Here, Where I Am

FULL MOON

2009-12-03T13:00:00.000-08:00

FULL MOON

Full moon says look I am
over the pinebreak, says give me
your empty glass, pour
all you want, drink, look
out through your windows of ice,
through the eyes of your needles
observe how I climb, lay aside
what you weave on your looms

and see clouds fall away
like cold silk from your shoulders,
be quiet, hear the owl coming back
to the hayloft, shake loose
your long braids and rise up
from your beds, open
windows and curtains, let light
pour like water upon your heads,

all of you women who wait, raise
the shades, throw the shutters
wide, lean from your window ledge
into the great night that beckons
you, smile back at me
and so quietly nobody can hear you
but you, whisper, "Here am I."

by Kathryn Stripling Byer, from BLACK SHAWL, LSU PRESS, '98

KITCHEN MEDITATIONS IN TIME OF WAR

2009-12-02T07:42:00.001-08:00

As I stood in my kitchen before Thanksgiving, relishing the opportunity to experiment with a couple of recipes, one from the package of the cornmeal mix I was using, and the other from my friend Vicki Lane, I did not think about the women standing in their kitchens in countries threatened by our own country's drones and armaments. After listening to the President last night speak about escalating the war in Afghanistan, I began to think about them. To think about preparing a meal for children, parents, and husband and to be blown to smithereens by a drone controlled by someone sitting in California.

When I read of the numerous missed targets in Afghanistan and on the border of Pakistan, I shudder. We don't hear about these missed targets much in our media. And the President certainly will not acknowledge them. The families and neighbors remember, though. And I have vowed to think about these nameless women in their kitchens each time I prepare a meal, especially a holiday meal.

Yes, I will feature my post on my kitchen experimentations and my Thanksgiving meal, which was a success, if I do say so myself, but each time I do, I will have these women in my mind. I hope we all do, as the holiday season bears down on us with its demands and seductions.

Reading with Friends this Weekend

2009-12-01T05:49:00.000-08:00

Mary Adams

I'm looking forward to this weekend when I get to read with three friends--Cecilia Woloch, Mary Adams, and Julia Nunnally Duncan. On Saturday Night, Cecilia, Mary and I come together at City Lights in Sylva to flaunt our new books. Mary's Commandment is hot of the press at Spring Street Editions. An NEA Fellow in writing, she saw her first book, Epistles from the Planet Photosynthesis, published by The University of Florida Press.

On Sunday, December 6, 2009, Malaprop's Bookstore/Café (55 HaywoodStreet in downtown Asheville, NC) will host poets Kathryn StriplingByer reading from ARETHA'S HAT: INAUGURATION DAY, 2009; Julia NunnallyDuncan with AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY and new, unpublished poems; andCecilia Woloch, author of CARPATHIA.

Julia Nunnally Duncan writes both poetry and fiction. She has
previously published two collections of stories and a novel, and her
second novel, WHEN DAY IS DONE, is just out from March Street Press.
Her Appalachian poems have appeared in scores of literary journals,
and her first published collection of poetry, AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY
(2007), was named a finalist for the 2008 Roanoke-Chowan Award for
Poetry. She recently completed the manuscript for a second collection
of poems, AT DUSK. Rob Neufeld, book columnist for The Asheville
Citizen-Times, wrote of Julia Nunnally Duncan that she is one of four
Western North Carolina "poets to watch." He remarked that her poems
"make the greatest possible use of line breaks, so that individual
phrases glow like haiku observations. Metaphors develop naturally and
emotionally." In a recent article in North Carolina Literary Review,
Jeffrey Franklin observed of AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY, "Duncan always makes
the place solid, the people real, the situation, in all its emotional
complexity and perilousness, rendered with a deceptive simplicity that
quietly resonates. . . .[Her] people are as recognizably human as any
in Shakespeare[.]" Like our other readers for December 6, Julia
Nunnally Duncan is at once a dedicated writer and an experienced
teacher; she has served as a full-time English instructor at McDowell
Community College for nearly two and a half decades. At Malaprop's,
she will read selections from AN ENDLESS TAPESTRY and from her
manuscript, AT DUSK.

CARPATHIA is Cecilia Woloch's fifth poetry collection. Published in2009, it went into a second printing about two months after itsofficial publication date. Natasha Trethewey, Pulitzer Prize-winningpoet, has written of CARPATHIA, "The poems . . . are guided by anexquisite lyricism and heartbreaking emotional honesty. . . . This isa gorgeous book by a poet who is passionately alive in the world."Cecilia Woloch has traveled widely and taught just as widely, offeringpoetry workshops for children and adults across the United States andin several locations abroad. She serves as a lecturer in creativewriting at the University of Southern California and is foundingdirector of the Paris Poetry Workshop. The recipient of numerousawards for her writing, teaching and theatre work, in 2009 alone,Cecilia Woloch has been recognized as a finalist in the CaliforniaBook Awards of The Commonwealth Club of California for her 2008chapbook, NARCISSUS; as a finalist for the Pablo Neruda Prize inPoetry at Nimrod; as the first prize winner of the New Ohio ReviewPrize in Poetry; and as a Fellow at the Center for InternationalTheatre Development/US Artists Initiative in Poland.
Please join us in welcoming three distinguished poets on December 6,and begin your holiday season with poetry!

Poetrio: Kathryn Stripling Byer, Julia Nunnally Duncan, Celia WolochSunday, December 6, 2009, 3:00 p.m.Malaprop's Bookstore/Café55 Haywood StreetAsheville, NC 28801(828) 254-6734http://www.malaprops.com/

BIRTHDAY HAIKU

2009-11-28T12:56:00.000-08:00

My friend Margaret Spilker wrote a Birthday Haiku for me this year; her mom Peggy brought it over on Thanksgiving along with an elegant bottle of wine which we've been enjoying today.

