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.




Tuesday, August 28, 2012

COLD SPRING RISING: John Thomas York






One of our state's best poets has had to be patient for many years before seeing his first full-length collection published.  This spring he was able to hold that book in his hands and celebrate.   Those of you who have followed this blog know that I've devoted several posts to John York's work, so type  his name into the poet's slot to the right of this new post to read more about his poetry.  Go to Press 53's website to order his book, read his biography, and learn more about the artist who created the cover image.


Today's GOOD NEWS is that John and his daughter Rachel will appear at City Lights Bookstore in Sylva, NC this coming Saturday evening, Sept. 1, for a reading from the book and a performance of old ballads by Rachel.





  Drop by at 6:30 for this special event, have John sign some books for you, and stick around for a late supper downstairs at City Lights Cafe.   



Whippoorwill

The clear horizon was fading,
and my father and I sat together
on the warm steps,
cinder blocks painted smooth,
Daddy smelling of cows
and a cigarette, glowing, fading,

when it started, a song
both monotonous and magical,
as if God were plying
a hand pump, a musical 
machine that said, Make-it-Flow!
Make-it-Flow!  
Darkness rising from a deep well
and flooding the woods, the corn field.

I pointed, wanting a name:
“It’s just a whippoorwill, Johnny.
Just a bird, saying, Whippoorwill.”

Still the song rose from the dark,
a siren’s voice, sounding
the alarm for me and my father,
ignorant of any danger,
father-son sitting close on the warm steps
and watching the farm fading into the night.



The Gift

In the morning, getting ready for school, 
she would say, “Look at Mr. Redbird,
such a pretty, vain creature,”
the cardinal pecking at his reflection,
dancing back and forth in the sunlight
on the car’s big bumper.

And in the evening, after milking 
and dinner and the cleaning up, 
Mama sat on a bed 
with us and told stories, or she read
Johnny and His Mule, The Jack Tales,
a Bible story book.

I wanted to read, too,
but some words gave me trouble, 
so she used flash cards:
who. . .where. . .why.
She fed me words until they made
sentence, paragraph, story.

One day, the mailman left
a flat cardboard box, a book about whales,
the blue whale dwarfing
the man who stood beside it,
and fearsome orcas breached into the living
room and roamed over

the gray carpet, where sunlight
was striped by Venetian blinds: 
I turned off the TV for an hour and read 
my book, while my mother grinned 
to herself, as she cleared away her papers,
as she prepared the evening meal.







Friday, August 17, 2012

DOLDRUMS

What a self-explanatory word is "doldrums"!  It sounds like what it is, the first syllable's long mournful O sliding into the backwater liquid of L.  And then those drums, the shudder vowel of the "uh", the lid shoved down on it by the M.  And for good measure the sibilant S closing out this enervating sound of a word.  This enervating time, this summer lethargy I've been in for weeks now.

Arjun, now deceased, in a doldrums mood.  

No blogging.  Just a few poems begun, which is better than none, of course.  Much better.  One of them, tentatively titled "The Vishnu Bird" opens with a little song of promise.


The Vishnu bird startles me
this morning.  Vishnu
vishnu, he calls from the  tree
the locals call sarvis
because it blooms Eastertime,
 calling the faithful to worship. 
Barefooted, I'm walking out to the garden
in nightgown and bathrobe,
my coffee cup half full,
my head brimming over with another night's
bird calls. 


How Vishnu, in his incarnation as bird, got into my back yard, who knows.  Maybe he'll bring along some different rhythms and images.


Not even the garden has energized me as much this summer, though, Vishnu notwithstanding,  when I walk out barefooted with coffee cup in hand.  Our lettuces have been battered by rain and hail, our mustard greens gone to seed too early.  No tomatoes at all.

Still, the edges of a few leaves are beginning to turn russet.  The wind teases the hair on my arms.  Something's coming, some change of cloud-drift, some shifting of the imagination's tectonic plates. Maybe.  And though there are no tomatoes,  there are cucumbers, and more cucumbers.  What does that word sound like, cucumber?

 I leave it to you to tell me.