Poetry Council Announces 2010 Contests
The Poetry Council of NC (PCNC) will again sponsor a series of poetry contests for NC residents this year. In all, PCNC sponsors contests in 8 categories, including one each for elementary, middle and high school students. Other categories are for a book by a NC poet published in 2009, traditional poetry, light verse, free verse, and poems on the theme of family. The submission period for these contests began February 15 and concludes on May 22. Winners in last year’s contests include such notable poets as Anthony Abbott, Bill Griffin, Sara Claytor, Shelby Stephenson, and Dannye Romine Powell.
All contest categories feature cash prizes ranging from $100 to $15 for first, second, and third place. In most categories, up to three additional poems are awarded honorable mention status. All poems selected for awards are published in PCNC’s annual anthology, Bay Leaves. Additionally, authors of the awarded poems will receive certificates from PCNC and are invited to read their winning poems at PCNC’s annual poetry celebration known as Poetry Day, to be held this year on October 16 at Catawba College in Salisbury.
Poems submitted for PCNC contests must be unpublished and not under consideration for publication elsewhere. Complete details including the method for submitting work are available on PCNC’s website at www.poetrycouncilofnc.wordpress.com or by contacting PCNC President, Ed Cockrell, at 2906 Gait Way, Chapel Hill, NC 27516.
The Poetry Council of NC was founded in 1949 with the primary mission of fostering “a deeper appreciation and love of poetry among the people of NC.” Since its founding, the Council has sponsored contests, published anthologies, coordinated Poetry Day, and helped maintain an archive of NC poetry at Catawba College. Starting with last year’s contests and continuing this year, winning poems are also published online (a new poem each week) on the Council’s website.
Showing posts with label Dannye Romine-Powell. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Dannye Romine-Powell. Show all posts
Thursday, March 25, 2010
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Review of Dannye Romine-Powell's "A Necklace of Bees" (Wild Goose, Winter 2008)
Review of Dannye Romine-Powell’s A Necklace of Bees (58 pages, University of Arkansas Press)
Do not go to Dannye Romine-Powell’s new book of poems, A Necklace of Bees, seeking comfort or solace. There is none. Frankly, reading this volume left me feeling jittery and disconsolate, nearly overwhelmed with all-too-familiar feelings of loss, guilt, failed attempts at compensation, stifling expectations of perfection, and the common misunderstanding of the motivations behind those expectations. In other words, the poems masterfully achieve what should be the ultimate goal of poetry, to help us experience our own lives a bit more deeply, a bit more consciously, and a bit more honestly.
Southern women, it seems, may be the greatest stoics of all. They routinely outlive, or perhaps more accurately, outlast their parents, husbands, all-too-often their own sons, as well as other, less familiar tormentors, all with a fortitude made apparent by keeping, despite everything else, “Forks / with forks. Spoons with spoons” (“Daddy Tosses Them Down”) and the dignity of “nails polished red // a row of lemons on the sill (“The Villa”). Both the mother in and the speaker of Powell’s poems remind me of my own mother who has survived an abusive parent, tightly confining expectations, abusive husbands, and masochistic children to finally retire to peace and the possibilities of unencumbered love.
We encounter the mother’s frustrated attempt to maintain dignity in her family in several poems in the book, including “The Avalanche,” where a headstrong and foolish father:
braked
the old green Chevy
on the side
of a mountain
somewhere out West
and bet my mother
he could start an avalanche
by kicking
a single rock
into another. No,
she said, no, please
don’t, Dan, please.
We see it again in “Daddy Tosses Them Down,” where the father thrilled to have taught the baby to recite the rhyme, “I love little pussy, / her coat is so warm . . . / And if I don’t hurt her, / she’ll do me no harm,” while the mother “wears pearls / and tries to keep things smooth / and in order.” The presence of the daughter, whom one assumes to be the grown-up speaker of the poems, in each of these poems, foreshadows her own later suffering.
The speaker’s torment is not, however, initiated so much by her father as it is by her son and his alcoholism. We read in “The Gaudy Clothes of Tourists” that “My son’s death / is incomplete, only a fear, though/ as his drinking increases, a fear that daily grows.” In “Everyone Is Afraid of Something,” the speaker tells us:
I’m afraid
---------------------------
my son will die alone in his apartment.
I’m afraid when I break down the door,
I’ll find him among the empties -- bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger’s face . . . .
---------------------------
Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.
The speaker has a somewhat different approach to alcoholism among the men in her life than did her mother. Whereas the mother focused on maintaining a façade of normalcy, as in “My Mother’s Lips,” where she emphasizes, “Don’t dare embarrass me,” the speaker focuses on the painful necessity of preparing the next generation for the inevitability of loss. In “Everyone Is Afraid of Something,” she contemplates how to prepare her granddaughter for the loss of her father:
Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I’ll take her
by the shoulders. Child, listen to me.
