Left to right: Pictured are Writers Glenda Barrett, Glenda Beall, Shirley Uphouse, Mary Ricketson

Can you name these writers and the titles of their books? ( Question asked on May 29th, 2009)




(photo taken 1998 at Tri County Community College by Creative Writing Class. Instructor, Nancy Simpson.
Textbook used in the class was Prairie Schooner Fiction Issue.)


Recent Photo of Glenda Barrett taken when she was a visiting speaker at the John C. Campbell Folk School.


On the far left in the classroom photo is the Appalachian poet Glenda Barrett of Hiawassee, Georgia. Since the class when this photo was taken, Glenda Barrett has had hundreds of essays published, and her poetry collection WHEN THE SAP RISES was published at Finishing Line Press, ( Georgetown, Kentucky 2008). Some of the individual poems were published in Nantahala Review, Red River Review, Hard Row to Hoe and Kaleidoscope. Glenda is a long time member of NC Writers Network West. Her book is for sale at Amazon.com and Finishing Line Press.




Next, Glenda Beall of south Georgia, now living in the mountains of western North Carolina, had no poems published at the time of this 1989 classroom photo. Since then her poems were published in Journal of Kentucky Studies, Appalachian Heritage, Lights in the Mountains and thirty other magazines. Her poetry collection NOW MIGHT AS WELL BE THEN will be published at Finishing Line Press in October 2009. Glenda Beall became Netwest Program Coordinator, and she also became a writing instructor at the John C. Campbell Folk School. She is the founder of the NCWN West website and the founder of Coffee With the Poets. http://netwestwriters.blogspot.com/




Next is Shirley Uphouse of Marble, North Carolina. She too became an active member of NC Writers Network West and is fondly remembered for the outstanding conferences she organized and for her years of dedication as co editor of LIGHTS IN THE MOUNTAINS, Stories, Essays and Poems by Writers Living in and Inspired by the Southern Appalachian Mountains. Shirley Uphouse is the author of a book:
My Dogs, My Friends
By Shirley Uphouse
ISBN: 978-1-4357-1944-6
$12.95 plus $3.00 shipping
This book is about the many dogs in the author's life mixed with some personal writing. My Dogs, My Friends covers more than 45 years of the author's training and exhibiting purebred dogs and her 20 years' experience as an AKC judge. The book is also full of pictures and has included several stories of dogs needing to be rescued that the author has placed in permanent homes. This is definately a book for dog lovers. If you are interested in ordering, please call Shirley Uphouse at 828-837-6007. Her blogspot is www.dogspuppiesandprose.blogspot.com








On the far right sits Poet Mary Ricketson of Hanging Dog, North Carolina with no poems published at the time of this 1989 classroom photo. Her collection, I HEAR THE RIVER CALL MY NAME was published in 2007 at Finishing Line Press. She is an active member of NCWN West, often seen at the monthly poetry critique group. For fourteen years, she has written a monthly column, "Woman to Woman" for the Cherokee Scout, Murphy, N.C. Her book is for sale at Amazon.com and Finishing Line Press.


The point of it all is that four woman who did not know each other took a night class, a creative writing class in 1989, and now all four in this above featured photo have had collections of their writing published. They embraced the study of writing and advanced their writing. I am proud to have been their instructor.

Posted by Nancy Simpson

YELLOW FLOWERS GROWING ON THE NORTHSIDE OF THE MOUNTAIN

Did you say it is a full sun perennial garden growing in the middle of a decidous forest in southern Appalachia?

Yes.

And you said you can't keep her in, that she is out there now making a list of yellow flowers that bloomed from spring to the end of June--some still blooming.

Right.


So, she has a lot of time to spare these days?


No one said that.







Forsythia and Daffodils bloomed in March.




Shasta Daisy bloomed here in April. They were topped and will bloom again before the frost.




A single magical Iris also bloomed in April.






Sundrops and the Asiaitic Lily bloomed Mid May.


Gloriosa Daisy in full bloom mid June and still blooming.



Garzinnia in full bloom mid June and still blooming.



False Sunflowers in full bloom in mid June and still blooming.

Celebrate the poetry of Clarence Newton, POET OF THE MONTH (JUNE 2009)

You are going to say I saved the best Clarence Newton poems for the last days of June, in this his birth month. We have a gift from Clarence, some poems he's been holding for the upcoming publication of his poetry collection tentatively titled SHORT GLANCES FORWARD, A LONG LOOK BACK.