Here is Margaret's haiku:

Celebrate this day
The anniversary of
Your birth and rejoice!

Sometimes it's not so easy to rejoice over another year gone, especially if, like this year, you mark your entry into Medicare. So, I needed Margaret's celebratory poem to remind me that each day should be cause for rejoicing, if for no other reason than to look around, see the light surging through the windows, the clouds shape-shifting above us.

To be honest, this year's birthday was not at all depressing, despite my advanced age!

The day was gorgeous, we drove into Asheville for lunch, and upon our return, UPS delivered a package from my daughter---a small cedar with accompanying decorations.

I had saved my packages to open in late afternoon, so I began with the one from her that arrived the day before. She's a genius as gathering together gift items, wrapping them in elegant ways, and arranging them in the box.

You can see that she has a package for our dogs, Ace, Brody, Pooja, and Byron. More about that a little later. I was interested in what the box held for ME.

My daughter said the cover of the card reminded her of her guinea pig, which was at that moment chirping for attention (lettuce!) in the back room. Who can argue with the card's message?

Or its interior?

And because life is unsure, everyone needs a soft pair of socks.

And a bottle of cognac, compliments of my husband.

By now the dogs were interested in what I was pulling out of my packages. What's in it for US, they wondered.

Ace of Dogs snuffled in the corners, hoping something edible would magically appear.

When I held out a chicken flavored treat, he came to attention. Really scary, that look!

Byron, of course, was already in bed, his most favorite place. I had to bring one of the treats to him. Disgusting, isn't it? How did I become a servant to a dog that only weighs 16 pounds?

After tasting it, he joined the rest of the dog pack in the kitchen.
By then, my husband had kindled a fire, so I sat down with a glass of cognac to relax and savor the day.....

... but it didn't take long for Ace to lay his chin in my lap, begging "Uno mas? Por favor?"

It didn't work.

Later in the evening, I decided to decorate the little tree and set it up on a pretty Christmas runner that my mother had given me, surrounded by various gifts.

The best gifts can't be arranged on a table, though. And I had a sufficiency of those gifts throughout the day.

ALBANY STATE POETRY FESTIVAL: EVENING POETRY READING

2009-11-21T09:07:00.000-08:00

The last evening of Albany State University's Poetry Festival featured Frank X Walker, Shirlette Ammons, doris davenport, and me. This event was held at the new Albany Welcome Center, a fine facility for the arts. I arrived early so that I could sit outside and watch the children and families play in Turtle Park.

Shortly after the sun went down, folks began arriving in the upstairs auditorium.

My friend, artist Cindy Davis, was among them.

Dr. doris davenport, the genius behind the festival-- and its director-- welcomed the audience.

She asked me to read first, and of course I couldn't refuse. Here is one of the poems she liked.

First Presbyterian

Sitting in church every Sunday, I hated the hats
I had to wear. They were small things with net
attached. Or hard plastic fruit. They did not fit
and sometimes they fell into the aisle or my lap
if my mother had not pierced their velveteen
skins with hat pins she wove through my stiff
hair-sprayed hair. There was no way to scratch

my small soul through those hats. No way
I could sit through the sermons if not daydreaming
out of them, using the blank wall beside the piano
as movie-screen, imagining myself hatless, free
of my hair spray and beehive, my hair grown
miraculously long, trailing hat pins across
the small town, heading north toward what soon

would be Interstate. What happened next?
Let us pray, said the preacher and I came awake,
though I shut my eyes dutifully. What was
he saying that I should heed, who was this God
who knew everything? Why should I pull on a girdle
and hose for His sake and sit waiting for Him
to call? Just As I Am, we sang, closing the service.
My soul took a deep breath and walked out

(From Aretha's Hat: Inauguration Day 2006, copyright Kathryn Byer)

Shirlette Ammons entranced the crowd with her poems, among them, one of my favorites, from her collection Matching Skin, from Carolina Wren Press.

What is Grass?

All of it—
the tin roof on Trinity Avenue
where the clouds sit and scheme
a seventy-degree Durham
before the heat peaks

A neither bad nor good morning

The Britneys, the Burmese,
a track champion halved and veined,
criminal attempts at concerned media
scribed by typewriters with filthy keys when

We all have medals we should return

The grass is a mattress for our trampling
whisking us past overdue fines and late fees,
oh shits and honest-to-god forgets
as we beg to get clipped
like a thief preying on sickly screen doors
in the beam of broad daylight

—Courtesy of Carolina Wren Press and Shirlette Ammons

(Photo by Jeremy Lange)

(Shirlette talks with students after the reading. )

Frank X Walker began his reading by asking how many in the audience could sing the first stanza of Amazing Grace.

He chose Chasity to sing, and did she ever sing it!

>

Then Frank read his poem.

Amazing grace! how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me!
I once was lost, but now am found
Was blind, but now I see ...

It isn’t negro
but it is spiritual
it do speak to the power
of redemption
to power period
converting lost
to found creating sight
where there was none
but what sound could be
so powerfully sweet
sweet enough
to turn a wretched
slave-ship captain
into england’s most outspoken
abolitionist and songwriter

was it the splash of bodies
dragged kicking and screaming
jettisoned off decks
of ocean coral
was it the crack of the whip
or the popping sound bloody flesh makes
when a sizzling branding iron
breaks the skin

the sound of fear and confusion
below deck
muffled by the sound of rape up above

the sound of 609 beating hearts
sardined into a space for 300

amazing is to be lost and blind
and still the captain
a willing participant
in crimes against humanity

but what was that sound
that liberating release
granting pardons
for penitence undone?
what does forgiveness sound like?