One day, you’ll see. These stings
are nothing. Nothing at all.
Perhaps the only sense of hope one can gain from these poems is that after prolonged, stoic tolerance and the inevitable tragic conclusion, there is the possibility of renewal. This is apparent in “How Her Words Entered Me When She Called to Say My Father Had Died at Last after Ten Months of Pain,” a poem whose sense of release is reminiscent of that found in Kate Chopin’s “Story of an Hour:”
entered me the way we entered the coral rock caves
at the edge of Venetian Pool, if we could muster the nerve
to brave the caves at all and, because we were girls,
did so only on a dare from some cowlicked
fifth- or sixth-grade boy because we had to duck
under and make our way blind through the black,
watery depths until we reached a ledge
at the back of the caves where we sat panting
while the fear drained off, and now, chattering,
another breath, one more plunge, and we crashed
to the far opening until, still swimming, we burst
into light, lifting our wet faces to an anthem
of blue and green--released into Eden.
Do not go to Dannye Romine-Powell’s new book of poems, A Necklace of Bees, seeking comfort or solace. There is none. Frankly, reading this volume left me feeling jittery and disconsolate, nearly overwhelmed with all-too-familiar feelings of loss, guilt, failed attempts at compensation, stifling expectations of perfection, and the common misunderstanding of the motivations behind those expectations. In other words, the poems masterfully achieve what should be the ultimate goal of poetry, to help us experience our own lives a bit more deeply, a bit more consciously, and a bit more honestly.
Southern women, it seems, may be the greatest stoics of all. They routinely outlive, or perhaps more accurately, outlast their parents, husbands, all-too-often their own sons, as well as other, less familiar tormentors, all with a fortitude made apparent by keeping, despite everything else, “Forks / with forks. Spoons with spoons” (“Daddy Tosses Them Down”) and the dignity of “nails polished red // a row of lemons on the sill (“The Villa”). Both the mother in and the speaker of Powell’s poems remind me of my own mother who has survived an abusive parent, tightly confining expectations, abusive husbands, and masochistic children to finally retire to peace and the possibilities of unencumbered love.
We encounter the mother’s frustrated attempt to maintain dignity in her family in several poems in the book, including “The Avalanche,” where a headstrong and foolish father:
braked
the old green Chevy
on the side
of a mountain
somewhere out West
and bet my mother
he could start an avalanche
by kicking
a single rock
into another. No,
she said, no, please
don’t, Dan, please.
We see it again in “Daddy Tosses Them Down,” where the father thrilled to have taught the baby to recite the rhyme, “I love little pussy, / her coat is so warm . . . / And if I don’t hurt her, / she’ll do me no harm,” while the mother “wears pearls / and tries to keep things smooth / and in order.” The presence of the daughter, whom one assumes to be the grown-up speaker of the poems, in each of these poems, foreshadows her own later suffering.
The speaker’s torment is not, however, initiated so much by her father as it is by her son and his alcoholism. We read in “The Gaudy Clothes of Tourists” that “My son’s death / is incomplete, only a fear, though/ as his drinking increases, a fear that daily grows.” In “Everyone Is Afraid of Something,” the speaker tells us:
I’m afraid
---------------------------
my son will die alone in his apartment.
I’m afraid when I break down the door,
I’ll find him among the empties -- bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger’s face . . . .
---------------------------
Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.
The speaker has a somewhat different approach to alcoholism among the men in her life than did her mother. Whereas the mother focused on maintaining a façade of normalcy, as in “My Mother’s Lips,” where she emphasizes, “Don’t dare embarrass me,” the speaker focuses on the painful necessity of preparing the next generation for the inevitability of loss. In “Everyone Is Afraid of Something,” she contemplates how to prepare her granddaughter for the loss of her father:
Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I’ll take her
by the shoulders. Child, listen to me.
One day, you’ll see. These stings
are nothing. Nothing at all.
Perhaps the only sense of hope one can gain from these poems is that after prolonged, stoic tolerance and the inevitable tragic conclusion, there is the possibility of renewal. This is apparent in “How Her Words Entered Me When She Called to Say My Father Had Died at Last after Ten Months of Pain,” a poem whose sense of release is reminiscent of that found in Kate Chopin’s “Story of an Hour:”
entered me the way we entered the coral rock caves
at the edge of Venetian Pool, if we could muster the nerve
to brave the caves at all and, because we were girls,
did so only on a dare from some cowlicked
fifth- or sixth-grade boy because we had to duck
under and make our way blind through the black,
watery depths until we reached a ledge
at the back of the caves where we sat panting
while the fear drained off, and now, chattering,
another breath, one more plunge, and we crashed
to the far opening until, still swimming, we burst
into light, lifting our wet faces to an anthem
of blue and green--released into Eden.