Heart To Heart

It was a huge event
like being born again,
like life after death.

Some sunny mornings
I see old men
perched on park benches,
anxious to meet strangers.

They tell me about their health -
the nearly fatal heart attack,
and the emergency ride to
waiting doctors and nurses,
saving them in the nick of time.

With a new lease on life
they want to share the joy.
I listen with compassion;
they know I understand.

by Clarence Lee Newton



Short Glances Forward, A Long Look Back

He is not half the man he used to be
and he never was.
The lumberjack shirt and leather jackets
were not the person he was,
nor pointy - toed cowboy boots and tight jeans
and belt buckles wide as Texas gates
and big tall hats that covered his shoulders.
Much boozing, carousing and vulgarity.
Whiskey makes a fire in his stomach.

The women he loved have become
pleasant memories like
the aftertaste of bittersweet chocolate.

When driving his car for an hour
he can barely crawl out.
The smile on his face
helps mask the pain
of joints that creak and snap.

Wants and needs become simple;
comfortable shoes, loose clothing
and a soft bed to lie in.
To reminisce, to dream.
Short glances forward, a long look back.

by Clarence Lee Newton



Examination

He asked how I was feeling
as I disrobed for a physical.
I was not feeling well.
It was my heart.
It was my mind.

Explaining the loss of my son,
though still a living being,
he existed in a state of anguish.
Drugs had fried his brain.

My beautiful, intelligent child
had become a lost man.
I became a failed father,
dwelling under a cloud of regret.

“Now, now, don’t blame yourself.
It’s the times. It’s not your fault.”

He could say that, but
the good doctor could never
cure my burden of
guilt, grief and pain.


by Clarence Lee Newton




If like these poems or have comments about the poetry of Clarence Lee Newton or questions about his upcoming forthcoming poetry collection, post your comment or question below.

Bill Moyer will Interview Pulitzer poet W.S. Merwin Today on PBS.

Pulitzer Winner W.S. Merwin Interviewed on PBS’s Bill Moyers Journal, Friday, June 26



Dear Friend,


This Friday, June 26, the Bill Moyers Journal will feature poet W.S. Merwin and his Pulitzer prize-winning book, The Shadow of Sirius.

For information on the broadcast in your area: Check Time and Stations.

With this second Pulitzer, Copper Canyon poet W.S. Merwin has established himself as one of the most influential poets of our time. In this candid interview with Bill Moyers, Merwin shares his unique perspective on a lifetime of literary achievements, reads poems from his new book, and fields questions ranging from poetic inspiration to political engagement.

I hope you enjoy the show and welcome your thoughts and reactions to the broadcast. We also encourage you to forward this email to friends and post a comment on our Facebook page.

Sincerely,

Joseph Bednarik
Copper Canyon Press
poetry@coppercanyonpress.org


Special Offer: Purchasing a copy of The Shadow of Sirius—or any of our W.S. Merwin books listed below—directly from Copper Canyon Press is an effective way to support our mission.

Order any W.S. Merwin books by June 30 and receive free shipping. Simply type “Moyers” in the “coupon code” section of our secure checkout… and while you’re there, please make a tax deductible donation. Your support—as a reader and a donor—is vital to the future of Copper Canyon Press, a non-profit publisher that invests every dollar into publishing and promoting poetry.

To read poems, reviews, and descriptions of W.S. Merwin books published by Copper Canyon Press, click on the titles below:



The Shadow of Sirius, winner of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize
Hardback, $22

Migration: New and Selected Poems, winner of the National Book Award
Paperback, $24

Present Company, winner of the Bobbit Poetry Prize from the Library of Congress
Paperback, $16

The Book of Fables (short prose pieces)
Paperback, $20

The First Four Books of Poems (complete text of Merwin’s first four books)
Paperback, $16

The Second Four Books of Poems (complete text of Merwin’s second four books)
Paperback, $18

Flower & Hand: Poems 1977-1983 (complete text of three Merwin volumes)
Paperback, $15




Notice: Copper Canyon Press loves poetry readers, and we occasionally send out email messages like this one to inform them about special events. If you know someone who would like to receive this email, please forward this message to them or send their address to poetry@coppercanyonpress.org and we’ll be happy to send it along. If you would like to not receive future email announcements, please send an email to poetry@coppercanyonpress.org with “Remove” in the subject line.

