The literary Journal Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel is having a contributor reading on Friday August 3rd, 2012 at City Lights Bookstore in Sylva, NC, and I am gracious to be part of the reading lineup. Other writers speaking include Jennifer Barton, Pauletta Hansel, Brenda Kay Ledford, Dominique Traverse Locke, Chrissie Anderson Peters, Elizabeth Swann, and Dana Wildsmith.
It's been years since I've visited City Lights, and I've never read there before, so I'm excited but also a little nervous. I don't know why, I've read my poetry in front of audiences many times, but perhaps its because there are so many talented writers joining me I wonder how the audience will see me. I'm also the only guy reading in the lineup, but that's not necessarily a bad thing. I believe Ernest Hemingway once said that all male writers were in competition with one another, though I've never been challenged to a boxing match. Anyway, I think it will be a great reading as there are so many diverse and talented writers in the lineup.
Many thanks to Pauletta Hansel for her hand in organizing this reading. If anyone is in the area Friday, August 3rd, you should come check it out. Below is a link to the bookstore's website. Hope to see you there!
City Lights Bookstore
Showing posts with label featured writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label featured writers. Show all posts
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Quotes from Carl Sandburg
I came across these quotes while looking through some old college notebooks. Sandburg had a way turning a phrase that is at the same time both absurd and astute.
"The man who knows everything has fleas in each ear and they look up the answers."
-- from Sandburg's Fables, Foibles, and Foobles
"What is shame? Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are...."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Truth consists of paradoxes and a paradox is two facts that stand on opposite hilltops and across the intervening valley call each other liars."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"A celebrity is a fellow who eats celery with celerity."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Fame is a figment of a pigment. It comes and goes. It changes with every generation. There never were two fames alike. One fame is precious and luminous; another is a bubble of a bauble."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"The man who knows everything has fleas in each ear and they look up the answers."
-- from Sandburg's Fables, Foibles, and Foobles
"What is shame? Shame is the feeling you have when you agree with the woman who loves you that you are the man she thinks you are...."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Truth consists of paradoxes and a paradox is two facts that stand on opposite hilltops and across the intervening valley call each other liars."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"A celebrity is a fellow who eats celery with celerity."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Fame is a figment of a pigment. It comes and goes. It changes with every generation. There never were two fames alike. One fame is precious and luminous; another is a bubble of a bauble."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
"Here is the difference between Dante, Milton, and me. They wrote about hell and never saw the place. I wrote about Chicago after looking the town over for years and years."
-- from Harry Golden's Carl Sandburg
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
A poem by Jim Wayne Miller
Getting Together
Suddenly old friends are in the house. Laughter.
Separated years back, we've wandered around
lost in the American Funhouse. Together again,
what a crowd we are! The walls are angled
mirrors multiplying us many times over.
Each one of us sees the friend he knew
standing back of the one this friend has become,
and shyly, like an unacknowledged companion,
confused by all this familiarity, unseen by our friends,
stands the person we know we are. Laughter.
Moving through the crowd, I realize
I've gradually got used to walking around
in my life a huge elongated trunk and rippled face,
a bulging wrap-around brow, moving on stumpy legs,
my belt just above my shoetops, my chin
riding level with my fly. I have forgotten parts
of myself, my ears lie curled like lettuce leaves,
my hands grow right out of my shoulders,
no wrists or arms or elbows in between.
Glancing past familiar strangers, I try
to hold out a hand to someone who holds out a hand.
Laughter! We hold back all but the little horrors.
from The Mountains Have Come Closer. Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1980.
Suddenly old friends are in the house. Laughter.
Separated years back, we've wandered around
lost in the American Funhouse. Together again,
what a crowd we are! The walls are angled
mirrors multiplying us many times over.
Each one of us sees the friend he knew
standing back of the one this friend has become,
and shyly, like an unacknowledged companion,
confused by all this familiarity, unseen by our friends,
stands the person we know we are. Laughter.
Moving through the crowd, I realize
I've gradually got used to walking around
in my life a huge elongated trunk and rippled face,
a bulging wrap-around brow, moving on stumpy legs,
my belt just above my shoetops, my chin
riding level with my fly. I have forgotten parts
of myself, my ears lie curled like lettuce leaves,
my hands grow right out of my shoulders,
no wrists or arms or elbows in between.
Glancing past familiar strangers, I try
to hold out a hand to someone who holds out a hand.
Laughter! We hold back all but the little horrors.
from The Mountains Have Come Closer. Boone: Appalachian Consortium Press, 1980.
Thursday, March 24, 2011
A Poem by Kevin Young
I took my Poets & Writers Club to Lenoir Rhyne University last month on a field trip to tour the campus and see a poetry reading by Kevin Young. What a lively performance! My high school students were much more engrossed in Young's choice of topic and style than even when we saw W.S. Merwin (the U.S. Poet Laureate) last semester. I now have a new favorite.
"Ode to Chicken"
You are everything
to me. Frog legs,
rattlesnake, almost any
thing I put my mouth to
reminds me of you.
