Welcome to where I am, where my kitchen's always messy, a pot's (or a poet) always about to boil over, a dog is always begging to be fed. Drafts of poems on the counter. Windows filled with leaves. Wind. Clouds moving over the mountains. If you like poetry, books, and music--especially dog howls when a siren unwinds down the hill-- you'll like it here.


MY NEW AUTHOR'S SITE, KATHRYNSTRIPLINGBYER.COM, THAT I MYSELF SET UP THROUGH WEEBLY.COM, IS NOW UP. I HAD FUN CREATING THIS SITE AND WOULD RECOMMEND WEEBLY.COM TO ANYONE INTERESTED IN SETTING UP A WEBSITE. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT MY NEW SITE TO KEEP UP WITH EVENTS RELATED TO MY NEW BOOK.


MY NC POET LAUREATE BLOG, MY LAUREATE'S LASSO, WILL REMAIN UP AS AN ARCHIVE OF NC POETS, GRADES K-INFINITY! I INVITE YOU TO VISIT WHEN YOU FEEL THE NEED TO READ SOME GOOD POEMS.

VISIT MY NEW BLOG, MOUNTAIN WOMAN, WHERE YOU WILL FIND UPDATES ON WHAT'S HAPPENING IN MY KITCHEN, IN THE ENVIRONMENT, IN MY IMAGINATION, IN MY GARDEN, AND AMONG MY MOUNTAIN WOMEN FRIENDS.




Thursday, September 17, 2009

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

I sang this song when I studied voice in high school. I thought it a bit sentimental then, and find it almost unbearable now, even though its author, Irish poet Thomas Moore was a friend of Shelley's and Byron;s,  and thus has good Romantic credentials. The thought of the group Celtic Woman singing it is enough to make me imagine slogging through treacle. Actually, they are the perfect vehicle for it. But I digress. The rose I prefer is the Rose of Sharon. Here's Moore's poem, followed by the concluding lines of mine. You'll have to go to Black Shawl to read all of it.

'Tis the last rose of summer,
Left blooming all alone,
All her lovely companions
Are faded and gone.
No flower of her kindred,
No rose bud is nigh,
To reflect back her blushes,
Or give sigh for sigh.

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one,
To pine on the stem;
Since the lovely are sleeping,
Go sleep thou with them;
'Thus kindly I scatter
Thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden
Lie scentless and dead.

So soon may I follow
When friendships decay,
And from love's shining circle
The gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered
And fond ones are flown
Oh! who would inhabit
This bleak world alone?


ROSE OF SHARON (conclusion) from BLACK SHAWL (LSU PRESS
Who will save me, I wonder,
as I pleat these white tissue
roses I gather for garlands
and bridal bouquets. (Now the nick
of a hat pin! Some blood
from my finger squeezed into each
center.) Whoever he is,
when he comes with his silver
axe swinging, his saw teeth
that grin through the laurel
hells, I will be Rose
Among Wild Roses. I will be Rose
Willing. I will be ready.


Now, that's the kind of Rose I like!

Monday, September 14, 2009

MY NEW CHAPBOOK HAS ARRIVED



Shortly after Inauguration Day, my friend Penelope Scambly Schott (Portland, Oregon) and I began a poetic collaboration about the event, thinking we could probably do better with inaugural poems than the official Inaugural Poet. After our initial poems linked pretty closely to the inauguration, we spiraled off in some interesting directions, circling back again at the end to President Obama and that memorable day. Here are some images from the chapbook, which by the way, was printed by Ash Creek Press in Portland and is hand-sewn by the poets. You may order directly from me: P.O. Box 489, Cullowhee, NC 28723. Cost is $10.00, with 2.00 for postage. Thanks!










Tuesday, September 1, 2009

END OF SUMMER

Yes, I know. The equinox hasn't happened yet. It's late summer, not the end of it. Still, on the first day of September, with our garden done for (only a handful of tomatoes this year) and the morning glories sagging, I am ready to bid summer adios and begin looking toward autumn.

 I said I'd start blogging again on the first of September, so I pick up my digital camera and walk out to the front porch.  Right here, where I am, I see summer departing.

What is the name of this bush? I ask every year around this time. The one with the pale to deep mauve plumes? Whatever it's named, I love it.




Light through leaves, unreachable
no-name light,
no-name fingers of blooming
beyond my holding on to them,
scattering their small blossoms
onto my hands,
cornmeal blooms,
but the color of rougepot
and my mother's favorite lipstick...


(Byron likes this bush, too. He poses for me, just long enough for me to capture what he knows will be a photo to add to my extensive Lord Byron collection.)



Does any image say summer's end as hauntingly as this one?





Or this one? All day outside my window I watch it. I think the wind is blowing hard till I realize it's the birds gobbling elderberries, whizzing around the bushes like electrons around the pulsing core.



Forget my poetic reveries. The students down below are cavorting and our dogs go chasing the sound. I call them back. Ace of Dogs stands by the goldenrod to watch their ascent. You can barely see Bro's white head and Byron's small black body in the shadows.



Here come Bro and Byron into view.



Well, what's a poetic-looking mauve plumed bush to a dog, anyway? Bro makes good use of it.