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.




Sunday, April 24, 2011

POET OF THE DAY: Heather Ross Miller




Heather Ross Miller is one of the divas 
of Southern literature. Shortly after 
her graduation from UNC-Greensboro, 
where she studied with Randall Jarrell,
her first novel was published to critical
acclaim, and she soon became one of 
the leading voices in Southern writing.
Her memoir Crusoe's Island remains
one of my favorite books. She has written
poetry for years, with several collections
to her credit. Her new collection
titled Lumina, will be published in May.
 



A Comet at Easter           

Contrails in the sky, condensed water

fine as angel hair, white as the tails of comets.

I remember such a comet over the row houses

where everybody lived the same destiny upstairs,

downstairs, animals in a three-meal zoo.

My warm pie face and pink Easter coat,

a braided straw bonnet tied under chin,

my skin thinner than pink shells,

the eggs boiled hard so the yolks

showed bitter coronas, dark

to my tongue.

The comet showed fiery showers

I thought looked better from the side,

like thin hairs caught on eyelashes.

And while I hunted eggs in the yard,

hard-boiled pink and grass-stained,

the comet, boiling hard

through years of hairy fire,

evading eyelashes and lens,

trailed where I bent there,

young, insignificant, female,

finding another shell dyed

thin and hopeful as Easter.

Easter Dress

Floating these foamy rich skirts

smooth as a breeze in pearl stitch, a marcasite-weave,

I smell oranges, sweet bruising spices in my sleeve,

pleasing the air as this dress carries me off

the way I carry off men I love.

I made it myself, you know, cut into long soft yards

ripe as plums. Sweetened my hopes to stitch

deeper toward older flavors,

and bring forth the dress,

purple upon me, a perfect fit.

And I knew as I drew inside its welcome,

the things I'd done right, more than right.

Bathed my children, fed them, watched them

sleep the night until they'd grown to sleep

without me, until they watched beside their own.

So, mornings now, I smooth my lap full of plums,

glad to sit back softly alone, waiting for them

to call, to ask, You got on your purple dress?


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