Folks always try
getting you to act
like you someone else --
nuggets, or tenders, fingers
you don't have -- but even
your unmanicured feet
taste sweet. Too loud
in the yard, segregated
dark & light, you are
like a day self-contained --
your sunset skin puckers
like a kiss. Let others
put on airs -- pigs graduate
to pork, bread
become toast, even beef
was once just bull
before it got them degrees --
but, even dead,
you keep your name
& head. You can make
anything of yourself,
you know -- but prefer
to wake me early
in the cold, fix me breakfast
& dinner too, leave me
to fly for you.
from Dear Darkness (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008)
"Ode to Chicken"
You are everything
to me. Frog legs,
rattlesnake, almost any
thing I put my mouth to
reminds me of you.
Folks always try
getting you to act
like you someone else --
nuggets, or tenders, fingers
you don't have -- but even
your unmanicured feet
taste sweet. Too loud
in the yard, segregated
dark & light, you are
like a day self-contained --
your sunset skin puckers
like a kiss. Let others
put on airs -- pigs graduate
to pork, bread
become toast, even beef
was once just bull
before it got them degrees --
but, even dead,
you keep your name
& head. You can make
anything of yourself,
you know -- but prefer
to wake me early
in the cold, fix me breakfast
& dinner too, leave me
to fly for you.
from Dear Darkness (Alfred A. Knopf, 2008)
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
A Poem by Charles Wright
Christmas East of the Blue Ridge
So autumn comes to an end with these few wet sad stains
Stuck to the landscape,
-----------------------December dark
Running its hands through the lank hair of late afternoon,
Little tongues of the rain holding forth
--------------------------------------under the eaves,
Such wash, such watery words...
So autumn comes to this end,
And winter's vocabulary, downsized and distanced,
Drop by drop
Captures the conversation with its monosyllabic gutturals
And tin music,
---------------gravelly consonants, scratched vowels.
Soon the came drivers will light up their fires, soon the stars
Will start on their brief dip down from the back of heaven,
Down to the desert's dispensation
And night reaches, the gall and first birth,
The second only one word from now,
--------------------------------one word and its death from right now.
Meanwhile, in Charlottesville, the half-moon
Hums like a Hottentot
----------------------high over Monticello,
Clouds dishevel and rag out,
The alphabet of our discontent
Keeps on with its lettering,
-------------------------------gold on the black walls of our hearts...
from Locales: Poems from the Fellowship of Southern Writers, edited by Fred Chappell
So autumn comes to an end with these few wet sad stains
Stuck to the landscape,
-----------------------December dark
Running its hands through the lank hair of late afternoon,
Little tongues of the rain holding forth
--------------------------------------under the eaves,
Such wash, such watery words...
So autumn comes to this end,
And winter's vocabulary, downsized and distanced,
Drop by drop
Captures the conversation with its monosyllabic gutturals
And tin music,
---------------gravelly consonants, scratched vowels.
Soon the came drivers will light up their fires, soon the stars
Will start on their brief dip down from the back of heaven,
Down to the desert's dispensation
And night reaches, the gall and first birth,
The second only one word from now,
--------------------------------one word and its death from right now.
Meanwhile, in Charlottesville, the half-moon
Hums like a Hottentot
----------------------high over Monticello,
Clouds dishevel and rag out,
The alphabet of our discontent
Keeps on with its lettering,
-------------------------------gold on the black walls of our hearts...
from Locales: Poems from the Fellowship of Southern Writers, edited by Fred Chappell
Sunday, October 10, 2010
A Poem by David T. Manning
Hankie
That fresh white linen hankie
your wife pressed & folded
with such love fits nice
in your clean shirt pocket.
Then you hachoo!!
You blow & fold it neat.
You blow & fold, blow & fold,
blow & fold again -- then
you wad the damn thing up
into something useful, so
it's ready for that
water-cannon sneeze, for those
green giant ropes of snot
that rattle out of your skull
like log-chains over a F-150 tailgate.
Yes sir! That's a good big whitish
rag now you can roll a man-size
cold up in and stuff it
in the ass pocket of your Levis
until it's too wet to sit on.
from Detained by the Authorities (Pudding House Publications 2007)
That fresh white linen hankie
your wife pressed & folded
with such love fits nice
in your clean shirt pocket.
Then you hachoo!!
You blow & fold it neat.
You blow & fold, blow & fold,
blow & fold again -- then
you wad the damn thing up
into something useful, so
it's ready for that
water-cannon sneeze, for those
green giant ropes of snot
that rattle out of your skull
like log-chains over a F-150 tailgate.
Yes sir! That's a good big whitish
rag now you can roll a man-size
cold up in and stuff it
in the ass pocket of your Levis
until it's too wet to sit on.
from Detained by the Authorities (Pudding House Publications 2007)
Monday, September 20, 2010
What Makes It Taste Better -- Now Available!
For years I've been wanting to publish my own book of poetry, hoping that I would someday win a contest and get my foot in the door. I mean, how else do you do it? Having poems published in poetry and writing journals, I knew that someone out there thought my work was good. Many times over the years my writer friends and fellow SAWC members have nurtured and supported my work. This summer I said to myself, "What am I waiting for?"
I discovered a website that brings print-on-demand to the desktop -- Lulu.com. I have heard pros and cons about the website, but when I started looking around Lulu, I realized how simple it could be. As the chef in Ratatouille said "Anybody can cook," I'm here to say "Anybody can publish."
