New Poems in Scythe

New Poems in Scythe

Three poems from my 13 Ways series are in the new issue of Scythe at http://scytheliteraryjournal.com/
along with work by several other people I love: Arlene Ang, Ann Chandonnet, Aleathia Drehmer, and Helen Losse. Thanks to Joe and Chenelle Milford

Aroma of Art Winning Poems Selected

Aroma of Art Winning Poems Selected

Twenty-two poems were submitted for the 2010 Aroma of Art Ekphrastic Poetry Contest. Each poem was judged anonymously by two widely-published poets, and a consensus was reached on 9 poems that will be framed and hung next to the works of art that inspired them for the remainder of the Aroma of Art Benefit Auction at Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse in downtown Hickory. These signed, framed poems will then be presented to the winners of the corresponding works of art during the Aroma of Art Grand Finale from 5:30 to 7:30 on March 4.

Additionally, 3 of the 9 poems were selected to be read by their authors as part of the entertainment during the Grand Finale. The 3 poems to be read are “Fostering a Child” by Jeanne Ackley, “Faded Rose” by Ann Fox Chandonnet, and “Beloved” by Bud Caywood. My own poems “Once Upon This Balcony” and “Relic” were also chosen to be read, but unfortunately I will not be able to be in attendance at the Grand Finale.

Poetry Hickory and the Aroma of Art would like to thank all of those who participated in this interdisciplinary, charitable project and would like to encourage lovers of poetry and art alike to visit Taste Full Beans during the month of February to place bids on the many beautiful works of art that have been donated to benefit the AIDS Leadership Foothills Alliance and the Catawba County Humane Society.

Each of the 9 poems selected for display are printed below. Congratulations to all the winners and thank you to everyone who submitted work.


Fostering a Child
by Jeanne Ackley
after the Doug James’ painting “After a Swim”

Her eyes were not able
to shut out the violence.
Her ears could not help but hear
the curses, the threats.

We finally found
a swim suit
that hid some of the scars,
covered most of the bruises.

She wades into the pool,
waits silently
for the other children
to begin splashing and screaming.

Slowly, her hands hit the water,
with clenched fists.
She screams,
but not with glee.

Yesterday,
for the first time,
when I smiled at her,
she smiled back.

Faded Rose
by Ann Fox Chandonnet
after collage by Sara Frisbee

"years ago, but always like yesterday"
Miep Gies, 1987

Shards of memory
from a brain dig.
Scraps of pink net flutter in the breeze.
Bristles and dental picks probe
at what might be vertebra or vase,
shoe leather or locket.
More broken china;
is that a rose?
Carbon dating will settle the issue.
Was this chipped flask filled with chipped tears?
Will Homer tell this tale?

Sweet sisters giggle under the weeping willow,
making daisy chains.
Three children perish within four days.
Their mother buries them. Then their father.
Then she too is gone, and a neighbor takes the screaming baby home.

A horn button, a veal knuckle,
a flattened silver thimble.
Do we find what is lost
or only a faded dream of a faded dream?


Beloved
by Bud Caywood
after Sara Frisbee’s “Beloved”

In the beginning,
there was a loud clamor of many voices,
and men and animals were called to the beloved child;
their murmurs mingled with fears and dreams,
with old prophecies that had been told again and again.

Don’t blame us now that many are still blind to believing,
deaf to the songs, and lost to not knowing the truth.
There is still a child’s voice in the middle of the heart
that would have us rise from a restless slumber,
out of that tangle of fears and memories
to a soft halo of light where the beloved
still waits for us patiently.