Three Poems to Honor Her Father on Father's Day by Nancy Simpson

There are things I could say about my father, all good. I was one of the blessed children of earth when it comes to parents. In the few times I feel my father near, now that he has passed into eterenity, I find myself being brief in my thank yous to him. "Thanks for the dancing lessons. Thanks for the homemade peach ice cream. Thanks for the wicker chair." I've also caught myself saying to no one, "You like my new house?" I owe my father 100% gratitude.

#1) My father loved me. He showed his love. He made me feel as if I was his only child when he had three other children in the house.


#2) No man every worked harder to provide for his family, and it was not all easy with war and the depression years. He provided well. I never felt that I needed more.



Depression Years - Good life at Knuckolls Dairy, Atlanta, Georgia - "All the milk a new born could need."



#3) Although he held other jobs, he was a planter. He lived for the short period of time when he could get his hands in the dirt. He'd plant corn and pole beans if he could get the ground.




Clyde Taylor Simpson in front of home 1940's, Miami, Florida. Back of photo says, "This is my house. How do you like it?"




One summer, when I was a teen, he had an ulcer. We thought it was cancer. I thought he was dying. He could not work. He left us in Miami and went to Atlanta where all of his folks lived. Mother said they would get him well. We waited to hear good or the bad news. When school was out for the summer, my mother sent me to Atlanta to see about him. Ha. He was more well than I had ever seen him. He looked tan and healthy. He had rented 10 acres of land and was growing corn like I'd never seen before. Later in his life, he gave up vegetables for flowers, but more than once I found a pineapple growing under his mango tree and found tomato bushes growing in his flower beds. Later, he became a landscaper for the Florida Racing Commission. On Sundays after church he would drive the family to Hialeah Race Track to see his gardens.

The best of life in Miami, Florida.









The last thing my father planted and grew was a cornfield in the front yard of his Hayesville, NC retirment house. No one could see the house from the road. Mother was embarrassed. Growing things is what made my father happy.





#4) The night my father died, I was traveling home from classes at UNC Asheville. My mother told me he called my name, along with the names of my sisters and brother and that he asked God to watch over us.




Bridge on the River Kwai

All those times, all those bridges,
Georgia to Florida, sand
in his shoes, red clay in his pocket.
I wonder what passed through my father's mind.

He never said much about hurricanes
or corn, except you pull it not pick it.
One summer in Georgia I primised to pull
all the corn in ten acres he planted.

Indolent girl, red clay in my pocket,
I remember a movie in East Atlanta.
Prisoners built a bridge across water,
building, building, the whole movie.

I was too young to know why
they blew it all to pieces in the end.
This morning a half drowned woman wakes me.
I open the window. She has come many miles

across water. Her memories are mine.
She gives me one starfish, one mango
and reminds me how I climbed the tree
when the flood came, after the hurricane.

I give her anemone for starfish.
I give her a mountain. The safest place to be.


by Nancy Simpson. Previously published
in Across Water and Night Student.






TRAVELING

I think first of my father,
how one day he did not remember
passing through town. Everything
looked different. He guessed
his mind was somewhere else.

I want to thank him
for telling me, so cassual he spoke.
I want to thank him,
it means I am not crazy,
for he was not crazy.
The night he died he knew what he was doing.

***

He Knew how to die.
We say that of my father
and tell the story,
how he sat on the sofa
hardly breathing,
three nights without sleeping.

I was traveling home
from night school in Asheville,
ice on the road in the high elevations.

***

What I know I learned from my mother,
so good she was to tell me
how he sat on the sofa, praying,
calling the names of his children.

God is going to let me sleep,
he said, and died within minutes,

at the same time I was dreaming
white cloudlands, white seals,
my car plowing homeward
through Winding Stair Gap.

by Nancy Simpson. Previously published
in Across Water and Night Student.









APRIL RAIN

In memory of my father
who loved to sit on a covered porch
and watch rain, I sit sheltered
and sip coffee on my covered deck
high on Cherry Mountain.
Near treetops I sing louder than
the downpour that falls inches from me.
"You like my new house?" I trill
above the sound of raindrops.