Thro’ many dangers, toils and snares
I have already come ...

now every time you hear amazing grace
listen for john newton’s apology
his silent sobs seeking salvation
listen and hear
what healing sounds like

’Tis grace hath brought me safe thus far,
And grace will lead me home

(Photo by Tracy Hawkins)

(I pose with Chasity after the reading, to congratulate her for doing such a splendid job of singing! You can see doris in the background, looking on, obviously pleased with how successful the evening was.) Later I told Chasity that she could sing anything---blues, jazz, grand opera, gospel, country....etc. She couldn't stop smiling.

( The audience flocks to the book table.)

When the Welcome Center shut down, we headed for Orene Hall on the campus of ASU, where a memorable feast awaited us.

And, not long after, we were treated to a dance extravaganza onstage.

With Professor Davenport joining in!

This is the way to end a great day of poetry, don't you think?

ALBANY STATE UNIVERSITY POETRY FESTIVAL

2009-11-20T06:18:00.000-08:00

Recently I was invited for the second time to participate in the annual Albany State University Poetry Festival, titled Ascensions, referring to Frank X Walker's latest book of poetry, When Winter Come: The Ascension of York.

I joined Frank, Shirlette Ammons, Dr. doris davenport, the creator and maintainer of the festival, and the students who came to our sessions to write and listen. The three day festival was high-energy and high-fun. I enjoyed every minute. As a native of Southwest Georgia (Camilla, in Mitchell County, a mere 25 mile drive from Albany) I take special pride in seeing one of our local institutions bringing the gospel of poetry to the community.

On Friday morning, I began the day's writing workshop by reading some of my poems and inviting the students to "steal" whatever they wanted from my work. They Did!

Fifila had a good time working on her poem.

Students participating in the work shop were the following:

Ronnie Myers

Nicolle Burke

Frederick Peges

Cassandra Starr

Daniel Bowman Forsythe

Fifila Griffith

Maggie Emily

Shawn Sessoms

Wilbur E. "Geno" Jordan, Jr.

Quanda Smith

Charquita Arnold

Geno stole a line about petunias from my "Glorified," and wrote a terrific poem with it, one that he performed in great voice afterward. I'll hope to have it on my blog eventually.

Glorified

Whenever I praise what she's brought forth,
whether biscuits or chicken stewed all day
with sweet corn and butterbeans, she says, "To God
Be the Glory." But I tell her I don't mess around
with an old man who's so far away he can't hear me.
I'd rather be talking to petunias that bloom on her porch,
or the bathrobe she wears when she's making
the coffee, her toes while she's sleeping in front
of the t.v., her big mouth that's snoring.
To you be the Glory, I say, feeling
so brazen this morning, I dare God
to give me the finger. Go scrub out
your mouth,she scolds, but I see her smiling.

DB Forsythe, Cassandra Starr, Shawn Sessums, and Maggie Emily work on their poems.

(DON'T LOOK!)

Dr. doris davenport proudly presents her students after they have read their new poems

She then read one of Frank X Walker's new poems in the persona of Myrlie Evers, the widow of Medgar Evers, slain during the civil rights struggle in Mississippi. (Mr. Walker has also written poems in voice of Evers' assassin and his wife. )

.....and reminded them of the open-mic reading that evening, at which they would be reading the poems composed during this morning session, and urged them to come to Frank X Walker's lecture/presentation early in the afternoon and his Master Class workshop following.

*************************

Go to http://www.frankxwalker.com/, for more informationn about Mr. Walker and his work.

In the afternoon, Frank, after a long, long drive from Kentucky to SW Georgia, gave us a masterful introduction to his work centered around York, who accomanpanied his master William Clark on the Lewis & Clark expedition. Walker's first book, Buffalo Dance, gives us the voice of York as he travels across the continent with the expedition. His new book, When Winter Come, gathers the voices of various characters, both human and not, involved in York's story.

Students listen intently to Frank X Walker's presentation.

At the Master Class, Mr. Walker talks about what good writing demands from its makers.

I took notes during the presentation; Frank looked at me and said, "You're going to steal some of this, aren't you? "

"You bet," I answered. If Jeno can steal my petunias, I can steal some of Frank X Walker's workshop ideas!

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS BOOKFAIR, PART 2

2009-11-18T07:31:00.000-08:00

One of the pleasures of the Great Smoky Mountains Bookfair was meeting the editors of the new literary magazine fresh...stories, poems, ideas--JC Walkup (Publisher), Penny Morse (Poetry Editor, and Buffy Queen (Non Fiction Editor). We nabbed a passer-by, who looked like a student and therefore more techno-savvy than we are, to capture the four of us beside my table.

They also snapped me in the process of writing a poem for one of the winners of our Bookfair Student Poetry Contest.

And here's my friend Vicki Lane chatting with my mentor and friend Fred Chappell. Fred looks as if he's deep into ponder-mode. I wonder what they were talking about.

As for fresh, the first issue features Robert Morgan with three poems, a story by Kathryn Magendie, and, among many other pieces, a poem by Keith Flynn, Editor of The Asheville Poetry Review, just off the presses. The deadline for the next issue is Dec. 1st, so consider submitting some Winter related work right away. The address is fresh, LLC, P.O. Box 107, Canton, NC 28716.

Why a new literary magazine? Publisher JC Walkup explains. Please click on the image for better reading.

fresh is also offering a fiction and non-fiction contests, deadline Dec. 1, so click on the page image below for more information. The winning story and essay will be published in a future issue, and the 3 top pieces will also receive a monetary award.
But hurry--the deadline for submissions is drawing closer.

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS BOOKFAIR, PART 1

2009-11-15T07:40:00.000-08:00

(City Lights Bookstore, along with The Friends of the Jackson County Library and numerous other volunteers, helped make the Bookfair a reality.)

This year's Great Smoky Mountains Bookfair was a smash hit! We had more people come to visit than ever before, and our authors on display were busier than I've ever seen them. I can vouch for that! I hardly had time to look at the book displays or to visit with friends like Kerry Madden, Pam Duncan, Vicki Lane, Allan Wolf, Fred Chappell--well, the list could go on. The event was held once again at the First United Methodist Church in Sylva, an ideal facility that feels both welcoming and capacious enough for a bunch of writers and readers to hang out for a day, indulging their love of books. We appreciate the church for opening its lovely downstairs rooms to us.

