series across the state will begin to take notice of her work.<br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt7K5t21Z-MpoPA5V74ffl8ZaD9526DAf8fDfiXi3qna_cNNUGodlOazh98cdLSzoxPCvpO1qJf1SrCF6mCIw5ZoeA4KRXcv88cj1SyIqW17d2Mc6c1hG3y9Dk7zaNFtB7wk25E6jtGUd/s1600-h/NANC05B2.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394042908957064418" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 266px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 299px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtt7K5t21Z-MpoPA5V74ffl8ZaD9526DAf8fDfiXi3qna_cNNUGodlOazh98cdLSzoxPCvpO1qJf1SrCF6mCIw5ZoeA4KRXcv88cj1SyIqW17d2Mc6c1hG3y9Dk7zaNFtB7wk25E6jtGUd/s400/NANC05B2.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><strong>Suite on Love</strong><br /><br />Sitting here<br />fifty years later<br />as you whisper me<br />happy birthday<br />and our younguns<br />sing around us<br />grown<br />with children of their own<br /><br />I want to say<br />it is you<br />not the candles<br />on the cake<br />that takes my breath away<br /><br />Too late coming to love<br />I made the usual blunders<br /><br />A blush away from a baby<br />it was a tom-fool thing<br />for me to do<br />bringing you<br />country ham<br />cured sweet as honey<br />biscuits and gravy<br />stack cake<br /><br />How could<br />I lie<br />with you<br />after you left me<br />for a roll<br />in the hay<br />with the first hussy<br />that gave you the eye? <br /><div></div><br /><div><br />Spitfire<br />you called me later<br />bleeding<br />like a stuck pig<br />where I struck<br />you with a piece<br />of stove wood<br />and you slapped me<br /><br />Sitting here<br />as I think of all the pain<br />yours is the only music I hear<br />and I want to tell you<br />everything still seems the same<br />like the first time<br />clear as a bell</div><br /><div>right as rain<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>Legacy</strong><br /><br />My aunt sat on her front porch<br />in a chair bottomed with strips of tires<br />slinging her crossed leg, dipping snuff<br /><br />Your great-grandmother ruled<br />with an iron hand<br />and Grandpa was a rounder, she said<br /><br />Double Dillinghams they were<br />cousins marrying cousins<br />Elbert and Mary<br /><br />Owned land as far as the eye could see<br />all the way up to the Coleman Boundary<br /><br />They say he courted her by bringing armfuls of flowers<br />picked by the roadside or out of other people's yards<br />traded his mule for a chestnut mare<br /><br />Carried her around in a hand basket after they married<br />all the while making time with the hired help<br /><br />The house stood right over there on the hill<br />where the graveyard is today--they gave the land<br /><br />A smile threatened the corners of my aunt's wrinkled mouth<br />and a small rivulet of snuff ran down one side<br /><br />After he died<br />Grandma didn't take to widow's weeds<br />said they didn't become her<br /><br />She'd sit on the porch cooling Sunday afternoons in the summer<br />after cooking cut-off corn and baking soft butter biscuits<br />She'd throw back her head and cackle<br /><br />I ought to have taken me a young lover<br />just to bedevil Elbert, she'd say<br /><br />But he'd have dragged chains up and down the stairs at night<br />and, after my laying out, danced on my grave for spite<br /><br />My aunt's face softened<br />A long time passed before she spoke again<br /><br />We grandchildren would play on the porch<br />run the length of it back and forth<br />like fighting fire<br /><br />or stand under the arbor eating pink grapes<br />clear as glass and sweet as honey<br />bees buzzing a halo over our heads<br /><br />Sometimes when I look really hard<br />I can just see Grandma<br />coming over the ridge<br /><br />her bright apron glowing<br />waving like a flag<br />calling me home<br /><br /><strong></strong></div><br /><div><strong>Signs</strong><br /><br />“<font size="2">Whenever you go looking for what’s lost, everything is a sign.”<br />Eudora Welty<br /></font><br /><br />I have not bled<br />this month, Mother<br />and I am afraid<br /><br />Just yesterday<br />a bird flew into the living room<br />losing its way<br /><br />I didn’t sleep a wink last night<br />A dog howled outside my window<br />and the clock didn’t strike<br /><br />Must have been midnight<br />I saw Will’s first wife plain as day<br />standing over my bed<br /><br />glistening with sweat<br />crying with no sound<br />holding her dead baby<br /><br />all the while<br />Will sleeping quietly<br />beside me<br /><br />I felt the same fear<br />I saw in her face<br />this time last year<br /><br />You remember, don’t you, Mother?