POET OF THE DAY: FELICIA MITCHELL

FELICIA MITCHELL IS ONE OF MY FAVORITE POETS. HER MOST RECENT CHAPBOOK, THE CLEFT OF THE ROCK, WAS PUBLISHED BY FINISHING LINE PRESS LAST YEAR. THE POEM BELOW TOUCHED ME TO THE MARROW THE FIRST TIME I READ IT AND CONTINUES TO DO SO. I CAN'T THINK OF A LOVELIER POEM FOR EASTER MORNING.

Almost Easter


Shaking bone meal
from my bare hands
into the rose bed
where only one bush grows,
I feel as if I’m scattering
my father’s ashes
all over again.

This month marks
the seventh year
my father has lain
in my garden,
his ashes in my hands
still as palpable
as bone meal or thorns.

Easter Sunday,
I will hide an egg
behind his ear.
Jesus will call down to him
to get up and play.
He won’t.
But the rose bush
that is turning green,
this rose will sink its roots
a little deeper in the earth
and in a few months
drop its petals
like so many red tears.

— Felicia Mitchell

Felicia is a widely published poet, with listings in Poets & Writers Directory andContemporary American Authors. Her poems have appeared in journals and anthologies since 1983, recently in Columbia. A Journal of Literature and the Arts,Weber Studies, and Many Mountains Moving. In 2009, Finishing Line Press of Kentucky released The Cleft of the Rock. In 2008, “There is No Map” was published as an online chapbook by Dead Mule School of Southern Literature. The poems in this collection are included in The Los Language of Dragon, a book-length collection of poems about dementia currently in submission to presses. In 1999, Earthenware Fertility Figure was published as a first-prize chapbook through a competition sponsored by Talent House Press in Oregon.

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH: THANK YOU, MARY REGAN

National Poetry Month, Day 4

For the past few days I've been celebrating National Poetry Month by posting poems by individual poets, and I hope my readers have enjoyed reading their work.  Today I'm celebrating a woman who is not a poet, who in fact is not really an artist in any genre, except one crucial one, ENABLER OF ARTISTS.  When I moved to western North Carolina in the late 60's, the presence of the arts here in the far reaches of the mountains was limited, to say the least.  If you were a writer, the Mecca for you would have been the Chapel Hill/Durham area.  That's where the arts lived, where the monetary support resided.  Or so we believed, my writer friends and I.  We felt isolated, unappreciated.

That didn't last.  Over the years, thanks to the NC Arts Council and Mary Regan, support for the arts blossomed state-wide.  For writers, she, and her able Literature Director Debbie McGill,  became eloquent and energetic supporters of our work, our ambitions, our search for an audience.

Mary Regan recently retired, after so many fruitful years of guiding the State of the Arts.  Below, I give you a poem I wrote for Mary, read by Chuck Sullivan at Mary's retirement celebration at the end of February.  

  Mary and the Muses

on the occasion of Mary Regan's retirement  as Director of the North Carolina Arts Council

Those classical muses get way too much credit.

We artists in North Carolina don’t need them.

We’ve had our own Muse

whose name we can always pronounce.

No Terspsichore,  Euterpe, Melpomen

or Polyhymnia.  We call her Mary,

a good enough classical name

for a woman who’s nurtured

the arts, every one of them,

here in our state, from the mountains

to sea, from the cabin

to lighthouse, from canvas to

keyboard and back again.

Once I strained to hit a high C 

in voice lessons. I tried to play Bach 

and banged the wrong notes,

I teetered en pointe

and gave up, though I cherished,

and still do, my blue satin tutu.

My art teacher urged me to cherish

my inner Picasso,

but by then, I had fallen in love

with poetry.  Thank goodness,

I moved to North Carolina

where Mary was waiting to help me

become what I wanted to be.

My own voice singing my own woman’s story.

We don’t need a team of Greek Muses,

doggedly dancing around

on some vases and frescoes.

We’ve had Mary all these years

clearing the way for us

as any Muse worth her name would do,

 the Tenth Muse,

as the Bard himself might have called her,

..ten times more in worth

Than those old nine which rhymers invocate.*

Salud, Mary! Thank you, muchas gracias, 

and merci beaucoup,

for all you have given this state.

  

                                                      *from Sonnet 38

JAKI SHELTON GREEN: APRIL AGAIN

I'm happy to feature my friend Jaki Shelton Green as the first poet in my celebration of National Poetry Month.