Alas, I forgot to bring new batteries for my camera, so I don't have photos of my own to share, but I do have one, taken in my kitchen, of the beautiful wall sconce, with an ear of corn on it (of course!), by my dear friend Gayle Woody, the one who created the gorgeous corn batik that I featured a few weeks back. Gayle teaches art at Smoky Mountain High School now, and her energy and spirit always makes me feel more alive.

>

(Sconce hand-made by artist and friend Gayle Woody)

I wrote a lot of poems for both children and adults, including a couple for babies named Eason and Sean Adam. I had a lot of fun writing one for a woman who rescues St. Bernard's, the breed of dog I've always wanted! With four "mutts" living with me these days, I'm glad I don't have the dog of my dreams, though a keg of brandy around his neck would be welcome on cold nights.
The highlight of my day was Allan Wolf's Poetry Alive performance and the readings by our student poetry contest winners. More about that tomorrow. They were fabulous. What poise they all had! I could never had stood up to read my own poem when I was in the second grade. Or the twelfth!

(Photo from Allan's website, http://www.allanwolf.com. )

And yes, I bought books, so many that my friends Harold and Jane Schiffman had to help me carry them out to the car!

Then we joined Fred and Susan Chappell for a glass of wine at Mill and Main, http://www.historicdowntownsylva.com/rest.html, basking in the afternoon light on the restaurant deck.

All in all, a great day for writers, readers, and our region.

GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS BOOK FAIR

2009-11-13T05:53:00.001-08:00

ARCHITECT'S RENDERINGS OF THE NEW JACKSON COUNTY PUBLIC LIBRARY:

TOMORROW IS THE BIG DAY, SO PLEASE MARK YOUR CALENDAR! I'M HOPING NETWEST MEMBERS WILL COME OVER TO SYLVA TO ENJOY THE LITERARY FELLOWSHIP AND BUY BOOKS. (WWW.gsmbookfair.org) THE HOLIDAY SEASON IS ALMOST HERE, SO THINK ABOUT YOUR GIFT LISTS AND REMEMBER THAT BOOKS MAKE THE BEST GIFTS, ESPECIALLY THOSE PURCHASED FROM INDIE BOOKSTORES LIKE CITY LIGHTS. AND IF YOU BUY BOOKS AT THE BOOKFAIR, A PORTION OF THE PROCEEDS WILL GO TOWARD BUILDING THE NEW LIBRARY IN SYLVA, A FACILITY THAT WILL SERVE NOT ONLY JACKSON COUNTY BUT THE REGION, AS WELL. IT'S GOING TO BE BEAUTIFUL, SET ATOP COURTHOUSE HILL.

CLICK ON THE POST LINK TO GO TO SMOKY MOUNTAIN NEWS'S FEATURE THIS WEEK ON THE FAIR.

A QUICK TRIP TO GEORGIA

2009-10-26T15:00:00.001-07:00

A few weeks ago, my daughter and I took a quick trip to SW Georgia to see the farm house and walk in the trees. These are some of the paintings still hanging on the walls in the house. They were painted by my great-grandmother, Ella Valentine Fry. This first one was a favorite of mine while I was growing up. It was also my brother's favorite. There's something so quiet, peaceful and romantic about it that I often wished I could step right inside the image and pick up the oars of that canoe.

One of the great pleasures of walking around the farm is looking at the trees. Here is one that my friend Cindy Davis would like claim as a subject. I immediately named it Cindy's Tree.

I can't name this wildflower, but it was luminous.

Some of the pine trees my father planted several years ago.

We'd taken our Ace of Dogs with us, and he was wondering why I was such a slow-poke.

My daughter headed out on her own.

SW Georgia Morning Glories.

BIG SUNDAY GUMBO

2009-10-25T08:37:00.000-07:00

We met my brother, his wife, and a couple of their friends at O'Malley's last night for drinks and supper, while watching numerous football games on the televisions all around us. We cheered when Clemson beat Miami--the whole restaurant cheered, for that matter. The Auburn fans were downcast over the LSU game. As we were preparing to leave, I saw that my sister-in-law had left a plate full of chicken bones from her meal, so I asked her for them.

Why? she asked.

For stock, I replied and shamelessly wrapped them in a paper napkin.
And so this morning I have boiled them down to stock and am making a big pot of gumbo.

First the roux, oil and flour in my cast iron pot, heated to a nice brown color, then the peppers and onions, letting them turn a bit soft and savory looking, after which I add the leftover crabmeat in my freezer, the frozen tomatoes from our few in the garden, some chipped barbecue, broughr back from S. Georgia, and catfish. Oh yeah, good ole catfish.

I've just added the exceptionally good looking okra I found at the market, and before supper, I will add the shrimp, though I've already immersed a few with tails on for flavor.

Then I'll let it sit for the afternoon, the flavors mingling in all sorts of magical ways. Just a slight re-heating, and we'll have it for supper, maybe with some cornbread or Annie's Bakery baguette.

For dessert, maybe a cherry pie. We'll see.

Senior Trip: 1962

2009-10-19T11:56:00.000-07:00

I found this old photo during one of my last trips home. Do those of you of a certain age remember "senior trips" to the Big City? They were deleted just a few years after my class trip to Washington, DC and New York City. Classes still have such trips but often they are cruises, like the one my daughter's class offered and which she declined. Being on a train with classmates some of whom you may dislike can be hard, but a boat? Getting seasick? No thanks.

Here we are, a goodly bunch of my senior class, waiting to get on the train to take us to D.C. and then to New York. Look at how we are dressed--girls in suits, gloves, and hats, the buys in suits and ties! It's hard to believe high school students once dressed like this for major outings.