Once Upon This Balcony
by Scott Owens
after Meredith Janssen’s photograph “Et Juliet”

Once upon this balcony,
or another one just like it,
the sun might have shone,
at least it might have seemed
that way from below.
The moon might have drawn
its curtain of day
across a humbled face.
One might have spoken
and remained unheard
yet still made an impression
the way anything not heard clearly
seems more important than the actual words,
and isolated on such a promontory,
only a tree and stars for company,
what was might easily have been
mistaken for what might seem.
One might have been seen
from afar through hyperbolic eyes,
just a girl really, one too young
at that for such talk of virgins,
such contrast with stars.
One might have been the object of obsession,
of overactive imagination,
of inappropriate desire.
One might have weighed
love and obligation, passion and truth,
counseled treason, conspired.
One might have deconstructed
names and words and the whole
premise of symbolism,
leading, of course, to the idea
of pluralism which proved
as always a better idea
than reality can ever bear.
Then again, given all that played out
before her, one might have just jumped.
There was, after all,
if any truth to be told in plays,
plenty of jumping involved
once from this balcony,
a simple balcony,
a bit aged,
and much too open.


Relic
by Scott Owens
after Joe Young’s photograph “Time Goes By”

Time does go by
not to mention around,
through, in,
and eventually over.
Tortoise-like it plods on,
patiently waiting
for the moment we stop,
stand still too long.

Even masters of space,
speed, and distance
know of this inevitable
reclamation but remain
unprepared, unbelieving,
just the sort of thing
we think happens
only to other people.

Who, possessing
even a shred of such
power, could be anything
but incredulous,
each thing its own
Ozymandias, pride
half sunk, only
passion surviving.


Disillusionment of Color Change
by Scott Owens
after David DeJesus’ photograph “China Town”

Pink shades, green walls,
fire escapes always descending
from perfectly squared landings,
places to stand still in.
Maybe a fan or a.c.
to cool the day’s oppression
break the monotony
of brick piled on brick,
carefully mortared to close
all hopes of anything open.
Pink shades, green walls,
only in one left open shades
of blue, a suggestion of clouds,
a hint of some horizon.


Motel in Memphis
by Cherie Berry
after Hulda Bewley’s photograph “Motel in Memphis”

Women had a place, on their back, beneath men.
She introduced an element of honesty, a balls-out competition
for customers.
The new kid on the block was by far the biggest earner.

Dressed in skyscraper heels, a red leather mini-skirt
and a blond wig, three times divorced, she had learned the
painful way that you make more money.

On a business and professional level, she didn’t like it then,
and she didn’t like it now.
This business chewed you up and spit you out like a bad taste,
but, sometimes you got lucky.

With the grace of the dancer she once had been, slowly and
insolently she turned in front of the seated man.
He was tempted to put his hands on her, but he did not get up.
No one wanted to be featured in a headline, no one wanted
to get caught.

She gave him a look from eyes that had seen it all and done
it all twice.
He smiled and mimicked putting tape across his mouth.
Every man has a weakness.
　
　

Event
by Patricia Deaton
after Sara Frisbee’s “Concrete Love”

Don’t hand me that. Flowers won’t do it.
And don’t tell me it will be all right.
This will NOT. EVER. BE. ALL. RIGHT.
All the party-color trappings in the world won’t make this a celebration.

I’m broken here.

The last slow dance is over.
The lights have come on.
The band is packing up.
Not even a chance for a one-night stand.

What happened to the hugs and kisses?
XOXO, love, for the record,
Happening carefree and written down.

Touching, talking, Not touching, not talking,
The X’s and O’s unfamiliar, gone wild
Like crazy confetti from hell raining down.

I’m a party of one and I’m broken.


An Invitation with Strings Attached
by Jeanne Ackley
after J.W. Baker’s painting “Black Bear”

If you are
a member of the Bear Clan,
or on a sacred journey,
follow me.

I will take you
to the Dakotas, to Bear Butte.
Follow me,
to our sacred circle.

We will gather in the Black Hills.
Follow me,
into the sweat lodge,
where our sacred ceremonies are held.

Follow me,
if your heart is in the right place.
Sacred knowledge is not for sale.
We will know if you are sincere.

