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.




Showing posts with label Kathryn Kirkpatrick. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kathryn Kirkpatrick. Show all posts

Saturday, March 24, 2012

SOUTHERN POETRY REVIEW: Kathryn Kirkpatrick





The current issue of Southern Poetry Review features, as always, memorable poems
 by some of our best poets, oftentimes friends of mine.  This issue includes several
 friends--Janice Townley Moore, Mike Chitwood,  Kathryn Kirkpatrick, and Julie Suk.  



Today I'm posting Kathryn's "Shine,"with a plug both for her most recent book, 
Unaccountable Weather (Press 53).   Tomorrow, I will post Julie Suk's poem.
Come back!




Shine

Saturdays as a child I spread newspaper
for forthright oxfords, coy high heels,
dabbed each scuff and toe with paste,
then smoothed, brushed, and buffed,
until each pair, restored, stood equal
to the world it was to meet, 

and myself lost in the motion,
mindful before I knew the practice,
cross-legged in a cove of spare delight,
attending, attending, as if the shoes
I mended walked their own meditation,
my child’s hand slipped toward each sole,
held up, inspected, admired until
the shine, the shine came true.

A dime a pair, repair the wear.
Stay against the sadness.
And I see him, my father,
with his small task to offer,
work his conversation, 
work his steady state.

All afternoon at the slow motion
of waxing a car with Turtle paste,
the circular hum, his way of saying
here is the stay, the raw delight, 
the feel of the task so surely done, 
it sounds a tuning in your bones.


Sunday, August 7, 2011

The Goddesses: Athena




The goddesses stay with us, often keeping to the shadows until some event in our lives calls them forth, with their luminous mystery drawing us to them.   Here is Kathryn Kirkpatrick's invocation to Athena, from her new collection,  Unaccountable Weather, due this fall from Press 53.  The books can be pre-ordered from Press 53 right now.  





I finally met  Kathryn five years ago when I was Writer in Residence at Appalachian State University in Boone, NC.  I felt I had met a soul-sister, and that sense of connection has not diminished with time.  I've read her new book with wonder, asking how she could weave such seemingly disparate  women's voices into one seamless fabric.   




 (Athena, the goddess of Wisdom)

Kathryn  is a poet of such thoroughgoing honesty that reading some of these poems feels like eavesdropping, they are that closely focused on the details of experience. Whether  waking up from surgery for breast cancer  or describing the massage therapist kneading the scar on her chest, Kirkpatrick does not prettify the moment. Nor does she diminish it.  What makes this book memorable is how she weaves her own perspective  into a tapestry of other presences,  creating  a chorus of wounded, healing women rather than one solitary woman’s encounter with death and renewal.  The goddesses are here, with their grave and luminous visages.  And women you might meet at the local laundromat or fast food restaurant. Who is speaking this book?   The feminine.  Everywoman in her fear, her wit,  and her  Interior grace.  



Athena

Not the saucered face of an owl
but a serpent coiled in her hair,
the shape of its head, on which everything
depends, indeterminate.
Triangle perhaps. Maybe oval.

She’s not wooed by the snake like Eve
but one with the snake like Medusa.

This is wisdom with bite,
appraisal cool and round as an egg.

Forget the olive tree, flute,
yoked oxen and bridled horse.

Forget Prometheus who tried to take credit.

The flames at her chest tell us
what she has suffered,
what she has made of her suffering.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011

POET OF THE DAY: Kathryn Kirkpatrick


I've long admired Kathryn Kirkpatrick's poetry. A fine scholar and teacher in the English Department at Appalachian State University, she has published work in many of the nation's best journals, including two of my favorites, CAVE WALL and SHENANDOAH. Her book OUT OF THE GARDEN was published by Mayapple Press four years ago. The following two poems are from her forthcoming book, ALTER, to be published by Press 53 in Winston-Salem, NC. Kathryn is a long-distance friend, one I wish I could see more often.






Finding the Heart

Under the hydrangea, a heart

the dogs have found, a deer's

left by a hunter in our woods,

the carcass gutted where it lay, and I,

having never seen anything

like it, larger than anyone's fist

I know of, fetch the shovel because

it is so newly out of the body,

I am sure it was beating

only yesterday or the day before

and so bare beside the knife's

fresh cut and so powerful, somehow,

as if it did the work of living

still that I cannot bear

this awful cleaving from

the breath it made

and I dig a small grave.



Chemotherapy


Up from the massage table

I catch sight of myself

in the unavoidable mirror.


Afternoon light doesn't blink.

Basic bald head. Bare pudendum.

Soft pile of belly and hips.


Once mirrors drew me like friends,

broke my gloomy moods

with a smile, eyes brighter


than I'd remembered. Now I'm sacra

to myself, a neutral suggestion,

transpersonal form. Stripped


to Neolithic goddess, I'm all

that's behind all that will ever be,

prima mater, prima material,


impersonal as rain, kneaded

to dozens of shapes, except

that my chest is scarred


which is what you'd expect

of a goddess in this 21st century.