I think I'm in the back row. The prettier, more popular girls were always in front, and my friend, the elegant Cheryl Phillips, now deceased, is the one in the center of that particular front row. I barely remember D.C., but I do remember New York and how amazed I was that the place never went to bed at night. At 2 in the morning it was still making so much noise I couldn't sleep in my hotel room. West Side Story was on Broadway that spring, and billboards advertising it were everywhere, "Maria," singing from every record store. We went to see The Sound of Music and the Rockettes, and we ate some very bad food, which we expected, since this was NYC, after all. Once you crossed the Mason-Dixon line into the Nawth, you knew nobody had figured out how to cook. I recall one of us asking for iced tea and the waitress saying they didn't serve that; we looked at her as if she were some benighted creature.

I remember being terrified of the subway, the stories I'd heard about falling in front of one, being caught in the doors and dragged to a horrible death. The kind of people I'd be pushed up against in the cars. I wore my money pinned into my bra. I was sure I would never survive the subways.

Mostly, though, I remember getting sick. Horribly ill with a bad cold, sore throat, and cough that grew worse and worse. I remember sitting in the audience at The Sound of Music terrified that I would have another coughing spasm. By the time our train returned to Albany, GA, I was having chills and fever, and next day I was hospitalized with pneumonia. I don't think the chaperones even noticed my travail, except when I coughed. They had enough to worry about!

I stayed in the hospital for over a week, then I developed pleurisy. It was quite a siege. I listened to the radio a lot--Soldier Boy was popular then, and so was Runaway. The Beatles and the Mamas and the Papas hadn't arrived yet. Elvis had, but by then he was old news.

I don't think I'd want to take a large group of students to the Big Apple and try to ride herd on them. Well, we did take a largish group of WCU students to London years later, and yes, we had one picked up by the police for smoking pot and another who didn't come back the night before we left, causing us to fear she'd been ....well, you know. She turned up next morning before we left for the airport as if nothing had happened.

Still, I'm glad I was able to have a real Senior Trip. My mother had gone on hers, and her stories had stayed with me. New York and D.C. were soon perceived as being too dangerous, as the Civil Rights struggle became front and center of our news. Southerners especially felt they were at risk in those cities; no sane parent would let a child go there, as my father commented.

I look at us in this small photo, dressed up and ready to go, ready to leave home and see the wide world. Despite knowing what has happened to some of us, knowing the way the world disappoints, the bright city lights seeming not so bright after all, I still feel a nudge of excitement.

I want those train doors to open again for me, and this time I want to be wearing not a hat or gloves, but sleek black boots, a poet's cape, a skirt that swishes as I stride throught the station, a wind that blows my hair as I climb into the car, holding my ticket, my money still pinned tight into my cleavage and a book of poetry I've been waiting for ages to read in my hands.

STUDENT POETRY CONTEST: GREAT SMOKY MOUNTAINS BOOK FAIR

2009-10-21T09:20:00.000-07:00

STUDENT POETRY CONTEST AT SMOKY MOUNTAINS BOOK FAIR

Students who love to write poetry have a chance to win prizes and recognition in a contest sponsored by the 5th Great Smoky Mountains Book Fair. The contest is open to students in grades 1-12 in Jackson, Haywood, Macon and Swain counties, including home-schooled students and students on the Qualla Boundary.

The poetry contest was an idea proposed by Kay Byer, North Carolina Poet Laureate and one of the planners for the Book Fair, which is sponsored by City Lights Bookstore, the Friends of the Jackson County Main Library, and the Jackson County Public Library. “The love of books and reading begins early, and the earlier the better,” Byer said. “Poetry is a great way to nurture that love, beginning in kindergarten and all the way through to high school. Our student poetry contest will encourage our children to develop a love of language that will enrich their lives.”

“We are urging teachers and parents to encourage their students to submit a poem as a way of drawing attention to the Book Fair, which is a promotional event to raise money for the new Jackson County Public Library Complex,” said June Smith, president of the Friends of Jackson County Main Library. “Students who write poems now will one day soon have a new library in Jackson County filled with books and poems.”

First and second prizes will be awarded in three categories: Elementary—Grades 1-5, Middle School—Grades 6-8, and High School—Grades 9-12. Students may submit only one poem, not longer than 40 lines. Each submission must include the student’s name, parents' names, grade level, school attended (if home-schooled, please specify), address and telephone number. Include email address, if available. Poems must be received by October 31.

First prizewinners in each category will receive $50, and the second prizewinners will receive $25. Judges for the contest are Jeannette Cabinis-Brewin, Dr. Mary Adams, and Dr. Newton Smith.

Allan Wolf, author, poet, performer and educator will read the winning poems at the Great Smoky Mountains Book Fair. The Fair will be held November 14 at the United Methodist Church in downtown Sylva. Wolf’s books include Immersed In Verse: An Informative, Slightly Irreverent & Totally Tremendous Guide to Living the Poet’s Life, The Blood-Hungry Spleen and Other Poems About Our Parts, and New Found Land: Lewis and Clark’s Voyage of Discovery.

Prizewinning poems and honorable mentions will be published in the Smoky Mountain News. The winning poems will be published in the Poet Laureate’s blog, http://ncpoetlaureate.blogspot.com.

Students can submit by email to more@citylightsnc.com (Student Poetry Contest in subject line) or by mail to Student Poetry Contest, City Lights Bookstore, 3 E Jackson St., Sylva, NC 28779-5668. Deadline is Oct. 31, 2009. For more information contact either Kathryn Byer at nclaureate@aol.com or 293-5695 or City Lights Books at 586-9499 or more@citylightsnc.com.