<br />You asked me to help with the birthing<br />It was my first time<br /><br />You cut cotton strips<br />and bound her wrists<br />to the bedposts<br /><br />I placed the small, round stick<br />you handed me<br />into her mouth<br /><br />bathed her face<br />as you commanded her<br />to bear down<br /><br />I remember most the silence<br />as I watched you wrap the baby—stillborn<br />in the same soft cloth<br /><br />And I can never forget the look<br />in Will’s eyes at the funeral<br />when he finally raised them<br /><br />and gazed at me<br />as if seeing me<br />for the first time<br /><br />Tiny shivers<br />ran up and down my spine<br />and my whole body shook<br /><br />as he took a sprig of white lilac<br />from his wife’s casket<br />and handed it to me<br /><br />He’s out there now<br />on the front porch<br />drinking his coffee<br /><br />staring over the valley<br />looking at rows and rows<br />of newly-planted fields<br /><br />seeing the cattle<br />grazing on the hill<br />below the graveyard<br /><br />the headstone visible still<br />in its rising up<br />and shining in the light<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Daddy’s Girl</strong><br /><br /><br />With a wink and a leer<br />her daddy holds<br />the cold open can of beer<br />tantalizingly near<br /><br />tickling her nose<br />Through bow-like lips<br />eager as a baby bird<br />she sates her thirst<br /><br />with a single sip<br />laughs a giggly<br />hiccupping laugh<br />then burps<br /><br />Putting up one perfect hand<br />she catches a trickle of froth<br />as it bursts like broth<br />from her soft pink mouth<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-65782249595345326642009-10-22T17:10:00.000-07:002009-10-25T12:30:41.574-07:00FIRST LIGHT: NCETA HIGH SCHOOL LAUREATE AWARD WINNING POETS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWO6RaIPa-SvkE-M2mii_Yo_rsUO2GFdGwIvBGEDSIdXYxWsr6Xl-kmi80hr-fN10G1SIomfguve7w8KH0deRaevCWRi4xkK9shUxkesm1vD6gNETLyne_VZ18yvvI40EnQWok7S22xHU/s1600-h/LaurelwreathDK.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395593773722587282" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 210px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjtWO6RaIPa-SvkE-M2mii_Yo_rsUO2GFdGwIvBGEDSIdXYxWsr6Xl-kmi80hr-fN10G1SIomfguve7w8KH0deRaevCWRi4xkK9shUxkesm1vD6gNETLyne_VZ18yvvI40EnQWok7S22xHU/s320/LaurelwreathDK.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p>HIGH SCHOOL DIVISION<br /></p><br /><br /><div><strong>First Place (tie)<br /></strong><strong>Sarah Brady<br /></strong></div><br /><div>Holly Springs High School (now attending UNC-CH)<br /></div><br /><div><strong>Vocabulary Words </strong></div><br /><div></div><br /><div>The oak tree outside my window is changing colors<br />in a kind of passive acquiescence it seems, the green fading and<br />shocks of crimson and burgundy cropping up each afternoon,<br />effervescent in the dappled sunlight.<br /><br />Last year my eager classroom learned<br />chlorophyll, pigment, carotenoid.<br />These words we committed to memory meant no more to us<br />than the faded shots of far-off guns in far-off lands<br />or the true meaning of the white flower in Frankenstein<br />or the piece of paper encased in glass, guaranteeing life liberty<br />and the pursuit of happiness.<br /><br />Sometimes I wonder if we’re maybe learning<br />all the wrong things in our cubes of classrooms.<br />Present tenses and past participles, the War of 1812,<br />the quadratic formula crowd around my ears and sure<br />I can recite the Pledge of Allegiance in two languages<br />but it doesn’t mean that I understand the meaning.<br />Patriotism. Warfare. Peace. Loyalty.<br /><br />It’s all as distant to me as the struggle for color in a single autumn leaf.<br />War is that something in the headlines, peace the brass ring forever<br />reached for. Honor has been recycled into respect, love deemed too idealistic,<br />ethics murdered in the second-floor stairwell.<br />And in the end, I am lost,<br />stuck between textbook precision and real-life passion,<br />a choice that I will not make.