Maybe I'm destroying the mistique of publishing, that if anyone can do it, then there must be quite a bit of amateurish stuff out there. Maybe so, but it isn't easy either, let me say. There are many steps to the process, and a lot of trial and error, but it is feasable.
So, without further ado, I present my first poetry book collection What Makes It Taste Better. Some of my friends who have helped me in encouragements have been gracious enough to provide back-cover reviews:
"In David Wayne Hampton’s first collection of poems the world is always at summer, with somewhere nearby “the ploink, plunk, brunk of the water/ the high hat, pat-a-slap tap/ of silver.” He gives us the kind of food we want on a green summer day- from doughnuts to ham hocks to Cheerwine, to Moonpies- and good family stories to listen to while we munch. Don’t make the mistake of dismissing these poems as light, however: “it’s not the eureka moment/ but the long, slow continuing” through these poems of place that makes the reading of them as satisfying as an afternoon swim at summer camp. Hampton’s southern Appalachian world is light-filled, but within light dwells the possibility of all colors, including the darkest ones. “Don’t call us backward” one poem admonishes, “we walk in the same direction as you/ just not in such a hurry.” Don’t hurry through Hampton’s collection; you’ll be glad you lingered awhile.”
-Dana Wildsmith, Author of Back to Abnormal
"Clever parodying, curious and playful lines make WHAT MAKES IT TASTE BETTER verge on the educational and insightful, yet with humor, not pedanticism. Here I found out that the mullet haircut was once called the 'Carolina Waterfall' and that blackbirds and boogers have more than a little in common. The poems’ humor saves them, in that tongue-in-cheek way that disarms any resistance to their charms. David Hampton’s clever word-play with classical and modern themes reminds me of the work of the legendary Louise McNeill. This book made me laugh and cringe, sometimes in the same instant."
– Ron Houchin, author of Museum Crows
"In this wryly observant first collection, David Hampton gives us an insider's view of life in these post-millennium Appalachians. What makes it taste better? Humor which manages to be all at once ironic and compassionate. A sense of history, and of one's own place in it. Precision of language and the joy of its tang on your tongue."
-- Pauletta Hansel, author of Divining and First Person
-Dana Wildsmith, Author of Back to Abnormal
"Clever parodying, curious and playful lines make WHAT MAKES IT TASTE BETTER verge on the educational and insightful, yet with humor, not pedanticism. Here I found out that the mullet haircut was once called the 'Carolina Waterfall' and that blackbirds and boogers have more than a little in common. The poems’ humor saves them, in that tongue-in-cheek way that disarms any resistance to their charms. David Hampton’s clever word-play with classical and modern themes reminds me of the work of the legendary Louise McNeill. This book made me laugh and cringe, sometimes in the same instant."
– Ron Houchin, author of Museum Crows
"In this wryly observant first collection, David Hampton gives us an insider's view of life in these post-millennium Appalachians. What makes it taste better? Humor which manages to be all at once ironic and compassionate. A sense of history, and of one's own place in it. Precision of language and the joy of its tang on your tongue."
-- Pauletta Hansel, author of Divining and First Person
Thank you to all who supported me in this endeavor! And thank you to all who take a chance in purchasing a copy! I hope you enjoy it.
Friday, August 27, 2010
A Poem by John F. Keener
Migration
I dream of mountains where I don't live
And scarce recall but for old connections
Circled round, made course corrections
And put down here, so here I live
I dream of roads where I don't walk
Ones that go slender on the senses
Sweetened along by rot-sweet fences
But my feet are here, so here I walk
I dream of jobs that I don't work
And never could, the good Lord knows
For money grows where money grows
And its roots run here, so here I work
I dream of places I don't belong
Not precisely, not anymore
And even if I did before
I belong here now, and that's what's wrong
from the Appalachian Journal 26:2 (Winter 1999)
I dream of mountains where I don't live
And scarce recall but for old connections
Circled round, made course corrections
And put down here, so here I live
I dream of roads where I don't walk
Ones that go slender on the senses
Sweetened along by rot-sweet fences
But my feet are here, so here I walk
I dream of jobs that I don't work
And never could, the good Lord knows
For money grows where money grows
And its roots run here, so here I work
I dream of places I don't belong
Not precisely, not anymore
And even if I did before
I belong here now, and that's what's wrong
from the Appalachian Journal 26:2 (Winter 1999)
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
The Rose or the Cabbage
"The question of common sense is always 'What is it good for?' -- a question which would abolish the rose and be answered triumphantly by the cabbage." -- James Russell Lowell
I came across this quote in my class textbook today that I hadn't noticed before. In teaching Romanticism, I discuss how the Romantics reacted against the Age of Reason's philosophies -- that science was the answer to all life's questions. I will admit that Romanticism had its faults; real life is not ideal or beautiful or mysterious sometimes. Too often, though, I throw away the rose for the cabbage -- I focus only on the practicality or usefulness of things, but ignore the felicitous beauty of other things. Practical and useful things bring contentment, sure (TV remotes, can openers, for example), but it's the beautiful things that bring joy and renewal to our lives.