Dannye Romine-Powell, January 1, 2009
In a recent review of Dannye Romine Powell’s new book of poems A Necklace of Bees, I wrote that “the poems masterfully achieve what should be the ultimate goal of poetry, to help us experience our own lives a bit more deeply, a bit more consciously, and a bit more honestly.” In a previous “Musings,” I implied that the best reasons to attend a poetry reading were to experience catharsis and to remember a more clearly what it is to be human.
My review of Romine Powell’s work makes it clear that I think she is one of those poets who help us remember our humanity, and now, she is coming to Hickory to read from her new book, an experience which promises to be cathartic for all those who attend.
I have been a fan of Dannye Romine Powell’s work for nearly two decades. I first met her at the home of the greatest teacher I’ve ever had, Ann Carver, in Charlotte. I knew she was the Book Page Editor for the Charlotte Observer. I had seen her on television several times. I had read a number of her poems already. And I knew she had just published a very successful book of interviews with Southern writers, Parting the Curtains. What I didn’t know was how kind, humble, gracious, and easy to talk to she was.
We hit it off right away. As a young poet, I was, of course, eager to hear anything she had to say about writing, poetry, and the world of writers. What amazed me was that she also seemed anxious to know what I had to say.
I’ve never forgotten her kindness, and I’ve never stopped being impressed with her work. I reviewed A Necklace of Bees because I think it is one of the best books of the past year, and the poem I’m reprinting below, the one from which the collection draws its title, is one of the best poems of the year.
Everyone Is Afraid of Something
Once I was afraid of ghosts, of the dark,
of climbing down from the highest
limb of the backyard oak. Now I’m afraid
my son will die alone in his apartment.
I’m afraid when I break down the door,
I’ll find him among the empties--bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger’s face.
My granddaughter is afraid of blood
and spider webs and of messing up.
Also bees. Especially bees. Everyone,
she says, is afraid of something.
Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.
Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I’ll take her
by the shoulders. child, listen to me.
One day, you’ll see. These stings
are nothing. Nothing at all.
(first published in Tar River Poetry Review)
Dannye Romine Powell is the author of three collections of poetry, each from the University of Arkansas Press. She has won fellowships in poetry from the NEA and the NC Arts Council. She will appear at Poetry Hickory with Chuck Sullivan at 6:30 on January, 13, at Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse.
My review of Romine Powell’s work makes it clear that I think she is one of those poets who help us remember our humanity, and now, she is coming to Hickory to read from her new book, an experience which promises to be cathartic for all those who attend.
I have been a fan of Dannye Romine Powell’s work for nearly two decades. I first met her at the home of the greatest teacher I’ve ever had, Ann Carver, in Charlotte. I knew she was the Book Page Editor for the Charlotte Observer. I had seen her on television several times. I had read a number of her poems already. And I knew she had just published a very successful book of interviews with Southern writers, Parting the Curtains. What I didn’t know was how kind, humble, gracious, and easy to talk to she was.
We hit it off right away. As a young poet, I was, of course, eager to hear anything she had to say about writing, poetry, and the world of writers. What amazed me was that she also seemed anxious to know what I had to say.
I’ve never forgotten her kindness, and I’ve never stopped being impressed with her work. I reviewed A Necklace of Bees because I think it is one of the best books of the past year, and the poem I’m reprinting below, the one from which the collection draws its title, is one of the best poems of the year.
Everyone Is Afraid of Something
Once I was afraid of ghosts, of the dark,
of climbing down from the highest
limb of the backyard oak. Now I’m afraid
my son will die alone in his apartment.
I’m afraid when I break down the door,
I’ll find him among the empties--bloated,
discolored, his face a stranger’s face.
My granddaughter is afraid of blood
and spider webs and of messing up.
Also bees. Especially bees. Everyone,
she says, is afraid of something.
Another fear of mine: that it will fall to me
to tell this child her father is dead.
Perhaps I should begin today stringing
her a necklace of bees. When they sting
and welts quilt her face, when her lips
whiten and swell, I’ll take her
by the shoulders. child, listen to me.
One day, you’ll see. These stings
are nothing. Nothing at all.
(first published in Tar River Poetry Review)
Dannye Romine Powell is the author of three collections of poetry, each from the University of Arkansas Press. She has won fellowships in poetry from the NEA and the NC Arts Council. She will appear at Poetry Hickory with Chuck Sullivan at 6:30 on January, 13, at Taste Full Beans Coffeehouse.
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