Making Time for Poetry

Poet, Ann Chandonnet, wrote this profile of me, and last week the local weekly newspaper, Outlook, ran it. I love what Ann did with this, and after a student of mine told me his wife cried when she read it, I loved it even more. More than anything else I want my words to have an impact on the reader (I imagine this is the goal of most poets), so when an article about my words stirs a reader's emotions to the point of tears, it's pretty gratifying and a very complimentary reflection on the quality of Ann's writing. Thank you, Ann and Outlook. Pick up a copy of Outlook or visit the blog tomorrow for a poem from Joanna Catherine Scott, author of my favorite book of poems from the last several years and Poetry Hickory reader next Tuesday (2/9)

MAKING TIME FOR POETRY: A PROFILE OF SCOTT OWENS, POET
By Ann Chandonnet
The literary artist—the novelist, the essayist, the poet—must make time for his art.

Why? Because the literary artist is the most ignored artist of all in the United States.

In the Soviet Union (or whatever its politic name these days), they name battleships after poets. No such thing in the land of gummy worms and sound bites. Actors and embezzlers become celebrities while the poet is shunned like a leper.

Like the dedicated artist he is, Scott Owens chooses to stick to his literary guns. He makes time for what he feels is important. Although he has three children—one at home, two in college—he finds time. “Two mornings a week [my daughter] is in school,” he said in a recent interview. “When I was younger, I used to get up at 5 and have two hours to work. Now I just take advantage of time wherever I can find it. I take my books to the swimming pool when she swims. I take my stuff to her dance lesson.”

Owens was born in Greenwood, South Carolina. His life hasn’t been easy. He paid his way through college by working double shifts in a cotton mill. To make money while attending college, he gave massages, edited papers for fellow students and took on all sorts of part-time jobs. He has lived in Hickory for eight years, and teaches at CVCC. Two and a half years ago, he founded Poetry Hickory, a group that sponsors monthly readings at Taste Full Beans coffee shop.

As readers of his 2008 collection The Fractured World are aware, Scott was abused as a child. He has worked through that horrific experience, and his calm demeanor gives little clue to his early years. “At the bottom level, poetry was a way out—out of my feeling of desperation,” he explained matter-of-factly. “Poetry helped me think about the situation I was in, in my childhood and helped convince me that [life] didn’t have to be that way. Today poetry is how I know that I exist.”

Owens’ healing is expressed in his latest collection of poems, Paternity, out this month. The germs of the collection lie in his own fractured upbringing and in the love he has for his young daughter, five-year-old Sawyer.

Some of the inspiration for Paternity comes from his “absolutely favorite poem,” “Little Sleeps-Head Sprouting Hair in the Moonlight,” from The Book of Nightmares (1970) by Galway Kinnell. Owens’ second favorite poem, also by Kinnell, is “The Still Time.” Kinnell wrote The Book of Nightmares for his children, Maud and Fergus, and it has been called “a howl against the depravities of social injustice.”

Not all poets are sure they are deserving of the title. How did Owens know he was a poet? “When Robert Grey, the editor of Southern Poetry Review, was teaching me in a graduate level creative writing class, he said he wanted one of the poems I had submitted in class for the magazine. And I thought, ‘Well, maybe I am getting it after all.’ “Owens was 24 at the time of this revelation. Since then he has won many poetry prizes.

The beginning poet often feels lost. What advice does Owens have? “Read twice as much as you write. Make it twentieth- and twenty-first-century stuff that you are reading.”

And take your notebooks along to your daughter’s swimming class. Make time.