Please go to Carolina Wren Press to order Jaki's books.

Jaki says, "Yes Ma'am, those apple blossoms would look real good on my Mama's hat come Easter morning!

The bees are buzzing all around the apple tree.  The birds are singing.  Wish Jaki could sit under the tree with me and sing along.

Jaki's publications include Dead on Arrival, Masks, Conjure Blues, and breath of the song, which was cited as one of two Best Poetry Books of the Year by the Independent Weekly. Her poems have appeared in numerous magazines and journals, including Ms. Magazine, Essence, The Crucible, and Obsidian and she has performed her poetry and taught writing workshops throughout the United States, Caribbean, Europe, Central and South America. Her poetry has also been choreographed by groups such as African American Dance Ensemble, Two Near the Edge, and the ChoreoCollective, and awards include the North Carolina Award for Literature in 2003, 2006 Artist in Residence at the Taller Portobelo Artist Colony, and the 2007 recipient of the Sam Ragan Award.

****************************************

who will be the messenger of this land


by Jaki Shelton Green

who will be the messenger of this land
count its veins
speak through the veins
translate the language of water
navigate the heels of lineage
who will carry this land in parcels
paper, linen, burlap
who will weep when it bleeds
and hardens
forgets to birth itself

who will be the messenger of this land
wrapping its stories carefully
in patois of creole, irish,
gullah, twe, tuscarora
stripping its trees for tea
and pleasure
who will help this land to
remember its birthdays, baptisms
weddings, funerals, its rituals
denials, disappointments,
and sacrifices

who will be the messengers
of this land
harvesting its truths
bearing unleavened bread
burying mutilated crops beneath
its breasts

who will remember
to unbury the unborn seeds
that arrived
in captivity
shackled, folded,
bent, layered in its
bowels

we are their messengers
with singing hoes
and dancing plows
with fingers that snap
beans, arms that
raise corn, feet that
cover the dew falling from
okra, beans, tomatoes

we are these messengers
whose ears alone choose
which spices
whose eyes alone name
basil, nutmeg, fennel, ginger,
cardamom, sassafras
whose tongues alone carry
hemlock, blood root, valerian,
damiana, st. john's wort
these roots that contain
its pleasures its languages its secrets

we are the messengers
new messengers
arriving as mutations of ourselves
we are these messengers
blue breath
red hands
singing a tree into dance

© Jaki Shelton Green




wishing

razor blades did not
slash rainbows
hands did not
steal light from the dawn
prayers spoken in tongues did not
dissolve into silk pocket linings
air could be bartered
for fire
war could reinvent itself
as a prayer of silence



paper dolls

for darnell arnoult

perhaps
it is the joy of tomato sandwiches
the smell of jergens and jean nate
at thirteen
or our love still for grandmothers aunts
who enter rooms
largely sideways
hips broad enough
to use as sideboards
maybe it is the value
we place on duke's mayonnaise
the sandwich spread for queens . . .

whatever wherever and for ever more
we are little girls
revisiting space
rebuilding houses
renaming mothers . . .

perhaps it is the secret
knotted inside the pleats of skirt hems
sewn along scarf edges
fringed secret whispers
that whisper a familiar smell . . .

whatever we become
sisters
stealing a moment
to cast word spells
undress our mothers
repaint their lips with anything red anything italian
drench their heads with ancient clairol wisdom
anoint their hands with herstorical bronze
queen of the nile henna . . .

we reembrace
lace
full petticoats
white linen skirts
sailor dresses
patent leather

for the pretty pirates
swans
ballerinas
we will become . . ..

perfumed necks
wrists adorned
in vintage memory
cut carefully
along the edges
of this madness
this magic . . .

we lie down
and wait for the moon
to trace us.



i know the grandmother one had hands

i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always in bowls
folding, pinching, rolling the dough
making the bread
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always under water
sifting rice
blueing clothes
starching lives
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always in the earth
planting seeds
removing weeds
growing knives
burying sons
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always under
the cloth
pushing it along
helping it birth into
skirt
dress
curtains to lock out
night
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always inside
the hair
parting
plaiting
twisting it into rainbows
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always inside
pockets
holding the knots
counting the twisted veins
holding onto herself
lest her hands disappear
into sky
i know the grandmother one had hands
but they were always inside the clouds
poking holes for the
rain to fall.



