WHEN I STOPPED WANTING TO BE EMMYLOU HARRIS

Here's a recent blog post on South85journal.com,  a literary site well worth visiting.    I'm using this post to begin some commentary on my workshop at "The Gathering" in Winston-Salem, NC, back at the beginning of April.  This popular literary event, sponsored and presented by Jacar Press (whose founder Richard Krawiec, is a man of many talents) in Durham, NC, has become one of North Carolina's most welcoming and enjoyable literary events.  The title of my class was The Legato Line, and its presumed focus was the music of the poetic line and how one can weave a poem together in ways that approach the art of singing.  Each participant had an individual approach to structuring a poem, so in the posts to follow I hope to touch on a few of those poems, featuring lines that made my ear take heed and listen.    

           

      Why not submit some of your own work?  Or just enjoy the various offerings here, especially the blogs.   Here's the link.     http://south85journal.com/blog/

When I Stopped Wanting to Be Emmylou Harris

on APR 22, 16in BLOG, FEATURED BLOG POSTby SOUTH 85 JOURNALwith NO COMMENTS

Kathryn Stripling Byer

It took me a while.  After all, who wouldn’t want to wear fancy boots, lots of fringe, and sing, not to mention write, songs like “From Boulder to Birmingham”? Even now I marvel at how long it took me to realize that the poetry I was writing was my way of singing.  After years of Emmylou envy, I began to hear my voice, as I gave readings, approach song.  I began to focus on poetry as sound, as what Richard Wagner came to call even years before he’d inscribed the first note of an opera, “sound landscapes.”  Of course this poetic landscape encompasses all the elements of poetry, syntax, image, lineation and so forth, but more and more I began to listen, really listen to where the language was leading me.

This listening can take its own sweet time, and waiting is, as far as I’m concerned, a key component of good writing.  Several years ago, while visiting a good friend in Oregon, I joined her and a few of her poet-friends for a workshop. As a prompt, she offered up a poem with a train in it.  I can’t recall much of the poem, but the sound of that train pulled me into the first line of a poem that took me a long time to sing to its closing notes.  “So long, so long, the train sang,” I wrote in my notebook. And so began the first notes that kept calling and calling to me, haunting me, even down to the final days of my father’s life, as I lay in my childhood bed, trying to weave this poem together, finally.  I was, as I now realize, “listening” this poem to completion.

“Legato,” that is what I was trying to achieve–the legato line.  Singers know it well, and so indeed do poets, though they may not know it…..yet.  The opposite of legato is staccato, and I knew the sound landscape for this poem was not at all staccato.  This poem’s legato line was a moaning, all the way down through the flatlands, sounding like Georgia blues singer Precious Bryant singing, “I’m goin’ home on the morning train. That evening train may be too late, so I’m goin’ home on the morning train.”

I was going home, too. I’d been going home since that first line jotted down quickly so many years ago in Portland, Oregon.  “So long, so long, the train sang/ deep in the piney woods, well out of sight…. As sound only, it found me…long vowel reaching for nobody I knew as yet,

sounding an emptiness

deeper than I thought  could blow through

the cracks of this song where I’m kindling a fire

for my fingers to reach toward,

a kindling that transforms whatever it touches

to pure sound, a pearl, say,

that’s cupped in my palm

like a kernel my teeth cannot crack,

the pulse of it strung note by note round my neck,

that old rhythm and blues beat

I can’t stop from singing me home

on this slow morning train

of a poem, its voice calling

downwind, What took you so long?

This morning train of a poem became the first poem in my most recent book,Descent.  And its question still haunts me.  What took me so long to give up Emmylou and let go into my own legato line?  My own lifeline bearing me home again?  Maybe it’s the same journey we take over and over again with each new poem we write.

Precious Bryant.   More about her on a later post. 

Kathryn Stripling Byer, a native of Southwest Georgia,  lives in the mountains of North Carolina. Her poetry, prose, and fiction have appeared widely, including  Hudson Review, Poetry, The Atlantic, Georgia Review, and Shenandoah.   Her first book of poetry, The Girl in the Midst of the Harvest, was published in the AWP Award Series, followed by the Lamont (now Laughlin) prize-winning Wildwood Flower, from LSU Press.  Her subsequent collections have been published in the LSU Press Poetry Series. She served for five years as North Carolina’s first woman poet laureate.