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4HGSK-e2eYKTK_ATLQQ3FCs_2l6WXep6PKnZGF0YGc-fbLAkw-pAUkKb9DJTX8Kr3DBKIeWnz43rVjLbXouxMcFHaeCYVohMj7yMlgVCdz-d3lCWLO24TA7CxQTY3H1Hcv1e0D-141hU/s1600-h/sarah.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395583671224923458" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 384px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjL4HGSK-e2eYKTK_ATLQQ3FCs_2l6WXep6PKnZGF0YGc-fbLAkw-pAUkKb9DJTX8Kr3DBKIeWnz43rVjLbXouxMcFHaeCYVohMj7yMlgVCdz-d3lCWLO24TA7CxQTY3H1Hcv1e0D-141hU/s400/sarah.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />(Sarah Brady)<br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>Erin Walklet</strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>Cardinal Gibbons High School, Raleigh<br /><strong></strong></p><br /><br /><p><strong>A??π? (agape)</p></strong><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>It echoes in my mind.<br />Eternally, slowly.<br />Resounding with nothing<br />Our ears could perceive.<br />It reverberates in my heart.<br />Aching. Clenching. Rugged.<br />I can’t forget as I<br />Dream.<br />Just dream.<br />Wisplike strands catch between my lips.<br />The whisper of fingers brushing,<br />And the concentration of your gaze is<br />Enveloping like the<br />Clouds rotating in heavenly<br />Traffic,<br />Hesitant as they paint the sky<br />Columns of sour orange and lingering pink,<br />Pausing as they turn towards the sun.<br />As I wait here,<br />Wait for the time to turn round,<br />Please remember even<br />When the night is a deep vacuum,<br />Locking your hands into empty shells<br />And the stars are shattered and blank,<br />Remember it crashes within me<br />As well.<br />It’s your choice I hold onto,<br />Your voice in the darkness that<br />I wait for. To the quiet I tell:<br />Stay when only the silence remains,<br />And company is the space between your thoughts.<br />Hold onto the hope that someday<br />From the hole something eternal will form.<br />Think instead of the way<br />Sea melts into sky and<br />The blueness begins to burn<br />Onto your eyelids.<br />The way that skin and sand and salt could<br />Comfort in an ironic way.<br />Two palms back to back,<br />Fitting<br />And sideways smiles<br />Reflected.<br />We made up our own words,<br />Counting the waves of spiraling light that surged and fell,<br />Dispersing on faces upturned, exuberant, and<br />It was enough.<br /></p><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2UDz3pr8NTp5bi8Le3tZLGHccTXujYF-EF2amXMe2AuMx-tNm0LzGN11KgY2CfSiiZefpbPATk5VcEy89UK09CMYkBR8w9zfZvjq5_F9wQ30DYtcjXiPT-_r3xZxeCHIogOMgWtblcL7/s1600-h/forbio.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 144px; height: 196px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjW2UDz3pr8NTp5bi8Le3tZLGHccTXujYF-EF2amXMe2AuMx-tNm0LzGN11KgY2CfSiiZefpbPATk5VcEy89UK09CMYkBR8w9zfZvjq5_F9wQ30DYtcjXiPT-_r3xZxeCHIogOMgWtblcL7/s400/forbio.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396622134077298370" /></a><br /><br />(Erin Walklet)<br /><br /><p><strong>Second Place: (3-way tie)<br /></strong></p><br /><br /><br /><p><strong>Courtney Duckworth</strong><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><p>R. L. Patton High School<br />(Morganton, NC)<br /><br /></p><br /><br /><p><strong><em>ode to karen dalton</em></strong><br /></p><br /><br /><br /><br /><p>pucker for me, babe:<br />break loose twelve bars fluttering solo<br />thru bent notes and fish-lip<br />pentatonics. i want glissando,<br />the electric meow of sirens, a junkyard<br />angel's catcall singular as gospel truth.<br />lay your banjo screeching pizzicato<br />into my palm, soften twelve-string ballads<br />with your teeth, malleable like gold leaf.<br />you could make chocolate melt<br />with that syntax, could erect<br />a bonfire seance for your cherokee<br />ancestors. belt trying again. sing it like<br />sculpting a dove out of butter,<br />like throwing a corn husk doll into<br />the wide open prairie, searching for it<br />barefoot, skirts hitched. i know<br />you're from oklahoma, babe, but<br />i don't think you're a hillbilly. you can<br />borrow my clothes, i promise;<br />you can sing love notes on the porch<br />when our feet are lying together (wife<br />& wife), folded upwards like casual<br />prayer to the sky. i'll tell you who<br />loves you the best, but i won't tell you<br />it's me.