Student Poets and Sheila Kay Adams Celebrated

2009-10-18T07:44:00.000-07:00

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(With Nancy Posey, Director of NCETA's Student Writing Awards)

Yesterday's drive over the mountains to Caldwell Community College was fraught with uncertainty. I didn't know how the weather was going to turn out, and I wasn't sure about the directions Mapquest had given me. Yes, I got lost. And I decided asking folks at service stations and Kentucky Fried works better than the internet if you're lost.

Sure enough, thanks to the cheerily helpful woman at KFC, I found Caldwell Community College and Technical Institute. Nancy Posey, past president of the NC English Teachers Association and this year's Director of Student Writing Awards, greeted me as I walked in with a big box of First Light booklets.

Lunch was just what we needed after a cold, windy morning: soup. White chili, red chili, chicken noodle, cabbage-sausage. Both the white chili and the cabbage soup were great, and to be honest, I was having a hard time paying attention to Elaine Cox announcing the Teacher of the Year because I was enjoying that soup so seriously! After Elaine's presentation, the Student Awards were presented, the first being the Wade Edwards Fiction Award, followed by the Watterson-Timberlake Essay presentations, the subject this year being "Memoir."

Then, it was time for POETRY. Because of weather and distance several of our student winners couldn't make it, but all of our Middle School winners did, even Allie Sekulich, all the way from Raleigh with her parents Mike and Kim and her siblings Summer and Nick. C.J. Murphy, his teacher Lydia Dunn, and his mother made it from Hickory, and Falecia Metcalf and family were in the audience, as well, having driven over from Buncombe County. Falecia's teacher at N. Buncombe Middle School, Julie Young, was there, too.

These young poets were understandably nervous about reading their poems to a large audience, so I offered to read their work for them, after presenting their awards. That was the best part of the day! Reading them aloud, I realized all over again how good these poems are.
Here we are after the program.

(From left, C.J. Murphy, Falecia Metcalf, me, and Allie Sekulich)

Only one high school awardee attended, our first place winner, Sarah Brady. She, too, traveled from Raleigh with her mother Rebecca. She read her splendid poem, Vocabulary Words, to nods of appreciation from the assembled teachers.

(Sarah Brady and her mother Rebecca)

The Ragan-Rubin Awardee this year was Sheila Kay Adams, an old friend. How old I won't reveal. We sat together at lunch, Sheila with her ibook, scrolling through a long piece of prose. John York was to my other side, enjoying his chili. Perfect lunch companions!

(Nancy Posey presenting Sheila Kay Adams with the Ragan-Rubin Award)

Sheila's presentation was a reading from her laptop, a new book she began a while back, "weird," she said, but I'd call it magical. Sheila is a born performer, right down to her gold shoes, which you'll see in this photo of Sheila signing books after the program.

After the book signings, Sheila Kay received yet another award--the Little Debbie Cupcake Award, which she gratefully accepted from John York.

Please visit the NCETA website at www.ncenglishteacher.org for more information about the association and the Student Award programs.

I will be presenting the winning poems this coming week on my blog. That's when you will see why I fell in love with them and why I couldn't decide among the High School submissions and ended up declaring so many ties.

FIRST LIGHT: Student Poet Laureate Awards

2009-10-16T05:36:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow is the big day, the day when the students who have won the second annual NC Student Laureate Poetry Awards will be recognized at the yearly conference of the North Carolina Engligh Teachers Association held at Caldwell Community College. These awards were established two years ago by my family as a way of bring poetry more into the student awards lineup at NCETA, thereby encouraging the reading and writing of poetry in our public schools.

The awards are given for the best poems by middle and high school students. John York is first readier and I am final judge, as each year's Poet Laureate will be. The student Laureates receive monetary awards, as well as books. This year they, their families, and assembled teachers will also be receiving a chapbook of the winning poems, First Light.

Here is the list of winners. You may find out more about NCETA's student writing contests by going to http://www.ncenglishteacher.org/. I will be posting the poems themselves, along with photos from the awards ceremony when I return on Saturday.

MIDDLE SCHOOL:First Place:C.J. Murphy“Where I Come From”W. Lincoln Middle

Second Place:Falecia Metcalf"The Rain"N. Buncombe Middle

Honorable Mention:Allie Sekulich“On the Ice”Charter Neuse Middle

HIGH SCHOOLFirst Place:Sarah Brady“Vocabulary Words”Holly Springs High, now at UNC

Erin Walklet“Agape”Cardinal Gibbons High

Second:Courtney Duckworth“Ode to Karen Dalton”R.L Patton High
Chelsea Hansen“Met Death”Penn-Griffin School
Maria Evans“A Breath”Leesville Rd. High, now at UNC-CH

Honorable Mention:

Allison Kupatt"Cult Classics"Enloe High School
Rachel Thompson“Aqua, Zephyr, Terra”Penn-Griffin
Amanda Honey“Runners”Carrboro High
Megan Przybyla"Summertime"Leesville Road High School

Dog is Love

2008-06-12T14:39:00.000-07:00

We have five "rescue dogs," or as I sometimes call them, refugee dogs. Our most recent, Ace, was rescued from the Haywood County Shelter (just hours before he was to be euthanized) by my friend, the poet Mary Adams (see her link below). Mary has become an advocate for homeless animals, housing quite a few of them at her own home until she can find families for them. It's important to support such groups, like our local Animal Relief Fund, and to make sure that our shelters are run properly, with care for the animals kept there, many of whom have been mistreated. Ace is a wonderful dog, loving and intelligent. And drop-dead gorgeous. Why would anyone have wanted to abandon him?

OF SHAWLS AND REPRINT FEES

2009-10-12T13:00:00.000-07:00

My husband bought this shawl for me in Florence, Italy many years ago. I keep it draped over my bedroom wall. I think I may have worn it once. It's the sort of shawl to wear to an opera, maybe Tosca or La Traviata. It's also the sort of shawl that feels out of place here in Cullowhee. Actually, it ought to be an opera singer's shawl. And since I sing opera only in my dreams, amazing myself as I walk onstage to hear Musetta's aria coming out of my mouth, maybe I've always felt that this shawl is just too special for someone like me to wear.