Photo credit:  By Yogibones from (Flickr) [CC BY 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons

Southern Fictions: Coda

After I'd completed my "Southern Fictions" sonnet sequence back in the late 90's, I wrote what I considered a coda.   It grew out of the memory of my grandmother telling me when, as a young girl, I asked her whether I was Democrat or Republican.  I think we might  have been watching the t.v. they had just bought, and a news program was on.  I knew nothing of the two parties then.   By now I know too much.  And after watching the SC Republican primary's race-baiting and seeing how successful it was, I know that little has changed.  I never attached this coda to the sonnets, but after Gingrich's win, thanks, let's face it, to his race-baiting, I feel like sharing it.   This is the first time I've shown it to anyone but my husband.

Democrat or Republican, 

I asked in childhood, can 

you tell me which I  am ?  

A Democrat, she slammed

the word down hard.  And don’t

you ever dare forget it. 

And I haven’t.  I regret to mention

 that the most of my relations

have.  Blame civil rights.

Afraid to do the right

thing, they turned right

and lost the moral high

ground.  Elected bigots

and  were proud of it.

WRITING ON THE RAZOR'S EDGE: RICHARD KRAWIEC

(Richard Krawiec, poet, novelist, editor/publisher of Jacar Press, and literary activist)

Richard Krawiec writes poems that are an edgy and satisfying marriage of tenderness and well-honed attentiveness to the connections, often fraying, among people and the various places in which they find themselves, both physically and emotionally. How the poems' innermost pulses play out along their surfaces intrigues me, never more so than in Krawiec's new collection, She Hands Me the Razor, whose publication by Press 53 is forthcoming.

If that title takes you somewhat aback, you are not alone. What it calls up is an ambiguous collaboration, but between whom and why? Here is the title poem.

She Hands Me the Razor

when I ask

she hands me the razor

trust or faith I don’t know

where to begin to stroke

upward downward

I press the three whip-thin

blades against her skin

how much pressure

does she need do I want

it is always a matter of finding

another’s boundaries

one’s own limits

I pull slowly

across the arched muscle of her calf

the stretched tightness of her thigh

a few wisps of black hair escape

I press harder feel that catch

which halts my breath in mid exhaust

no rose blooms so I return

to the world of breathing

slower now I scrape off the lather

with mincing strokes reveal

each dimple freckle curve

consider the flesh

like Michelangelo

where to daub stroke edge

how to reveal the many

smooth faces of God

The religious imagery brings the attentive reader up short, that arched muscle of calf signaling more than flesh, all the while staying faithful to flesh and its challenges and mysteries. From the image of "no rose blooms," a rose window of connotations blooms, so that when in the next 5 lines we are asked to consider, along with the poet, Michelangelo's brush stroke as it reveals the face of God, we have been prepared for revelation. So quietly, so subtly that we are not quite sure at the moment where we are. On the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel? Or in the bathroom of man and woman engaged in this intimate act of shaving flesh, knowing the flesh in its dimple, freckle, curve? We inhabit both, of course. That is where the poem leaves us, in the midst of the most searing and mysterious revelation.

Fred Chappell captures the achievement of these poems in his dustjacket testimonial:

The things they discover, observe, and reveal might cause anyone to flinch. But this poet does not avert his gaze; he sees and endures and at last achieves a dearly bought and perhaps unexpected grace. I admire this collection enormously because I never doubted, always thinking, "Yes, this is how it must have been." Powerful experiences powerfully rendered with an art that seems almost casual. I salute this high, rude accomplishment."