<br /><br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhc2ji6JGbX8lxebO4y-R91tZgvhYK0DAgMujTrFx6dHm47PxgrJ0aDuhlfuT9hkbaAa-_KNGBQdEGOGSmAfYVX8Qc2V21AFaEmY-PLUEI4szev-rAMqHa_vVqFU9YDO3ps7Xb3yU-1C-/s1600-h/KarenDalton.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395584157623341906" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 149px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhmhc2ji6JGbX8lxebO4y-R91tZgvhYK0DAgMujTrFx6dHm47PxgrJ0aDuhlfuT9hkbaAa-_KNGBQdEGOGSmAfYVX8Qc2V21AFaEmY-PLUEI4szev-rAMqHa_vVqFU9YDO3ps7Xb3yU-1C-/s400/KarenDalton.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(Karen Dalton, folk and blues singer/musician)<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div><br /><strong>Chelsea Hansen<br /></strong><br /><br /><br /></div><br /><br /><p>Penn-Griffin School for the Arts<br />High Point</p><br /><br /><p><strong>Met Death</strong><br /></p><br /><br /><div><br /></div><br /><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />shook his hand<br />felt like my own<br /></p><br /><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />No scythe or black robe<br />just a brown cap and a briefcase<br />Hair was falling out like autumn trees<br /></p><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />gravity pulls him down further than most<br />He slugs around like he’s running through water<br /></p><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />His mouth was a chimney<br />smelled like a house set afire<br /></p><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />I tasted his breath<br />He’s had a pack or two<br /></p><br /><p>Met death on the street today<br />Met his gaze<br />looking in the reflection on the water<br />eyes<br />like shards of glass<br /></p><br /><br /><div><br /><br /><strong>Maria Evans<br /></strong>Leesville Road High School, Raleigh (Now at UNC-CH)<br /></div><br /><div><br /></div><br /><p align="center"><strong>A Breath<br /></strong>The smell of gasoline wafts past<br />in the wake of a faded blue Toyota.<br />Choking on fume-filled air,<br />a middle-aged man glances up<br />from his novel, his inhalation of<br />words having been interrupted.<br />In the wind are<br />precious pages of another world,<br />the scent of knowledge.<br />Another seat down, a woman glares,<br />popping echoes in her head—<br />this evening’s meal.<br />Chopping carrots, mashing<br />potatoes<br />requires consideration<br />as well, but first<br />here is the bus.<br />Sliding along metal rails<br />guiding hands more coarse<br />than sandpaper, more gentle<br />than a fawn. Catching the<br />sun, a gold watch<br />glitters from the delicate wrist<br />of an elegant woman running<br />from life.<br /><br /></p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0W0htmWLvP-62OZVViJFUzp3AVwIl-KyIElxKjo-XlIFt8saHmYBBqW9dAcKqI4hx07aBtkdS08g6BxViFacC93_xJ6pkXnCky56wdau0tH_tTLYeXLOJaZN3PB7qf7RzV5arel8Qn-A/s1600-h/momandme.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395584692961699490" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 242px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiQ0W0htmWLvP-62OZVViJFUzp3AVwIl-KyIElxKjo-XlIFt8saHmYBBqW9dAcKqI4hx07aBtkdS08g6BxViFacC93_xJ6pkXnCky56wdau0tH_tTLYeXLOJaZN3PB7qf7RzV5arel8Qn-A/s400/momandme.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><strong>Maria Evans</strong><br /><strong></strong><br /><br /><br /><div><strong>Honorable Mentions:<br /></strong><br /><strong>Allison Kupatt<br /></strong><br />Enloe High School, Raleigh<br /><br /><br /><strong>Cult Classics<br /></strong><br />Once Upon a Time, I walked with a zombie<br />And the spirits thought to leave me alone.<br />Ah, dreams and nightmares, they scare me equally:<br />All the secret meanings I want to avoid, lead up to<br />What I remember in the early morning.<br />I wish I could avoid the dead-fish stares<br />Of plastic stars and bleached smiles,<br />While the ghosts of the celluloid past glare through<br />The iron fences. I’m left with all those nightmares,<br />Flitting like memories while I stroll down boulevards.<br />Walking in the waking world is like<br />A bit part in a cult classic, only for me, the<br />Zombies and voodoo ceremonies are real—<br />They just take place at the subway platforms and coffee shops,<br />This has always been true, I just didn’t open my eyes.<br />Oh, I miss the Good Old Days, when<br />Zombies didn’t make house calls, and<br />I could relax amidst my toy box and cartoon reels.