Mr.Whiskers asleep on my feet
under the wicker love seat, wakes.
He thinks my song is for him.
I look deep into gray mist, eye to eye
with thin green leaves of a thousand trees
and sing welcome to white blossoms
on dogwood trees no one planted.
I am singing. I am singing to my father
who loved to sit close to rain.


by Nancy Simpson

Previously published in LIGHTS IN THE MOUNTAINS,
Stories, Essays and Poems by Writers
Living in and Inspired by the
Southern Appalachian Mountains.

Two Poems by Pat Workman

Many of our writers in the western Carolina mountains know Pat Workman. She is one of my favorite poets. I met her through North Carolina Writers Network West, and for a number of years we both attended the montly poetry critique group. She's a fine poet. Here are two of my favorite poems.


evenin song by Pat Workman

it was that time after supper
drippin dishes on tha drain board
tappin bug wings at tha screen
keepin time

she a-leanin
on tha weathered porch rail
dreamin her next song
keepin time
with a-moon glidin past midnight
...her blues notes chillin
tha fevered air

in tha porch swing
her momma a singin
keepin time
with tha chain’s gentle squeakin
her alto shape notes seekin
harmony with specters of her youth

two kinds of song
two kinds of longin
become one kind of comfort
keepin time
singn this life and tha past





Full Circle by Pat Workman

My thoughts rumble when thunder
vaults the Nantahala mountain coves;
my nostrils fill with the smell of sweat
soaked leather and the blowing rain
becomes a horse’s mane slapping
me back to range those salty trails
with the Mormon Sons of Daniel.

I must have been a Danite
with ten wives to cook and clean,
ten guns to fire in the name of God,
ten horses to guard my boundaries,
and ten hundred heirs
to insure my grip upon the land.

In this Appalachian lifetime,
I am a lone wife living with
a man who needed ten.
Now...I fire words
in the name of peace
and teach my sons
that we can never own
a single grain of sand.


previously published in LIGHTS IN THE MOUNTAINS
Stories, Essays and Poems by Writers Living in
and Inspired by the Southern Appalachian Mountains


ABOUT PAT WORKMAN

Pat says she is a mountain climbing, rock turning, tree hugging native of Macon County, NC. After living in Ky, Fl, SC and GA, she and her husband, Dwain, retired to Hayesville, NC in 1996. She first joined North Carolina Writers' Network in 1998 after taking her first poetry class at the John C Campbell Folk School. Pat considers herself to be a late-blooming, erratically creative, Dyslexic Poet.

Pat was an X-Ray Technologist and doctor's assistant—1963 to1967. Through the years she continued to take college courses on the run while raising three sons and running two businesses. She and her husband owned and operated a retail business for 25 years in Helen, GA, featuring local arts and crafts, beautifully illustrated & and hard to find books, health foods and organic whole grain breads and cookies baked fresh daily.


She was a volunteer with Northeast GA Hospice, GMHI in Atlanta, the GA Dept. of Mental Health in Gainesville, a licensed counselor and Hypnotherapist—1973 to1996 as owner of the Mountain Learning Center in Helen, GA.


Her poems have been published in Main Street Rag, Independence Boulevard, Lights in the Mountains, four volumes of Freeing Jonah and the Marathon News Leader - Marathon, Texas.


DO YOU WANT TO KNOW MORE ABOUT POET PAT WORKMAN? WANT TO READ MORE OF HER POEMS? SEE HER PAINTINGS?
Pat Workman has one of the most interesting blogs by an Appalachian poet and painter. I follow her blog. Take a look and
see I'm telling you the truth. http://pat-workman.blogspot.com/

Poets and Writers Reading Poems and Stories AT JOHN C. CAMPBELL FOLK SCHOOL

Local Writers to Read at John C. Campbell Folk School



Richard Argo







Brenda Kay Ledford





The North Carolina Writers Network West (Netwest) is happy to bring two local writers on June 25th. to the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown North Carolina. The readings will be held in the Keith House at 7:00 pm.


Brenda Kay Ledford, a native of Clay County, North Carolina, will delight all with her poetry drawn from life in these mountains. Her writing has appeared in Our State, Chicken Soup for the Soul, CAPPERS, JOURNAL OF KENTUCKY STUDIES, and other journals. She received the Paul Green Award from North Carolina Society of Historians for her poetry books, PATCHWORK MEMORIES and SHEW BIRD MOUNTAIN. Finishing Line Press published her third book, SACRED FIRE. Brenda Kay is a member of North Carolina Writers Network, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, Georgia Poetry Society and listed with A DIRECTORY OF AMERICAN POETS AND FICTION WRITERS.