The black shawl below is another matter. I ordered it from the Sears Catalog--yes, Sears--so you know how long I must have had it. Whenever I wore it, it picked up various debris in its long fringes, like a net, and so I came to think of it that way, as a net gathering up a woman's sensibility. Her dreams, fears, and songs.

That image was the start of my third book, Black Shawl, from which Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham wanted to reprint the title poem in their recent Clothes Lines anthology. They couldn't afford it, though, because my publisher, asked a huge reprint fee. So much money for one poem? I was astonished and horrified.

Nothing to do, then, but to write another shawl poem, which I did surprisingly quickly. Maybe the mountain woman's voice in it is a close cousin to the woman's voice in Black Shawl. Yes, it's in the anthology, which again I recommend highly. And although I don't approve of any poet's poems being kept from anthologies because of unreasonable reprint fees, I'll have to concede that this time those fees pushed me into writing a poem that I like and am pleased to see published in this anthology.

River Shawl

She’d dribble the fringe of her shawl
in the river. The quick current rippled the black threads.
They floated as she wished she could.
They wanted to be swept away but she held fast
to what had been woven. Her mother’s shawl.
Now her own. How much longer
to be handed down, this black keepsake?

She’d lift out the fringe,
rub it over her face, feel the cold
water run down her cheeks,
down her neck,
into white folds of flesh underneath the dress
worn before her by her kinswomen.

What might she catch in this web
if she let it drift far enough
out of the shallows,
into the dark center
where she could not see the bottom?

How far would she have to wade
until she stepped into
some other world, under the sun-dappled
surface? The river itself was a shawl,
always wrapping itself round the hills,
threaded with golden light,
trailing its castaway leaves.

It could weave her into its weft,
carry her farther than she could imagine--
the sea she could feel surging
inside when she let herself
want what she knew she could not
have, a life she could open
as wide as a closet door onto
garments no woman had worn
before her. Nobody’s life but her own.

from Clothes Lines, ed. by Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham, Catawba Publishing, 2009.

SOUP--OR POTAGE, IF YOU WANT TO SOUND FRENCH

2009-10-11T11:03:00.000-07:00

(An October bouquet from the last of my zinnia patch.)

This glorious Sunday I've spent doing my "kitchen meditation" using one of Lynne Rossetto Kasper's Weeknight Kitchen recipes. I've loved The Splendid Table for years, and a while back, I signed up for Lynne's newsletter. I read every recipe that shows up in my email, and this week's FABULOUS FALL ROOTS SOUP, excerpted from Sunday Soup: A Year's Worth of Mouthwatering, Easy to Make Recipes, by Betty Rosebottom (Chronicle Books) did indeed make my mouth water, and since it's Sunday, I decided, why not give it a try in my messy kitchen. (My photos try to frame only the parts I'd want my friends to see!)

Actually, I decided to begin this recipe-meditation yesterday, spending part of late afternoon roasting the vegetables so they'd be ready this morning. I also wanted to make my own chicken stock, of course, and I wanted to be able to leave it in the fridge overnight, so that I could skim the fat off the top

You can click on my blog title to be taken to the recipe on Lynne's website, by the way. (You can also check on how faithfully I followed it.) Yes, I cheated a bit. No leeks. I walked right past them at Ingle's; they are not part of my lexicon. I'd never heard of them while growing up. But I HAD heard of rutabagas and sweet potatoes, and carrots. And after I became sophisticated, I even heard about creme fraiche. And I knew how to make chicken stock. My grandmother always seemed to have a pot of it on the stove.

(My succulent roasted root veggies!)

So, this morning I took my gorgeous roasted veggies from the fridge, resisting the urge to cram some of them into my mouth, and scooped them over into the chicken stock. I let them simmer for a little while longer, just to make sure all were cooked thoroughly. And then....

....and then, a major decision. The un-pureed soup looked so good. And I do like what my friend Vicki Lane calls "texture" in my soup, as does she. Did I want this to be a vegetable soup or a "potage." Should I follow the recipe or diverge from its path? I meditated a little while, looked out the window at the fall foliage, and decided to follow the path of the recipe this time around.

I did not, after the luscious puree was done, add creme fraiche. I added non-fat sour cream instead. Non-fat is good for you, right? Next time I'll do the French.

We will have this soup for supper tonight when my husband returns from hiking in the Smoky Mountains. I think he'll like it, even if it does have rutabaga in it!

CLOTHES LINES

2009-10-09T14:48:00.001-07:00

Can you believe that communities have gotten into brawls over clotheslines? Some folks seem to think they make a yard look "trashy." I've always had a clothesline; hanging out the wash is one of my favorite activities. Then I can enjoy the pay-off-- sheets dancing, shirts waving in the wind, underwear mincing its way along the line, and later, I like the way sun-dried laundry smells.

Well, here's another look at clotheslines, but it won't get you into a brawl, nor do you have to worry about bringing your clothes in at night, in case of rain. What I'm talking about is a whole bunch of clothes lines strung together by Celia Miles and Nancy Dillingham. This anthology of work about clothes and how we women get tangled up in them has just been published and its cover looks like a writer's shawl, don't you think? One she'd throw around her shoulders before heading out for the cafe, the salon, the bookstore, the poetry reading! The 75 western North Carolina women in this book would probably love to fling such a shawl round themselves and head out to make the literary scene in style.

Here is Nancy Dillingham's poem on the back cover. If your local bookstore doesn't have this collection on its shelves, gather your shawl around you and demand that it be ordered at once! It's from Catawba Publishers, and the ISBN is just below Nancy's poem.

Finding Our Line

Every day
we shape our clay
from the inside out
giving it cachet.