<br />There’s something to say for Ignorance and Bliss,<br />But still, those memories are all bittersweet.<br />I walked with a zombie one morning,<br />And it changed my ways, my knowledge for the world.<br />The spirits left me alone with the black-and-white ghosts.<br />I mediate the battle between dreams and nightmares,<br />And learn to be less afraid.<br /><br /></div><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ8bcaQfXvGCvx9ok21LNgmmt0gjbUfCWQf2YbLIeVCJoi23Bi9d3ZNQSLEbguiNUblBM8VsCjxtmWOwLCFWIcWJ2mGhE_l_Q0izunz9elCiyZinsAUYH5adFSuUSNL65_y-MqzzwdYFx/s1600-h/180px-Bar_zombies.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395587351053688210" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 180px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 135px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghQ8bcaQfXvGCvx9ok21LNgmmt0gjbUfCWQf2YbLIeVCJoi23Bi9d3ZNQSLEbguiNUblBM8VsCjxtmWOwLCFWIcWJ2mGhE_l_Q0izunz9elCiyZinsAUYH5adFSuUSNL65_y-MqzzwdYFx/s320/180px-Bar_zombies.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />People dressed as Zombies for Halloween (Wikipedia)<br /><br /><p><br /><strong>Amanda Honey</strong><br />Carrboro High School<br /><br /></p><br /><br /><p><strong>Runners<br /></strong><br />Hot air rises from the concrete<br />in swift, promising ringlets.<br />The noon sun bearing down on<br />unsuspecting townsmen.<br />Runners take their ritual jog,<br />stealing through each trail in all their<br />paled, sweated, short-shorted glory.<br />Soft claps of conversation left in their wake,<br />only spoken between soles and dry Carolina clay.<br />Moistened breaths quickened and whispered,<br />living to quiet the air.<br />Slight ups-and-downs of chests<br />oxidizes blood cells and<br />gives the Earth reason to revolve once again.<br />Maybe if there was one skipped step<br />the world would cease to move.<br />And we would be sent tumbling<br />into the blazing sun,<br />bones incinerated into the body's<br />last action of that day.<br />Maybe.<br />But the jaunt is not slowed,<br />the step not skipped,<br />and these runners never still.<br /><br /><strong>Rachel Thompson<br /></strong></p><br /><br /><br /><div>Penn-Griffin School for the Arts, High Point<br /></div><br /><br /><div><strong>Aqua, Terra, and Zephyr<br /></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><div><em>When a mothers’ child is abused by another, would the mother want revenge?<br /></em></div><br /><br /><br /><div><em>Aqua</em>: I smiled when they sailed across me<br />Splashing their faces with the sea water<br />Gladly providing them with the molecule for life; the universal solvent.<br />But they dumped their trash in me<br />Leaving a scar twice the size of Texas in the center of my back.<br />Then blamed me when tsunamis crushed their factories<br />And when hurricanes plumaged their cities.<br /></div><br /><div><em>Terra:</em> Initially, I didn’t mind when they cut off my limbs.<br />I was happy to give them firewood.<br />But they wouldn’t give be a break;<br />Kept on chopping off my arms and legs<br />Wired their own electric system through me.<br />Then blamed me when my blood boiled over<br />Destroying their precious wooden houses.<br />And when infertile soil wouldn’t grow the trees that they’d just cut down.<br /><em></em></div><br /><br /><p><em>Zephyr</em>: I gently moved their bonfire smoke<br />And brought the rains to dampen their factory smoke<br />But I started coughing after a while.<br />I got sick, and bringing the winds took longer.<br />Their cars and planes didn’t help either;<br />They started to tear a hole in my cloak, my armor, their armor.<br />Then blamed me when I rained their pollutants back at them<br />And when tornadoes tore their material things away from them.<br /><br /><br /><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqZPGyKjb7qmq82OeInKFOE9C6K0eVx4V-CEen5GuIbXDPtU4DonvTGVJU0R4J48TivhEU51owEhJ-bFH4bTjl78v-bcCFAC5kOWA35c0v0MLEaUN1iMEAl85Y0VNh-BJnctBKCH-Xtem/s1600-h/200px-The_Earth_seen_from_Apollo_17.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395587344946934898" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 200px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcqZPGyKjb7qmq82OeInKFOE9C6K0eVx4V-CEen5GuIbXDPtU4DonvTGVJU0R4J48TivhEU51owEhJ-bFH4bTjl78v-bcCFAC5kOWA35c0v0MLEaUN1iMEAl85Y0VNh-BJnctBKCH-Xtem/s320/200px-The_Earth_seen_from_Apollo_17.