Judging the Worth

another 5AM wake-up call

from the child who has learned

the joy of song before language

he alternates high then low doos then lats

the melody brooklike a wander without refrain

his child's scat lacks the edge of sex

and sorrow adults impose on expression

do-lat-deet-da-duuuh-lo-lo-lo-loooooow

outside it is all mist and fog

the yellow notes of streetlights

diffuse like brilliant words that have lost

the structure of their argument

I watch a small tornado rise

from the exhaust of my neighbor's car

my son hunches into my chest

it toooowl he says and I agree

it is cold but his breath warms

my shoulder his chest protects my own

he burrows his arms between us

one hand pops free his fingers slide

over his thumb as if testing fabric

the weight and weave judging the worth

of this life he throws his head up laughs

his teeth small and bright as stars

the firmament his face radiates

around us hidden in the dark branches

of the pines and hardwoods birds

chorus a greeting; the cacophony

of their song edges towards clarity

if I can only stand still long enough

to listen

When asked about the structure and craft of his book, Richard says: "I was trying to put together a collection that had a non-lineal narrative of sorts, where there was a progression of themes. The first section deals with relationships, lovers, spouses, parents and children, and what happens when there are disruptions, how people pull apart, come together. In the second section there is a movement out to witness the world, with some of the difficulties found in relationships both magnified and transformed as the poet moves into larger spheres,beyond the family. I'm hoping it works sort of like the way a musician might improvise on a theme. The third section is, hopefully, about attempting to embrace and transcend the life you fall into, to find a place of resolution, grace, mercy.I also hope the collection has an emotional arc, or narrative. Or maybe intertwined emotional threads."

Richard's earlier chapbook, Breakdown: A Father's Journey, was published in 2008 by Main Street Rag Press. About this collection, I commented in a blurb: Richard Krawiec's courageous, unblinking art has created a collection that is both terrifying and beautiful. "I recycle today's images/into language I hope/ will help me endure..." he explains. The poems that he has wrought from this struggle are harrowing, yet tender. They are, finally, nothing less than love poems.

Its title poem appears in this new collection. Harrowing, yes. Courageous, in spades.

Breakdown

like the aftermath of violent tides

piled leaves debris the street

your parents called again

again I told them

nothing

what do they wish

to hear from me

that your older brother

armed with a dictionary

ordered you to comply

with his words of assault

younger brother pinned

your arms as he arched and sliced

into your body

father got you

drunk in a hotel room in Mexico

mother bruised

you to silence with egg beaters

hair brushes and wooden spoons

now they enforce silence

with flowers cards claims of love

and the repeated emphasis

on the suffering you cause

them

by curling on a bed

in the Psychiatric Ward

of the State Hospital

safely hidden

inside a code

of Oz tornadoes

and Bizzaro cartoons

that bring you messages

from the Virgin and her angels

in this world you are always

three years old and killing

your children

watching yourself

be tossed raggedly

down the staircase

you believe in your fault

you can never be

sorry enough

so you construct a grid

of global conspiracy

to make your violators

heroes who saved you

by leaving clues

to what they'd done

the leaves are thick

I tell your mother

and as each one breaks down

the piles seem larger more

impenetrable

we are your mother tells me

having a nice autumn

Several of the book's most powerful and moving poems appear in the last section.

At the Borders

the woman in dancer’s black

stretch top skin-sleek

slacks draws a cigarette from the sea

green box of Newports

she doesn’t have to pace

through this Border’s

where single men

Armenian? Korean? Latino?

a verge of suspects

tic-tac-toe the cafe

simply carrying her iced

and cream-topped coffee

sliding a cigarette from fingers

to mouth is enough

to send heads ducking

to notebooks cell phones

any pretense of purpose

besides loneliness

why do we connect

if not to mountain-mist

the obvious

we are all alone

and dying

Rilke had his panther

sleek and muscular

padding behind steel bars

while men watched from without

now men sit imprisoned

behind wooden chair slats

while she stalks

across the dark interior

into the sunlight

where they no longer belong

Approaching Grace

a woman wearing a towel

shawl over a long dress

stands in the rush of tide

beating a bodhran

her body chants

from foot to foot

the white caps crash her hem

across the flagellant water

a crimson sun rises

above the mast of a shrimp trawler,

burns through the heliotrope haze,

the woman chants, beats, sways

her offered prayers lost

in the guttural glissade

of the sand-crunching waves

the woman I love arches

a sun salutation

her mermaid hair flows

wild tangles in the breeze

like the sea oats that shiver

their seed heads on the crest

of the weed-protected dune

along the porch railings

tourists peep out

tentative as snails

housewives in bathrobes

men in gym shorts and T-shirts

they smile shyly at me

in my paisley boxers

a Japanese mystic

claims the ocean contains

every thought that ever existed

the priestesses of Sangora

baptize with this wisdom

on the coasts of South Africa

I approach grace by watching

the feral curl of white froth,

rising sun, chanting woman

the red infusion of morning light

on my lover’s already glowing face

The poems in When She Hands Me the Razor ferry us through dangerous waters, leaving us finally upon the shore of grace, that infusion of morning light on a loved face. No wonder, after reading through these poems last night, I woke up with these lines from W.H. Auden's In Memory of W. B. Yeats sounding in my head: "In the prison of his days/ Teach the free man how to praise." Krawiec's new collection of poems culminates in praise, which has always been the goal and gift of poetry.