But sometimes
it’s the clothes we wear
that give us away
that give us sway

Curves, straight lines
diagonals, in-your-face style
au courant, de rigueur
faux, retro

Similarly
we define ourselves as writers
shape our style

The curve of the plot
the turn of the phrase
the tone of the prose--
it’s the pattern of patter that matters

We preen, we pose
give color to character
and landscape
decorate and align

weaving a provocative story
stitching a tall tale
spinning a yarn
threading a theme

piecing a poem
with precision and panache
punctuating with élan
finding our line

Nancy Dillingham

CLOTHESLINES
Edited by Celia H. Miles and Nancy Dillingham ISBN 978-1-59712-355-690000

THE LAST ROSE OF SUMMER

2009-09-17T08:35:00.000-07:00

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!

MY NEW CHAPBOOK HAS ARRIVED

2009-09-14T08:56:00.000-07:00

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!

END OF SUMMER

2009-09-01T12:47:00.000-07:00

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.

Poetic Passion? Let Me Clean Up the Dog Barf First

2009-08-06T09:31:00.000-07:00

This riff was prompted by a Red Room request for writers to blog about their obsessions.

Writers are supposed to be obsessed. Obsessed with words. Images. Dreams. The brush of silky wind across their inner arms, their thighs. The last light on leaves. The pokeberries hanging from their brances out side my window, pendants ripe for the picking, beckoning to be put in a poem about late summer in the South.

But first I have to clean up the barf one of my four dogs just left at my feet. It happened while I was talking to my mother on the phone, reassuring her that I'm still alive, and will remain so, even though my husband will be gone for another night of looking after his ill father. My mother is obsessed with my safety. I am obsessed with all the dog fur that has gathered on my carpet over the last 24 hours.

I barely have time to look out the window at the pokeberries or the morning-glories. I am busy cleaning up after dogs. And when I'm not, I'm cleaning up after making sauerkraut, pickling beets and cucumbers, stewing tomatoes, canning jams. Or pulling weeds. My writer's hands? Dirt under the fingernails. When I reach for a ball-point, it's to write another reminder on my to-do list.

My house smells of dogs, vinegar, and cabbage. My bedroom is littered with recipes. My garden calls me out each morning to see what damage my rampaging dog-pack has wrought. I spend my day obsessing over what else I can save from rot and decay, the tomatoes leaking all over the counter. The peaches growing soggy as beer-soaked sponges. I want to save every last cabbage leaf, every plume of chard, every spike of okra. It's August in the rural South. Isn't that what I'm supposed to be doing? Seizing the day, like any time-obsessed poet? Stroking butternuts like words. Chewing on Red Russian Kale as if it's my best poem.

At night I search Pet-Finder online for dogs to save. I don't need any more. Neither does my garden. But a poet can always dream, can't she?

LOCAL FOOD GALA: Land Trust for the Little Tennessee

2009-08-05T05:37:00.000-07:00

A few months ago Kate Parkerson of the Land Trust for the Little Tennessee asked me to write a poem for their summer Local Food Gala. Of course I said I'd be honored to do so, even though I didn't have a clue at the time about what I'd take as my subject. As the deadline for the poem drew nigh, and Kate emailed me a reminder of my promise, the subject surfaced, or rather, pushed its way out of the sod. Cabbage! There it was, all ten heads of it in my garden.

So I wrote the poem that you can see on the cards placed at all the plates. To make this project even more fun, the photograph, made by an old-fashioned pin-hole camera, by Phyllis Jarvinen, (www.phyllisjarvinen.com) captures the cabbage in my friends Ron and Cathy Arps's CSA garden.

The Gala itself was a feast of locally produced food, aside from the French wine. Local wineries and breweries had tasting stations before the meal began, though.

The Menu:

Appetizers--
Panseared Tellico Farms trout cake served with creamy coleslaw and smoked corn salsa.
Tomatoes topped with fresh basil and Dark Cove goat cheese drizzled with a balsamic reduction

Entrees

Filet of Beef--Thinly sliced Brasstown Beef filet served atop savory bacon bread pudding accompanied by fresh green beans tossed in walnut oil, garnished with a cherry demi-glace, and topped with fried sweet onions.

Vegetarian Napoleon--Layered and grilled eggplant, zucchni, squash, peppers, and potatoes with a cilantro pesto and black beans.

Dessert:

Panna Cotta--Spring Ridge Creamery Cream crafted into a light delicious Panna Cotta with a honey ginger syrup topped with fresh berries and finished with a dark chocolate square from Dillsboro Chocolate Factory.
(See photo at beginning of post!)
-----------
The location for the feast was one of the most beautiful valleys I've seen, tucked away outside Franklin. The evening was memorable. Both my husband and I even won door prizes, he an elderberry plant and I a gift certificate to Highland Hiker.

Please consider joining the LTLT. (www.ltlt.org) It does good work in our region. And it celebrates good food. Who could ask for more?

(Driving into the Green!)

(Ron and Cathy Arps)

(My Poem)

(Beautiful table settings!)

(Local potter Joan Byrd in the right-hand corner of the photo)

(Kate Parkerson, hand on head--organizer of the event.)

FEAR OF FLYING?

2009-08-02T08:17:00.000-07:00

I dread flying, but on my flight to Portland, I suddenly realized that, seated by the window facing East, with the plane's wing providing an interesting angle on the clouds and landscape below, I was able to see some stunning landscape through the porthole. And I had a digital camera in my handbag! So, why the heck not? I started snapping photos. My fear of flying disappeared.

Here are some of them, beginning with my first view of the Rockies.

I've always loved looking at cloud landscapes from a window seat. Several of these cloud terrains were especially seductive.

I like to imagine stepping out into an endless landscape of clouds.

And then through the clouds I could see Mt. Hood and Mt. Adams, as we approached Portland.

As we descended into Portland, I snapped a few final photos.

The river is the mighty Columbia!

This one I captured seconds before landing.