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Earth Seen from Apollo 17<br /><br /><br /><strong>Megan Przybyla<br /></strong>Leesville Road High School, Raleigh<br /><br /><p></p><br /><br /><br /><div><strong>Summertime<br /></strong><br />Late July:<br />Sunshine grates<br />On parched skin,<br />Scraping until red faces<br />Cower in the shade.<br />Humid air winds<br />Around languid limbs,<br />As sticky<br />And smothering<br />As plastic wrap<br />Around a squashed<br />Peanut butter<br />And grape jelly<br />Sandwich.<br />Flies zip by<br />With the buzz<br />Of an electric razor<br />At 6 AM<br />As angels<br />Crack their knuckles<br />With resonating<br />Booms!<br />From behind stone-gray<br />Fortresses.<br />The world smells like hope.<br /><br /><br /></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7em0dqwhq6taxsWRIyPtV1-AgpIxZWAWdGh3Nrc0xV4I-Yle2fTi1Rv58HFVXIe6D7fw4bpGsy3cqMTRl6zA9wwp_x6vTkVw8MLC0KBR2zXIAm-CS8ZM0yCiSEDryKBSqGYSlk-sLVP2/s1600-h/240px-William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_%25281825-1905%2529_-_Song_of_the_Angels_%25281881%2529.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395587356039971506" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 219px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 320px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7em0dqwhq6taxsWRIyPtV1-AgpIxZWAWdGh3Nrc0xV4I-Yle2fTi1Rv58HFVXIe6D7fw4bpGsy3cqMTRl6zA9wwp_x6vTkVw8MLC0KBR2zXIAm-CS8ZM0yCiSEDryKBSqGYSlk-sLVP2/s320/240px-William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_%25281825-1905%2529_-_Song_of_the_Angels_%25281881%2529.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><a class="internal" title="Enlarge" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:William-Adolphe_Bouguereau_(1825-1905)_-_Song_of_the_Angels_(1881).jpg"></a>Song of the Angels by <a class="mw-redirect" title="Bouguereau" href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bouguereau">Bouguereau</a>, 1825–1905.<br /><br /><strong>About Our Poets<br /></strong></div><br /><br /><br /><div>(All poets were invited to send biographical information.)<br />This year our Middle School poets were outstanding. <strong>Christopher J. Murphy</strong> (CJ) is fifteen years old. He was born and raised in Lincoln County. He has attended Lincoln County Schools since kindergarten. His hobbies include riding four-wheelers, hunting, fishing, and hiking with his friends. A member of the class of 2013, he says he is very proud that his poem won this award. He plans to go into construction upon graduation: anything but roofing! <strong>Falecia Metcalf</strong> lives in Weaverville, where she is an 8th grader at North Buncombe Middle School. She says, “I love to read and write. As for writing poems I really got kicked off this year when we started our poetry unit. Then from there I have kept on writing and actually couldn't stop! The poems come to me quicker than I can write them down sometimes. Mrs. Young, my 7th grade Language Arts Teacher at North Buncombe Middle School and sponsor for the NC Student Poet Laureate Contest, really encouraged me to write, along with my family.” <strong>Allie Sekulich</strong> has been devoted to writing over the years, and in 2007 & 2008, with the help of a great teacher, she entered numerous writing contests. In addition to winning second in a NC State Fair Essay contest, she entered and won The Raleigh News and Observer’s Character Education Essay Contest, receiving a pair of tickets to see a basketball game for that greatest of Universities, North Carolina State! Besides reading and writing, Allie plays piano and has a passion for figure skating. She is starting her 7th grade year at Neuse Charter Middle School in Smithfield.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><div><br />Several of our high school winners recently entered college. <strong>Sarah Brady</strong>, a freshman at UNC-Chapel Hill, is considering majoring in Journalism or English. She was a semifinalist for the Morehead-Cain Scholarship and the Thomas Wolfe Scholarship. She was named the <em>News and</em> <em>Observer</em> female scholar athlete of the year. At UNC, she hopes to write for <em>The Daily Tarheel</em>. Some of her favorite activities are reading, writing in her journal, backpacking, and running. <strong>Maria Evans</strong>, having graduated from Leesville Road High school, also is a freshman at UNC, where she attends as a Teaching Fellow. Writing will no doubt be an important part of her life as a teacher. <strong>Allison Kupatt</strong> writes poetry, short stories, and comics. She too is currently attending UNC-CH.