Case in point. Because the doctor told me my bad cholesterol is too high, he strongly suggested I start getting more exercise and eating better. I started walking in the evenings in my neighborhood because it was the most practical use of my limited time, and thus fulfilled the doctor's prescription for me. I didn't much care for it at first. I wanted to be hiking or mountain biking in the woods somewhere, not walking in a circle past rows of suburbia housing. When I started looking for the beauty in the seemingly mundane, though, things changed. I noticed how the woods smelled differently as I passed the undeveloped lots, how houses even had different odors as I walked past the open garage doors. Looked up and traced the zig-zag silhouettes of bats against the evening sky as they flew from one street light to the next. Heard at least four distinctly different insect sounds (crickets, cicadas, katydids, and one I can't identify). Totally useless and impractical pursuits, I know, but well worth my attention. The laps passed effortlessly.
Eating better, that's a different story.
I came across this quote in my class textbook today that I hadn't noticed before. In teaching Romanticism, I discuss how the Romantics reacted against the Age of Reason's philosophies -- that science was the answer to all life's questions. I will admit that Romanticism had its faults; real life is not ideal or beautiful or mysterious sometimes. Too often, though, I throw away the rose for the cabbage -- I focus only on the practicality or usefulness of things, but ignore the felicitous beauty of other things. Practical and useful things bring contentment, sure (TV remotes, can openers, for example), but it's the beautiful things that bring joy and renewal to our lives.
Case in point. Because the doctor told me my bad cholesterol is too high, he strongly suggested I start getting more exercise and eating better. I started walking in the evenings in my neighborhood because it was the most practical use of my limited time, and thus fulfilled the doctor's prescription for me. I didn't much care for it at first. I wanted to be hiking or mountain biking in the woods somewhere, not walking in a circle past rows of suburbia housing. When I started looking for the beauty in the seemingly mundane, though, things changed. I noticed how the woods smelled differently as I passed the undeveloped lots, how houses even had different odors as I walked past the open garage doors. Looked up and traced the zig-zag silhouettes of bats against the evening sky as they flew from one street light to the next. Heard at least four distinctly different insect sounds (crickets, cicadas, katydids, and one I can't identify). Totally useless and impractical pursuits, I know, but well worth my attention. The laps passed effortlessly.
Eating better, that's a different story.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
On the Radio in Whitesburg, Kentucky
I was up in Whitesburg, Kentucky, the last weekend in July to camp and do some writing. My friend and fellow poet, the infamous Wiley Quixote (Jim Webb), owns a private campground on top of Pine Mountain called Wiley's Last Resort. He also DJ's on Appalshop's WMMT 88.7 in downtown Whitesburg. After a fruitful day of writing and relaxing, he asked if I wanted to be a guest on his radio show "Appalachian Attitude." All of a sudden I went from being Thoreau, leading a simple life led close to nature (Wiley actually has a "Walled-In Pond" on his property), to having my voice broadcast all over Eastern Kentucky and the World Wide Web . I was excited, honored, and a little nervous. I called my wife to tell her to listen online at 5pm on August 2nd, but unfortunately she had to take the kids to a doctor's appointment. I didn't think to call anyone else in my family. I also didn't have much time to prepare. Wiley wanted me to read some of my poetry and talk about my life as a writer, so I found some poems and took a few notes for myself.
I had a blast! I didn't have to wear headphones, but I had one of those big microphones on the swing arm to speak into. Knowing a little bit about me, Jim prompted me with questions which I didn't have much trouble coming up with something to say. Unlike most guest writers, I didn't have a book of poetry or my novel to promote, but I did have a caller. During a public service announcement, the red light started flashing, silently signalling a call. It was Walter B. Lane, who lives in Letcher County, I believe. He remembered when I was an editorial assistant at the Appalachian Journal and corresponded with him on several occasions, particularly on a poem ("The Way North") of his the Journal published. He said he appreciated the encouragement I gave him in my rejection notices. That made the whole interview worthwhile, I think.
WMMT didn't post the interview in their online archive, or one earlier in the year by fellow poet and SAWCer Dana Wildsmith (which I would love to listen to), but if ever they do I will provide a link for anyone interested. I wasn't a brilliant orator, but I had fun. And, again I apologize to the feline-lovers out in radio land when I joked during the traffic report about not having a cat to throw in front of a steam roller on Madison Avenue!
I had a blast! I didn't have to wear headphones, but I had one of those big microphones on the swing arm to speak into. Knowing a little bit about me, Jim prompted me with questions which I didn't have much trouble coming up with something to say. Unlike most guest writers, I didn't have a book of poetry or my novel to promote, but I did have a caller. During a public service announcement, the red light started flashing, silently signalling a call. It was Walter B. Lane, who lives in Letcher County, I believe. He remembered when I was an editorial assistant at the Appalachian Journal and corresponded with him on several occasions, particularly on a poem ("The Way North") of his the Journal published. He said he appreciated the encouragement I gave him in my rejection notices. That made the whole interview worthwhile, I think.
WMMT didn't post the interview in their online archive, or one earlier in the year by fellow poet and SAWCer Dana Wildsmith (which I would love to listen to), but if ever they do I will provide a link for anyone interested. I wasn't a brilliant orator, but I had fun. And, again I apologize to the feline-lovers out in radio land when I joked during the traffic report about not having a cat to throw in front of a steam roller on Madison Avenue!
Tuesday, March 30, 2010
Emily Dickinson -- Imitation and Parodies
My students are once again studying American poetry, so I had them imitate one of Emily Dickinson's poems. Here is a selection of a few I thought really stood out. Some are sincere imitations, while others are just plain wacky. Enjoy!