eva/jaki/ivory/imani/eva

in the season of rising up in the morning
granddaughters give new meaning
to great day in the sky
sky with small
fists, pinching clouds
reshaping stars
into skirts
wearing moon shadows like capes
we turn raindrops into buttons
stitch hair balls along the hems of
dresses
fire dresses
new granddaughters
wear new earth clothes
spell their name sistuh
prepare new warriors
to prepare new earths
check skirts for hems lined with hail dust
never admitting to treason

POET OF THE DAY: TESS KINCAID

(TESS KINCAID, AKA "WILLOW" OF LIFE AT WILLOW MANOR.)

Today we celebrate being April Fools for Poetry with a poem by Tess Kincaid. Tess is a Renaissance Woman, par excellence. Gourmet cook, blogger, poet, photographer-- well, the list could go on. I'm happy to begin my Poet/Poem of the Day feature for National Poetry Month with one of the poems from her blog, Life at Willow Manor. She has a sheaf of them only a click away on her site, so hurry on over and read them, after you enjoy the poem below. Then click on her recipes. Then read her blog posts..and then, and then, go to her Magpie Tales blog and write some of your own poems in response to her prompts. It's fun. I've become addicted.

Don't forget: every poem is like a message in a bottle, bobbing up to the surface, waiting, hoping, yearning to be read. We need them, as Tess says, to keep us on track.

Memos

I need messages in bottles.
Random fortune cookies.
Those subtle signs
from heaven.
Memorandums
stating all is
as it should be.
.

Not Moses
parting my Red Sea.
Just a burning weed.
A small bit of shrubbery.
A simple note
stating he supposes
his toeses are roses.

.
A little everyday
omnipotent ditty.
Showing
his sense of humor
is still intact.
That I'm on the right track..

.

willow, 2010

(IMAGE FROM WWW.willowmanor.blogspot.com)

National Poetry Month--no, Year--is Here!

I hereby declare that April 1 is the beginning of National Poetry Year. A month is not long enough. Let's have a whole year of poetry and study it, celebrate it, read it, and, yes, write it. I'm beginning the month with a poem by my friend and former NC resident doris davenport. She now lives in Albany, GA, teaching at Albany State University, just a few miles from the farm on which I grew up. Doris will be performing at the Asheville Wordfest in late May (more about that later), and she has just completed a memoir, Azalea Love.





(Endless Collaboration) Poem for National Poetry Month - April 2009

How is your POEM today?

Write a poem.
Create a poem.

Bailout a poem. Underwrite a poem. Manage a poem.
Send more troops to assist a poem. Legislate a bi-partisan poem.


Compose a poem. Play a poem. Dance a poem.
Sing a poem. Paint a poem. Dream in poetry.
Dream a poem. Hug a poem.

Have a poem today.
Remember a poem.
Be a poem today. and tomorrow.

Memorize a poem.

Pet a poem.
Eat a poem.
Feed a poem.
Rent a poem.
Buy a poem.
Thank a poet.

Hug a poet.

Make love to a poem. Propagate a poem. Marry it.
Cherish a poem. Love a poem. Love poetry. Now.





(doris davenport at Malaprop's Bookstore)

Article in Raleigh News & Observer

Today's Raleigh paper has published an article on the Student Laureate Awards. The link is www.newsobserver.com/105/story/1464403.html

Teachers, now is the time to begin thinking about student work to submit.

Tomorrow is the start of National Poetry Week. Get ready to dance! The flamenco, of course!

NATIONAL POETRY MONTH BEGINS APRIL 1

What does poetry do for us? What sort of perspective does it bring to our everyday lives? I invite your answers to these open-ended questions. The image above captures visually what a poem does for me. While washing dishes Monday morning, I looked up and saw a wine glass holding the trees I'd gazed at over the soapsuds for years without really seeing. "Over everything I place a glass bell," Margaret Atwood concludes a poem about watching her sister skate. I like to think of a poem filling an open glass with the world. It contains the lyric moment, that instant when we experience something as ordinary and familiar as the trees in one's yard in a new way. An instant of perception captured in language. Brimful. Shimmering. Inviting us into its vessel of words.

Each day I will be posting a poem on my Laureate's Lasso blog. I hope you will join me there.