<br /></div><br /><br /><br /><div><strong>Rachel Thompson</strong> and <strong>Chelsea Hansen</strong> are musicians as well as writers. Both attend Penn-Griffin School for the arts in High Poet. Chelsea, the daughter of Scott and Tazmen Hansen, is a junior and a guitar student at Penn-Griffin. In ninth grade, she fell in love with writing. She has received an honorable mention in the haiku contest sponsored by the North Carolina Poetry Society. Rachel, the daughter of Gary and Lynda Thompson, is a junior and an orchestra student, a violinist,. She wants to write a novel one day. Her poetry has won honorable mentions in contests sponsored by the Phoenix Festival and N. C. Poetry Society, as well as a second prize from Muse on Greensboro, a contest sponsored by the Greensboro Public Library. . Amanda Honey, from Chapel Hill, attends Carrboro High School. <strong>Courtney Duckworth</strong> lives at the edge of the Blue Ridge mountains. She is 16 years old and a senior at Patten High School in Morganton. Her English teacher is Mr. John Zimmerman. This summer she attended Governor's School East in Raleigh, studying Poetry with instructor Chuck Sullivan. <strong>Megan Przybyla</strong> is a junior at Leesville Road High School. She is a voracious reader and loves the sticky sweetness of summertime. She is excited to be included in this booklet, which is her first publication. <strong>Erin Walklet</strong> is a junior at Cardinal Gibbons High School, a member of the Lancer Club and National Honors Society. She plays club soccer with CRSC in Raleigh. She would like to keep writing and is considering a degree in that field.<br /><br /><br /><br />NCETA Student Laureate Poetry Contest<br />The contest is open to all North Carolina Students in Grades 6-8 and 9-12.<br />Awards<br />Each winner (Middle and High School) will receive $250.00 and a framed copy of his or her winning poem printed on a broadside. Each Second Place winner (Middle and High School) will receive $50.00. All winners will be recognized by North Carolina’s poet laureate at NCETA’s annual conference and have their winning poems published on the NCETA and the NC Arts Council Websites. If no poems qualify for the title of NC Student Poet Laureate, no award will be given and the reigning student laureate will maintain the title for another year.<br /><br />Requirements<br />Updated requirements for the 2010 contest will be posted on the NCETA site (www.ncenglishteacher.org) and made available through other sources of information. The deadline is April 15.<br /><br />Namesake and History<br />In 2007, Kathryn Stripliing Byer, North Carolina's Poet Laureate, and her family established the North Carolina Student Poet Laureate Awards in memory of her father, C.M. Stripling. Kathryn Byer has lived in western North Carolina since 1968, when she received her MFA degree from UNC-G. Her father, a farmer, became one of Georgia’s most respected spokesmen for agriculture and conservation. The love of language, literature, and teaching runs in the family. Her grandmother and great-grandmother were teachers, and her husband, James Byer, served as Head of the English Department at WCU. Their daughter Corinna was a 1996 Amy Charles and NCETA Writing Award winner.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8067112966724673321.post-41417820638935348032009-10-22T06:39:00.000-07:002009-10-22T07:20:52.177-07:00FIRST LIGHT: MIDDLE SCHOOL WINNING POEMS<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhw1Qie_6VYMskK5LhKOEVjsciu6wOSmVTDRkTqMg6jtFNv9FM8ytTUw-zzAZRSXnhYRdM4qr6FVozqHUOvfTIJetZtuPSYMd8gTH_IG-VG210_euZMujuOK8hYjNeMTLgJZeUW6CBTLo/s1600-h/winnersandme.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395421287423438770" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 212px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPhw1Qie_6VYMskK5LhKOEVjsciu6wOSmVTDRkTqMg6jtFNv9FM8ytTUw-zzAZRSXnhYRdM4qr6FVozqHUOvfTIJetZtuPSYMd8gTH_IG-VG210_euZMujuOK8hYjNeMTLgJZeUW6CBTLo/s320/winnersandme.