I remember once
where once was us
yes -- we were once
but it twas the past
To dwindle in the past
is where you'll find me last
I can taste your bitter words
enveloped inside myself
the untangible ticking
that time's supposed to heal
But I shall ponder on
to the last of my appeal
-- Tina Vue and Tou Keng Yang
Fart! We will hear it!
You and I -- today!
You may feel the warmth it gave --
I will smell it!
When you are done, please tell me
That I may straight leave!
Haste! lest while you're gagging
I remember forever!
-- Amanda Matney and Brandi Harris
I'll tell the truth because you can't --
There is no need to cry
You're sad too much, let's see a smile
Happiness is good -- Surprise!
You're kind of crazy -- can't be pleased
Try and have a good time
Come on and smile now Emily
The world is really kind.
--Daniel Padula and Trever Miller
Oh -- my -- lord -- Emily
Honestly -- what -- is -- with --
these -- dashes
They -- are -- so -- annoying --
Like -- a -- cup
It's -- like -- those --
business -- names --
Save -- a -- Cent
Rent -- a -- Car
All -- making -- no -- sense
Whatsoever --
You -- would've -- been --
great -- at -- Morse -- Code--
Oh -- m-y -- st-op --
ta-k-ing -- ov-e-r
my -- poe-m yo-u stup--id d-ashes
Cu-r-s--e yo-u Emil ------------------
-- Josh Kincaid
I remember once
where once was us
yes -- we were once
but it twas the past
To dwindle in the past
is where you'll find me last
I can taste your bitter words
enveloped inside myself
the untangible ticking
that time's supposed to heal
But I shall ponder on
to the last of my appeal
-- Tina Vue and Tou Keng Yang
Fart! We will hear it!
You and I -- today!
You may feel the warmth it gave --
I will smell it!
When you are done, please tell me
That I may straight leave!
Haste! lest while you're gagging
I remember forever!
-- Amanda Matney and Brandi Harris
I'll tell the truth because you can't --
There is no need to cry
You're sad too much, let's see a smile
Happiness is good -- Surprise!
You're kind of crazy -- can't be pleased
Try and have a good time
Come on and smile now Emily
The world is really kind.
--Daniel Padula and Trever Miller
Oh -- my -- lord -- Emily
Honestly -- what -- is -- with --
these -- dashes
They -- are -- so -- annoying --
Like -- a -- cup
It's -- like -- those --
business -- names --
Save -- a -- Cent
Rent -- a -- Car
All -- making -- no -- sense
Whatsoever --
You -- would've -- been --
great -- at -- Morse -- Code--
Oh -- m-y -- st-op --
ta-k-ing -- ov-e-r
my -- poe-m yo-u stup--id d-ashes
Cu-r-s--e yo-u Emil ------------------
-- Josh Kincaid
Monday, May 25, 2009
A Poem by R.T. Smith
Directly
"I'll get it directly," she'd say, meaning
soon, meaning, when I can, meaning, not
yet, bet patient, the world don't turn upon
your every need and whim. Or "the dogs
will be back home directly, I reckon,"
"the preacher will be finished," "your daddy
will see you," "supper will be laid out"--
all "directly," which never meant the straight
line bewteen two surveyor's points or
an arrow's flight, but rather, by the curve,
the indirect, the arc of life and breath,
and she was right, and when she passed
or was passing, I could not say which,
in a patchwork quilt, the makeshift room,
the sweet hymn notes sung neighborly
across the hall, she whispered, "Learn to tell
what needs doing quick as a bluesnake
and what will take the slow way, full
of care and mulling, be fair in every
dealing with beasts and people and all
else alive, and surely, my dear, He will
come for you in His good time, the way
He comes for all of us, directly."
from The Oxford American, July/August 2003.
"I'll get it directly," she'd say, meaning
soon, meaning, when I can, meaning, not
yet, bet patient, the world don't turn upon
your every need and whim. Or "the dogs
will be back home directly, I reckon,"
"the preacher will be finished," "your daddy
will see you," "supper will be laid out"--
all "directly," which never meant the straight
line bewteen two surveyor's points or
an arrow's flight, but rather, by the curve,
the indirect, the arc of life and breath,
and she was right, and when she passed
or was passing, I could not say which,
in a patchwork quilt, the makeshift room,
the sweet hymn notes sung neighborly
across the hall, she whispered, "Learn to tell
what needs doing quick as a bluesnake
and what will take the slow way, full
of care and mulling, be fair in every
dealing with beasts and people and all
else alive, and surely, my dear, He will
come for you in His good time, the way
He comes for all of us, directly."
from The Oxford American, July/August 2003.
Friday, April 24, 2009
A Poem by Gwendolyn Brooks
The Preacher Ruminates Behind the Sermon
I think it must be lonely to be God.
Nobody loves a master. No. Despite
The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright
Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.
Picture Jehovah striding through the hall
Of His importance, creatures running out
From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout
Appreciation of His merit's glare.
But who walks with Him? -- dares to take his arm,
To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,
Buy him a Coca-Cola or a beer,
Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?
Perhaps -- who knows? -- He tires of looking down.
Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.
Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great
In solitude. Without a hand to hold.
from Black Voices: An Anthology of African-American Literature (1968).
I think it must be lonely to be God.