Richard Argo of Murphy, North Carolina is a writer of both fiction and nonfiction. His work has appeared in CAROLINA COUNTRY and LIGHTS IN THE MOUNTAINS. It is not uncommon to find bicycling as the subject of Richard's work. He brings interest to everyday things in his musings. Richard is the facilitator of the Netwest Prose Group and is a member of long standing in the North Carolina Writers Network.

article written by Mike Michelle Keller
for N.C. Writers Network West

October Sands - a poem by Clarence Newton

OCTOBER SANDS

Good old boys stand strong and brave.
Like soldiers, they present arms to windblown sand
and fling long lines over breaking waves
from flexing rods in anxious hands.

Bits of mullet on barbed snares
offered to suseen drum and swift blues,
saying down with caution, drop your cares,
our plans for dinner include you.

Mile after mile and day after day they stand
with sand in their eyes and sand in their shoes
on those outter bank strands of stinging sand
as they cast for drum and cast for blues.

by Clarence Newton




On June 10, 2009, Clarence Newton of Young Harris, Georgia wasone of the featured poet at Coffee With the Poets held at Phillips and Lloyd Bookstore in Hayesville, North Carolina.

Clarence Newton is Poet of the Month for June 2009

In this his birth month, Clarence Newton of Young Harris, Georgia will be the featured Poet for the Month for June, 2009. He is a native of Virginia and worked over forty years in an avation career. After retirement, after settling in the North Georgia Mountains with his wife Lorraine, he began to study and write poetry. He took classes with poet Nancy Simpson at John C. Campbell Folk School, Tri County Community College and at Institute of Continuing Learning at Young Harris College. He is a long time member of NC Writers Network West, and he participates in the monthly poetry critique group with Janice Townley Moore as the workshop leader.

Clarence Newton's poems have been published in Freeing Jonah V and two poems are forthcoming in the new Netwest anthology.His essays have been published in Gainsville Times, Atlanta Journal and Constitution. In 2009 he was the judge for the Cherokee County Senior Games, Silver Arts Literary Awards.

THREE POEMS BY POET, CLARENCE NEWTON


DAMSEL DANCING SIDEWAYS

I see her through my window
stepping gingerly upon green grass,
arms in the air like an evangelist,
offering her dainty flags to the wind.

Tonight she will sleep in
sun dried fragarance,
in a silk night gown that
cuddles her soft, sensuous skin.

I will see her in my dreams.

Previously published in Freeing Jonah V
and forthcoming in his poetry collection



RESPITE

they sit on a dock
eating two apples
he drops half
into the water,
turns to her
and sees six
seeds and a stem.
She's an American now
but has not forgotten
that she was
a child under Hitler.


Previous published in Jonah V, forthcoming in
his poetry collection


KISSING MARY

A long time since
I carried your books.
We sat by the roadside,
two eight year olds

talking about nothing.
I stole my first kiss.
You were surprised
but pleased.

I carved our initials
on a giant beech tree --
"C L loves M P".
That tree long gone.

After many decades
I searched and found you.
You didn't remember me --
thought I was someone else.

I said I was he and
wished you good health
on my way out.

Clarence Newton.

Kevin Watson of Press 53 Announces the 2009 Poetry Winners

The winner of the first place award is Janice Townley Moore.








Poetry: Judge: Kathryn Stripling Byer



*First Prize: Janice Townley Moore of Young Harris, GA for “Windows Filled With Gifts,” “I'd Like to Think the Truth About the World,” and “Beginning Homer's Illiad Once Again.”

*Second Prize: Malaika King of Pinehurst, NC for “On Your Birth Day,” “Sweat Test for Cystic Fibrosis,” and “Swift Water.”

*Honorable Mention: Ellaraine Lockie of Sunnyvale, CA for “Saying Good-Bye,” “A Matter of Degree,” and “Seed of a Serial Killer.”

Finalists:
Bobby Sidna Hart of Advance, NC for “Weymouth House Bath,” “How She Was Found,” and “Frozen Wood.”