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><div><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">MIDDLE SCHOOL DIVISION<br /></span></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong>First Place<br /></strong></div><br /><br /><div><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">C. J. Murphy</span></strong><br /></div><div>West Lincoln Middle School<br /></div><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><strong>Where I Come From</strong></div><br /><br /><p><strong><br /></strong>I come from the smell of<br />Fresh cut grass on an old dirt road, off<br />a two-lane black top.<br />Old lawn mowers shade the yard.<br />A squirrel dashes up an oak tree<br />in a stream of smoke and lead.<br />Grandma with a basket full of eggs,<br />Grandpa and Dad working,<br />Sharing a spit cup, working<br />In the old tin building,<br />Uncle Mike tuning his Camero,<br />Cousin Hannah, drinking a Nehi,<br />watching the chickens picking the ground.<br /><br />My cousin Johnnie and me in the tree stand<br />in the old pasture by the creek,<br />watching the field like a hawk<br />through the scope of an ought-two-seventy.<br />(But when Mom yells “Supper’s ready!” we<br />Hop in the pickup with chicken and<br />blackberry pies on our minds.)<br />I walk in with mud on my boots<br />And Mom says, “What? Were you raised in a barn?”<br />(But after lunch, dressed up and armed<br />With Bibles, we hop in the truck<br />And head for evening service.)<br /></p><br /><br /><div></div><br /><br /><div><br /><strong>Second Place<br /></strong></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">Falecia Metcalf</span><br /></strong></div><div align="center">North Buncombe Middle School<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>The Rain<br /></div></strong><br /><br /><div align="center">It starts out quietly,<br />slow and steady<br />each beat round and perfect.<br />Then ever so quickly<br />it becomes harsh and cold,<br />hitting faster and harder each time.<br />In the midst of it all<br />a shrill cry can be heard.<br />Where did it come from?<br />No one knows.<br />It haunts the night<br />and threatens to disappear,<br />although it never does.<br />I love the rain.<br />It brings out a dark side in me.<br />It makes me love scary stories<br />and ghosts.<br />It brings me peace, though,<br />in the worst of my nights.<br />It slowly sings me to sleep<br />with its majestic lullaby.<br />It doesn’t bring me anger or fear—<br />it soothes me.<br />There is something about it,<br />I would never guess,<br />That draws me to it<br />without ever uttering a word.<br />It carries me off to ride in the dark,<br />A person without a care,<br />yet it haunts me;<br />it loves me still.<br /><br /><br /><strong>Honorable Mention<br /></div></strong><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>Allie Sekulich</strong><br /></div><div align="center">Neuse Charter Middle School<br /></div><br /><br /><div align="center"><strong>On the Ice<br /></strong><br />Deep lungfuls of the icy cold air<br />Step on to glowing white ice<br />On gleaming metal blades<br />Gliding like a swan<br />Cold wind brushes my face<br />Like soft satin feathers<br />Lilting to the music<br />I spin like a top<br />Never wanting to stop<br />Watching the world whirl<br />Jumping like a dolphin<br />Into the air for joy<br />Floating, as if I could stay up forever<br />Hit the ice, steady my blades<br />Dancing from one end to another<br />Turning, twisting, prancing<br />Power and Grace<br />My energy is endless, endless in joy and love<br />Never wanting to leave<br />This is my true passion<br />Fiercer, more alive than anything<br />It burns like a blazing fire<br />My second home is the rink<br />On two metal blades and the beautiful ice<br />Here I will be<br />Forevermore skating<br />I am a Figure Skater.<br /></div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZlJAQXqiSz-Lp9BIk1niMuGh6jgC6NNwtvsUn5SlgXmjsqrJePH5dV8ecf3iM6zB8cFs39msrXxeQkbek_3YxR6IVXeLrVqS0Lf4GMgxpz-wbOBMpERo59D9OKXK_7qRw6wmLqd6wsYD/s1600-h/skates.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395420697408028002" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 200px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 217px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVZlJAQXqiSz-Lp9BIk1niMuGh6jgC6NNwtvsUn5SlgXmjsqrJePH5dV8ecf3iM6zB8cFs39msrXxeQkbek_3YxR6IVXeLrVqS0Lf4GMgxpz-wbOBMpERo59D9OKXK_7qRw6wmLqd6wsYD/s400/skates.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />(Sasha Cohen's skates. Sasha is Allie's favorite figure skater.)Kathryn Stripling Byerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/17867152753841610044noreply@blogger.com1