Nobody loves a master. No. Despite
The bright hosannas, bright dear-Lords, and bright
Determined reverence of Sunday eyes.
Picture Jehovah striding through the hall
Of His importance, creatures running out
From servant-corners to acclaim, to shout
Appreciation of His merit's glare.
But who walks with Him? -- dares to take his arm,
To slap Him on the shoulder, tweak His ear,
Buy him a Coca-Cola or a beer,
Pooh-pooh His politics, call Him a fool?
Perhaps -- who knows? -- He tires of looking down.
Those eyes are never lifted. Never straight.
Perhaps sometimes He tires of being great
In solitude. Without a hand to hold.
from Black Voices: An Anthology of African-American Literature (1968).
Thursday, March 19, 2009
In Imitation of Emily Dickinson -- More Parodies
It is that time again when I begin my poetry unit with my students. To help them overcome their fear or disdain in reading poetry, I have them start by reading Emily Dickinson, perhaps not someone's first choice. We discuss her life as a recluse and her unique style of rhythm, capitalization, and punctuation. Then I have them pick one of her poems to do an imitation/parody. When I explain that a parody is like a "Weird Al" Yankovic song -- in a sense you are imitating the rhythm and rhyme of the poem but coming up with your own words -- they warmed up to the activity. Here are just a few examples of my students' work:
Much Sadness is divinest pain --
To an Emo eye --
Much Pain -- the starkest of Darkness --
'Tis not the Majority --
In this, as all will never prevail --
Ascent to darkness -- and you will be sane --
Demure -- you're straightaway to a painful pathway --
And handled with a pitiful sadness chain.
----- by Thoua Chue and Wa Xiong
Tell a lie, but tell it good.
Success is in successful lies,
not bright for our firm delight.
A truth lies superb surprise,
as thunder to the children's nightmare
with dreams of lies.
The lie must blind gradually
or every man be able to see.
----- by Matt Timmons and Elizabeth Burleson
This is our letter to the class.
We never heard a worse song
than Mr. Hampton's sing-a-long.
For this, we hopefully won't get bashed.
Every week he hands out tests
in his gray little sweater vest.
He tried to sing us Gilligan's Island.
It's pretty sad because we think
he tried his best.
----- by Megan Morehead, Luis Diego, and Alex Wells
I included this last poem to show I'm not above a good-humored joke at my expense. As an illustration of how Emily Dickinson used almost exactly the same tight rhythm and meter in her poetry, I demonstrated how you could almost take any poem of hers and sing it to either the tune of Gilligan's Island or The Yellow Rose of Texas. Try it sometime for yourself. It works!
Much Sadness is divinest pain --
To an Emo eye --
Much Pain -- the starkest of Darkness --
'Tis not the Majority --
In this, as all will never prevail --
Ascent to darkness -- and you will be sane --
Demure -- you're straightaway to a painful pathway --
And handled with a pitiful sadness chain.
----- by Thoua Chue and Wa Xiong
Tell a lie, but tell it good.
Success is in successful lies,
not bright for our firm delight.
A truth lies superb surprise,
as thunder to the children's nightmare
with dreams of lies.
The lie must blind gradually
or every man be able to see.
----- by Matt Timmons and Elizabeth Burleson
This is our letter to the class.
We never heard a worse song
than Mr. Hampton's sing-a-long.
For this, we hopefully won't get bashed.
Every week he hands out tests
in his gray little sweater vest.
He tried to sing us Gilligan's Island.
It's pretty sad because we think
he tried his best.
----- by Megan Morehead, Luis Diego, and Alex Wells
I included this last poem to show I'm not above a good-humored joke at my expense. As an illustration of how Emily Dickinson used almost exactly the same tight rhythm and meter in her poetry, I demonstrated how you could almost take any poem of hers and sing it to either the tune of Gilligan's Island or The Yellow Rose of Texas. Try it sometime for yourself. It works!
Thursday, February 19, 2009
A Poem by Michael Chitwood
On Being Asked to Pray for a Van
My evangelical brethren have let me know,
via the quarterly fundraising letter,
that they can't get the gospel around
because their van has given up the ghost.
God in the machine, help them.
I lift up their carburetor and their transaxle.
Bless them with meshed gears and a greased cam shaft.
Free their lifters.
Deliver their differential
and anoint their valves and their pistons.
Unblock their engine block
and give them deep treaded tires.
Their brakes cry out to You. Hear them, O Lord.
Drive out the demons from their steering column
and come in to the transmission
that they may know the peace of passing.
Minister even unto the turn indicator.
Creator Spirit, Holy Maker of the Universe,
give them gas.
-- from Spill (Tupelo Press 2007)
My evangelical brethren have let me know,
via the quarterly fundraising letter,
that they can't get the gospel around
because their van has given up the ghost.
God in the machine, help them.
I lift up their carburetor and their transaxle.
Bless them with meshed gears and a greased cam shaft.
Free their lifters.
Deliver their differential
and anoint their valves and their pistons.
Unblock their engine block
and give them deep treaded tires.
Their brakes cry out to You. Hear them, O Lord.
Drive out the demons from their steering column
and come in to the transmission
that they may know the peace of passing.
Minister even unto the turn indicator.
Creator Spirit, Holy Maker of the Universe,
give them gas.