Carolyn Moore of Tigard, OR for “The Selkie Discovers the Information Age,” “Two Conversations in a White, White Kitchen,”
and “What the Apple Whispered.”

Clinton B Campbell of Beaufort, SC for “I Want to Dance with Rita Dove,” “The Day My Wife Kissed Pat Conroy,” and “Front Row Seat.”

Ellaraine Lockie of Sunnyvale, CA for “Godot Goes to Montana,” “Inheritance,” and “Should Have Been a Boy.”

Kory Wells of Murfreesboro, TN for “At The Old-Time Jamboree,” “Honky, 1971,” and “Tired of the Same Old Answers.”

Lisa Zerkle of Charlotte, NC for “The Strain and Snap,” “Bitter,” and “How to Hold a Grudge.”

Maureen A. Sherbondy of Raleigh, NC for “One Year After Your Death,” “Praying at Coffee Shops in the South,” and “Dust.”

A NEW POEM AND AN OLD POEM by Ruth Faulkner Grubbs

Waiting for Rebirth

Never turns branches loose
this scraggly old tree in the side yard.

Hovering like a Brillo pad
unabashed over the driveway
she has all the arms of her birth
and all the twigs sprung from these.

She has bird nests of seasons past
hidden well in the scrub.

She’s naked now, but promises new growth
and more twigs to her full figure,
blushing green leaves to flush out her beauty.


by Ruth Faulkner Grubbs

Written in class at John C. Campbell Folk School
April 2009, accepted and forthcoming in Poetry Guild Anthology







Her House of Clay by Ruth Faulkner Grubbs

They found the creamy white clay sparkling
a commodity of the earth free for taking
thrifty for useful projects
for mixing with spring water
a thick smooth soup
to cling to stones, tree trunks, and old boards
such as Mommie's house
a board and batten, one hundred years old
never painted.

An idea was born.

Kept secret
the far back corner
Mommie would't notice
a bucket for mixing
old paint brushes from the smoke house
a bit of stealth
an idea from Tom Sawyer
they'd read it at school
most of the summer morning
plying, slathering, reaching the low roof line
quite so no one would hear

The mixture dried
beautiful smooth almost white
pride tugged at their seams
Mommie appeared her toothless smile
the whole house she said
the small low built house
a long day's work and the next
they labored to set a jewel glistening upon the hill.

from HOLY GROUND Where Love Goes
by Ruth Faulkner Grubbs


Order this book from
Holy Ground
3601 Wilderness Road
Knoxville, TN 37917
$15.00 plus $3.00 package and posting
total $18.00


"Ruth Grubbs writes poetry and prose that is powerful,earthy, and true. Her writing is, in turn, humorous, enlightening, joyful, and haunting. She charms her readers with an authentic Appalachian voice that hails directly from the heart."

--Cathy Kodra

LIVING ABOVE THE FROST LINE CELEBRATES ITS 100TH POST

LIVING ABOVE THE FROST LINE IS A DWELLING PLACE FOR PRACTICING POETS. IT IS THE HOME OF POET, NANCY SIMPSON. ABOVE THE FROST LINE WE GIVE OURSELVES SOME EXTRA GROWING TIME. YES, WE KNOW THE HARD FREEZE WILL COME, BUT UNTIL IT ARRIVES, WE SHALL GROW AND SHARE OUR POEMS.

You who blog know it can be slow sometimes. At other times you have to double check your own site to see why so many are checking in and where in the world they are all coming from. We're finishing up our first six months with a number of new friends and followers and with three awards. It makes me happy. Thanks to all who have added comments and shared your writing on this site. That is what I enjoy most: (1) Hearing from you. (2) Reading your writing. I will continue.

As I have said before, visit often and leave your calling card, your comments. I appreciate that.

We welcome all. But to be honest, this is a site for writers, mainly poets. The goal is to feature a poet each month, to give
information about the poet that is not generally known and to print (with permission) as many of their poems as possible.
We want to feature Appalachian born poets and southern poets.

Another goal is to spread the news of poetry when poetry is in the news. Poetry in the news? That does not happen often, but it happened in January when Elizabeth Alexander read her inaugural poem and earlier this month when Britain, for the first time in their literary history, named their first woman poet laureate.

At least once a month, there will be a reprint of an already published Nancy Simpson poem.

Each month there will be guidelines for submitting poems, stories and essays listed in the right column.