Poetry Reading

Aroma of Art and Ann Chandonnet's "Red Lady"

Musings for February 19, 2009
Aroma of Art and Ann Chandonnet's "Red Lady"

For the second week in a row, this installment of “Musings” features poetry and artwork from the Aroma of Art fundraiser auction going on this month at Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse in downtown Hickory.
Aroma of Art is a month long silent auction whose proceeds benefit three nonprofits, ALFA (AIDS Leadership Foothills-area Association), Humane Society of Catawba County, and Women's Resource Center. Local artists have donated works which are on display in Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse and can be bid on there. Final bid winners will be announced at Aroma of Art’s Grand Finale, slated for February 28.
In conjunction with Aroma of Art, Poetry Hickory is sponsoring an Ekphrastic Poetry Event. Area writers have produced poems based on works in the Aroma of Art display. These poems have been judged by a panel of local poets, and selected poems have been framed and are on display next to the work of art they were inspired by. The selected poems will be read by their authors at the Aroma of Art Ekphrastic Poetry Event at Taste Full Beans on February 26 and then presented to the winning bidder at the Grand Finale.
The poem below was written by Ann Fox Chandonnet and inspired by Brian Legore’s untitled painting of a “red lady.” Chandonnet currently lives in Vale, NC, and is the author of 7 collections of poetry as well as various cookbooks, children’s books, and travel guides. She is a frequent participant in Poetry Hickory. Legore is a local writer and artist, an Associate Member of Full Circle Arts and also a frequent participant in Poetry Hickory.
For more information on Aroma of Art, visit the website at http://aromaofart.blogspot.com/ or call Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse at 828-325-0108. For information on the Ekphrastic Poetry Event or Poetry Hickory, contact Scott Owens at asowens1@yahoo.com or 828-234-4266.

Red Lady

Lady’s red but got the blues,
got the blues.
Stares at her shoes,
cannot meet my gaze.
Red lady’s got the blues.
Her mouth opens, then shuts.
Opens, shuts.

Spit out sorrow’s poison, lady--
Lady, angry as a boil.
Spit out sorrow’s poison.
Your sad red eyes
shadow your blue cheeks;
A storm cloud
crowns your brow like blue thorns.

Red lady, blot your tears
with your red, red hair.
Spit out sorrow’s bitter poison.
There is a blue sky,
a blue sky singing
sweet--sweet as a red bird.
Can you hear it now?

Ann Chandonnet, September 25, 2008

Unlike last week’s featured poet, Ann Fox Chandonnet is a newcomer to the Hickory area. Specifically, she lives now with her husband in Vale. But if you’re thinking Vale might seem somewhat remote to her, then you should know that her last home was in Alaska, although other recent events might make Alaska not seem as remote to the rest of us as it once did.

Chandonnet was born and raised in Massachusetts, and earned her master’s degree at the University of Wisconsin, but then lived for 34 years in Alaska. She has worked as an English teacher, an editor, a publicist, and a cops and courts reporter. She has also written cookbooks, children’s books and a travel guide to the Inside Passage. Her seven poetry collections include Canoeing in the Rain, At the Fruit Tree's Mossy Root, and Auras, Tendrils.

The poem that follows is reprinted with Chandonnet’s permission from her collection Ptarmigan Valley: Poems of Alaska. Anyone who has ever split wood can attest to the cathartic nature of the experience and will be able to easily identify with this poem.

Splitting Wood

Anger’s impossible
after splitting wood.
Bile flows out along the human trunk,
the arms, and axe handle
into the cleavages of birch and spruce,
into the neatly stacked cords
and the pleasing litter of chips
upon the snow.

The more lengths split,
the more I become whole:
joints cease their clatter;
rifts slide shut.

Lacking shoulders,
I turn scientific,
teasing the lengths
atop the block
until they become level.
Then my little force
runs straight down the grain.

The bore holes of twigs
are clean as laser burns.
Swelling branches spawn massive roils,
marbled end papers.
Force is balked by these conjunctions.
Wood splits just to them
and no further . . .
like roads deadending
at skewed headlands.

On the pile reclines a straight young arm;
beneath, a knotty fist of aged wood,
liver spots of decay staining its pale grain.
Some knotfree layers separate
clean as onion rings.

Few things concentrate and empty the body so,
both engage and free.
Blows echo from the trees around;
a scrap of inner bark
glows pink as a conch.