-- from Spill (Tupelo Press 2007)
Monday, February 9, 2009
A poem by Yusef Komunyakaa
Work
I won't look at her.
My body's been one
Solid motion from sunrise,
Leaning into the lawnmower's
Roar through pine needles
& crabgrass. Tiger-colored
Bumblebees nudge pale blossoms
Till they sway like silent bells
Calling. But I won't look.
Her husband's outside Oxford,
Mississippi, bidding on miles
of timber. I wonder if he's buying
Faulkner's ghost, if he might run
Into Colonel Sartoris
Along some dusty road.
Their teenage daughter & son sped off
An hour ago in a red Corvette
For the tennis courts,
& the cook, Roberta,
Only works a half day
Saturdays. This antebellum house
Looms behind oak & pine
Like a secret, as quail
Flash through branches.
I won't look at her. Nude
On a hammock among elephant ears
& ferns, a pitcher of lemonade
Sweating like our skin.
Afternoon burns on the pool
Till everything's blue,
Till I hear Johnny Mathis
Beside her like a whisper.
I work all the quick hooks
Of light, the same unbroken
Rhythm my father taught me
Years ago: Always give
A man a good day's labor.
I won't look. The engine
Pulls me like a dare.
Scent of honeysuckle
Sings black sap through mystery,
Taboo, law, creed, what kills
A fire that is its own heart
Burning open the mouth.
But I won't look
At the insinuation of buds
Tipped with cinnabar.
I'm here, as if I never left,
Stopped in this garden,
Drawn to some Lotus-eater. Pollen
Explodes, but I only smell
Gasoline & oil on my hands,
& can't say why there's this bed
Of crushed narcissus
As if gods wrestled here.
--from Neon Vernacular (University Press of New England, 1993)
I won't look at her.
My body's been one
Solid motion from sunrise,
Leaning into the lawnmower's
Roar through pine needles
& crabgrass. Tiger-colored
Bumblebees nudge pale blossoms
Till they sway like silent bells
Calling. But I won't look.
Her husband's outside Oxford,
Mississippi, bidding on miles
of timber. I wonder if he's buying
Faulkner's ghost, if he might run
Into Colonel Sartoris
Along some dusty road.
Their teenage daughter & son sped off
An hour ago in a red Corvette
For the tennis courts,
& the cook, Roberta,
Only works a half day
Saturdays. This antebellum house
Looms behind oak & pine
Like a secret, as quail
Flash through branches.
I won't look at her. Nude
On a hammock among elephant ears
& ferns, a pitcher of lemonade
Sweating like our skin.
Afternoon burns on the pool
Till everything's blue,
Till I hear Johnny Mathis
Beside her like a whisper.
I work all the quick hooks
Of light, the same unbroken
Rhythm my father taught me
Years ago: Always give
A man a good day's labor.
I won't look. The engine
Pulls me like a dare.
Scent of honeysuckle
Sings black sap through mystery,
Taboo, law, creed, what kills
A fire that is its own heart
Burning open the mouth.
But I won't look
At the insinuation of buds
Tipped with cinnabar.
I'm here, as if I never left,
Stopped in this garden,
Drawn to some Lotus-eater. Pollen
Explodes, but I only smell
Gasoline & oil on my hands,
& can't say why there's this bed
Of crushed narcissus
As if gods wrestled here.
--from Neon Vernacular (University Press of New England, 1993)
Friday, July 18, 2008
Two Poems by Carl Sandburg
Soup
I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
Sky Pieces
Proudly the fedoras march on the heads of the some-
what careless men.
Proudly the slouches march on the heads of the still
more careless men.
Proudly the panamas perch on the noggins of dapper
debonair men.
Comically somber the derbies gloom on the earnest sol-
emn noodles.
And the sombrero, most proud, most careless, most dap-
per and debonair of all, somberly the sombrero
marches on the heads of important men who know
what they want.
Hats are sky-pieces; hats have a destiny; wish your hat
slowly; your hat is you.
from The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, 1970.
I saw a famous man eating soup.
I say he was lifting a fat broth
Into his mouth with a spoon.
His name was in the newspapers that day
Spelled out in tall black headlines
And thousands of people were talking about him.
When I saw him,
He sat bending his head over a plate
Putting soup in his mouth with a spoon.
Sky Pieces
Proudly the fedoras march on the heads of the some-
what careless men.
Proudly the slouches march on the heads of the still
more careless men.
Proudly the panamas perch on the noggins of dapper
debonair men.
Comically somber the derbies gloom on the earnest sol-
emn noodles.
And the sombrero, most proud, most careless, most dap-
per and debonair of all, somberly the sombrero
marches on the heads of important men who know
what they want.
Hats are sky-pieces; hats have a destiny; wish your hat
slowly; your hat is you.
from The Complete Poems of Carl Sandburg, 1970.
Wednesday, June 4, 2008
Hank Williams' Last Words
We met, we lived, and dear we loved,
then comes that fatal day,
the love that felt so dear
fades far away.
-- At a gas station in Oak Hill, West Virginia, the driver, after finding him dead, found this on a slip of paper clutched in his hand.
[from Kevin C. Stewart, "Silenced", in Appalachian Heritage 35:4 (Fall 2007) 78.]
then comes that fatal day,
the love that felt so dear
fades far away.