Each month there will be a list of John C. Campbell Folk School writing classes.

Sometimes there will be a question, such as "Can you name these Iris Poets? There were no answers to that question.


Here is the new question.

Can you name these writers and the titles of their books?





(photo taken eleven years ago at Tri County Community College.
Textbook used in the class was Prairie Schooner Fiction Issue.)

TWO POEMS by SOUTHERN APPALACHIAN POET RUTH FAULKNER GRUBBS

Last month at John C. Campbell Folk School I met Ruth Faulkner Grubbs, a Southern Appalachian poet from Knoxville, Tennessee. She is the author of Holy Ground, (sub titled) Where Love Goes, published (spring 2009) by Tennessee Publishing.

To read Holy Ground is to read an authentic story of growing up in the mountains, in Whitley County, Kentucky, “deep in poverty”, “ in a mountaintop cabin”, “... second daughter of a twenty year old mother and a father who made and sold moonshine.” It’s all in the book. Out of the sorrow and the joy, a woman stands tall before us, a woman whose spirit did not wither but thrived.


Black Oak (a place)

She lived there, my mother’s mother,
Mommie to me,
in a board and batten house
standing 100 years on the hill.
There we watched, past the holler,
into the pasture field where jerseys grazed
and left cow piles rich to feed the red soil
around tomatoes and corn
that grew down the steep bank to the well.

We watched into the field where dandelion greens
and crow’s feet and mouse’s ears and dock grew
to fill the black iron pots with salat to eat
with flat cakes of cornpone at supper time.

We watched past the field and the railroad
to Jellico, the Kentucky side,
hanging on a hill between Pine Mountain
and 25 W winding its way to Williamsburg.
Where shanties and the Texaco station soaked in
dust along side the calaboose holding prisoners
to go tomorrow to the country seat for hearing
their fate for moonshinin or breaking in
to steal a way of feedin their young-uns and gettin by.

Back across the bottom fields rich
with river dirt from the lazy creek that would rage
full grown and fast with heavy summer rains
we watched ponderous jaws of steel chew holes
and grab soil and the grass and grains of life
of new beginnings of all the seasons to come.
Strip minin, they called it, black gold.
To fire engines and stoves in factories
to build more things, they said, a different kind of beauty.

They left, and the holes filled with water
and lured young boys, some to swim
and some to drown.


from Knoxville Writers’ Guild Anthology 2008
Included in Holy Ground, 2009


Mommie

I see her now, the long front porch
ragged rails and raw plank flooring
walking stooped to the willow rocker.

She sits with her bible
preaching duty and sin to her grandchildren.

I see hands thin and wrinkled
that work like instruments of precision
small finger bent to neat hook
a gift from her ancestors
stringing and breaking beans
peeling potatoes, peeling apples
to dry in the hot summer sun.

Shift dress from four sacks
bun of hair held in place
a hairpin color of red-eye gravy.

My little Babe, she called me
maybe her favorite girl child
(she loved the boy more
the only one among girls)
and said , she’ll be a nurse.
I didn’t want it but it happened that way.


from Holy Ground, 2009




Order this book from
Holy Ground
3601 Wilderness Road
Knoxville, TN 37917
$15.00 plus $3.00 package and posting
total $18.00


"Ruth Grubbs writes poetry and prose that is powerful,earthy, and true. Her writing is, in turn, humorous, enlightening, joyful, and haunting. She charms her readers with an authentic Appalachian voice that hails directly from the heart."

--Cathy Kodra

WHITE LIE a poem by Nancy Simpson

WHITE LIE by Nancy Simpson

End of May and we have nothing
better to do than walk on the mountain,
our cardigans closed against the cold.
You cannot take back one lie,
no even white ones, subtle

as berry blossoms beside this path.
I kick a stone and tell you I believe
we will pull free from the brambles.
Old timers call this Blackberry Winter,
a temporary cold spell, quick to pass.


Previously published in Davidson Miscellany
Included in Night Student

..."held in abeyance by a great leaf wall" lines by Nancy Simpson

My window on the valley closed. The curtain has been drawn, so I no longer see the ridge line.

But do not feel sorry for me. My woods are filled today with multiple shades of the wild flame azalea.







I am "held in abeyance by a great leaf wall every shade of green we can imagine." (lines from "Walking Up With a Friend."