POETS OF THE DAY: DEBRA KAUFMAN AND SUSAN M. LEFLER

The poems by Debra Kaufman and Susan M. Lefler weave together in all sorts of interesting ways, beyond the obvious. Both deal with family and grief, yes, but beyond that, their voices entwine stylistically and tonally. I'm pleased to feature their new books today and encourage you to order them, keep them side by side, and turn to them especially as night falls. Their poetry waits to offer up its riches in the silence of nightfall. Or the early morning hour when one stands with a cup of coffee looking out at the world, remembering Czeslaw Milosz's prayer from "On Angels":

day draws near

another one
do what you can.

Debra Kaufman has given much to the literary community in her part of North Carolina. A playwright as well as poet, editor, teacher, and enabler of other writers, she embodies what is most admirable in our North Carolina literary scene.

Debra's new book can be found at Jacar Press's website--www.jacarpress.com. Jacar promises to become one of the South's most important small presses.

• • We're Never Ready

    Here we gather,
    motley, at the wake.
    
    This one hasn’t had her roots
    touched up. That one’s stuffed
    
    into his best suit coat.
    One has black grease under his fingernails.
    
    Another teeters on too-high heels
    saying Jesus, Jesus—
    
    half-prayer, half-curse.
    We gather brassy,
    
    shabby, befuddled,
    to witness this body—
    
    yellow rose on blue lapel,
    fresh haircut, no necktie—
    
    his body without his laugh,
    his breath, the pain.
    
    

    Autumnal Equinox

    Sugar maples blaze at sunset;
    leaves swoop and skirt
    the chilling wind like chimney swifts.
    
    A boy leaps into leaves,
    calls to a neighbor’s Irish red,
    as light falls, a cat’s white shadow,
    
    on his grandmother’s lap.
    Her hands rest there,
    her grandmother’s hands,
    
    the same boniness of wrist and knuckle,
    dry fingers nearly flammable in the smoky air.
    She smells ripe pears
    
    and feels her body drawn
    toward the darkness that rolls in
    earlier each day.
    
    Heat and light retreat,
    and evening covers everything
    except the boy, whose hair shines
    
    silky silver light
    as he tosses armfuls of color
    upward, like sparks.
    
    

  

  Susan Lefler has been in several of my workshops, which means I'm by no means objective when it comes to her work. I've watched her grow over the years into a writer who knows her material and can work with it without flinching, asking the tough questions, lowering the windlass at the well, as Seamus Heaney has described the poet's growth. Her first collection, Rendering the Bones, comes fully rendered itself, a mature poet's voice reaching out to us.

  
  

  
  

  
  

  

  
  
  Charlie Hughes has made Wind Publications a treasure trove of some of the best poetry being published in the South. Visit his site--www.windpub.com--to view his catalog. Charlie is a fine poet himself and a longtime supporter of Appalachian and Southern writing.

  
  

  
  

  
  Rendering the Bones

  
  The trouble with grief,
  I think as I boil the bones,
  is that you grow accustomed to it.
  Empty space, where all you have left
  is old dry bones.
  
  At the rest home where my father lives,
  his neighbors pedal their wheeled chairs like
  little boats along the halls, their eyes empty
  as hooked fish. These old ones know
  dry bones don’t live.
  
  Against her shriveled breast,
  an old woman clutches her plastic doll,
  touches its cheek and croons to it.
  Her reedy cry follows me down
  the narrow hallways of our loss
  
  where I hear her again,
  as I stand at my stove,
  clutching my mother’s spoon
  in my hands,
  rendering the bones.

  
  
  

  Analysis of a Perfect Storm

  
  

  
  

  The eye where the wind lies quiet

  must be round and smooth as silk pajamas

  
  

  and very, very still, and those who stand

  in its center must rest in its infinite

  
  

  curve as if held in the arms

  of a mother while outside, the wind

  
  

  gathers. There must be a pupil

  in that calm eye to watch in all directions

  
  

  as winds build toward their dead intent

  and the pressure drops. No holy habitation

  
  

  here, no safety net, no freedom for the guest.

  Trapped in a hospital cube, I listen

  
  

  with my parents to steel voices

  while one hope after another collapses,

  
  

  sucking our breath. Outside, the wind

  picks up again and my father stares transfixed,

  
  

  rehearsing escape routes

  even as water rises and the eye

  
  

  passes over.