-- At a gas station in Oak Hill, West Virginia, the driver, after finding him dead, found this on a slip of paper clutched in his hand.
[from Kevin C. Stewart, "Silenced", in Appalachian Heritage 35:4 (Fall 2007) 78.]
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
A Poem By Andrew Hudgins
Southern Literature
She hunched in the back seat, and fired
one Lucky off the one before.
She talked about her good friend Bill.
No one wrote like Bill anymore.
When the silence grew uncomfortable,
she'd count out my six rumpled ones,
and ask, noblesse oblige, "How ah
your literary lucubrations
progressing?" "Not good," I'd snarl. My poems
were going nowhere, like me -- raw,
twenty-eight, and having, she said,
a worm's eye view of life. And awe --
I had no sense of awe. But once
I lied, "Terrific! The Atlantic
accepted five." She smiled benignly,
composed and gaily fatalistic,
as I hammered to Winn-Dixie, revving
the slant six till it bucked and sputtered.
She smoothed her blue unwrinkled dress.
"Bill won the Nobel Prize," she purred.
If I laid rubber to the interstate,
and started speeding, how long, I wondered,
how long would she scream before she prayed?
Would she sing before I murdered her?
Would we make Memphis or New Orleans?
The world was gorgeous now, and bigger.
I reached for the gun I didn't own.
I chambered awe. I pulled the trigger.
from Locales: Poems from the Fellowship of Southern Writers, 2003.
She hunched in the back seat, and fired
one Lucky off the one before.
She talked about her good friend Bill.
No one wrote like Bill anymore.
When the silence grew uncomfortable,
she'd count out my six rumpled ones,
and ask, noblesse oblige, "How ah
your literary lucubrations
progressing?" "Not good," I'd snarl. My poems
were going nowhere, like me -- raw,
twenty-eight, and having, she said,
a worm's eye view of life. And awe --
I had no sense of awe. But once
I lied, "Terrific! The Atlantic
accepted five." She smiled benignly,
composed and gaily fatalistic,
as I hammered to Winn-Dixie, revving
the slant six till it bucked and sputtered.
She smoothed her blue unwrinkled dress.
"Bill won the Nobel Prize," she purred.
If I laid rubber to the interstate,
and started speeding, how long, I wondered,
how long would she scream before she prayed?
Would she sing before I murdered her?
Would we make Memphis or New Orleans?
The world was gorgeous now, and bigger.
I reached for the gun I didn't own.
I chambered awe. I pulled the trigger.
from Locales: Poems from the Fellowship of Southern Writers, 2003.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Rita Riddle Book Release
It's not often that I get to moonlight as the poet and writer afficionado, but this week I get a chance to read other's work as well as my own.
This coming Thursday the 24th there will be a tribute reading of Rita Sizemore Riddle's posthumously published collection of poetry All There Is To Keep, at Radford University, Radford, Virginia. The event will be held in the Flossie Martin Art Gallery at 7:00 pm. The Southern Appalachian Writer's Cooperative (SAWC) donated funds to publish this book, Iris Press worked diligently in putting it together, and all proceeds from the sale of her poetry book will go to a scholarship for an RU creative writing student. Rita passed away in 2006, but left her mark on the world through her personal, unapologetic, and touching poetry. A small group of her friends and fellow writers will read select poems from her book. Speakers are: Dana Wildsmith, Felicia Mitchell, Jim Webb, Beto Cumming, Ron Houchin, Jack Higgs, David Owens, and myself.
On Thursday, April 25 of this week, in conjunction with the Riddle reading, some of us, including others that couldn't make the Radford University engagement, will read some from our own work from 3:30-5 at the Floyd Country Store in nearby Floyd, Virginia, with writers from that neck of the woods as well as from other stretches of the Appalachians. I'm excited not just to be sharing my poetry with others, but that their famous Friday Night Jamboree follows our reading from 6:30 until 10 or 11. I'm looking forward to listening to some good Ole Time and Bluegrass music I grew up on living around Galax, Virginia.
This coming Thursday the 24th there will be a tribute reading of Rita Sizemore Riddle's posthumously published collection of poetry All There Is To Keep, at Radford University, Radford, Virginia. The event will be held in the Flossie Martin Art Gallery at 7:00 pm. The Southern Appalachian Writer's Cooperative (SAWC) donated funds to publish this book, Iris Press worked diligently in putting it together, and all proceeds from the sale of her poetry book will go to a scholarship for an RU creative writing student. Rita passed away in 2006, but left her mark on the world through her personal, unapologetic, and touching poetry. A small group of her friends and fellow writers will read select poems from her book. Speakers are: Dana Wildsmith, Felicia Mitchell, Jim Webb, Beto Cumming, Ron Houchin, Jack Higgs, David Owens, and myself.
On Thursday, April 25 of this week, in conjunction with the Riddle reading, some of us, including others that couldn't make the Radford University engagement, will read some from our own work from 3:30-5 at the Floyd Country Store in nearby Floyd, Virginia, with writers from that neck of the woods as well as from other stretches of the Appalachians. I'm excited not just to be sharing my poetry with others, but that their famous Friday Night Jamboree follows our reading from 6:30 until 10 or 11. I'm looking forward to listening to some good Ole Time and Bluegrass music I grew up on living around Galax, Virginia.
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