Wednesday, October 7, 2015
He blogs at www.WilliamEverett.com.
Click here and read the work on this blog by this outstanding poet who lives here in the WNC mountains.
Monday, November 28, 2011
William Everett is a writer and poet and a member of Netwest. I recommend his post on Thanksgiving.
Friday, August 13, 2010
On Thursday, August 19, I will be reading and reflecting on my poetry at 10:30 am for the “Coffee with the Poets” group at City Lights Bookstore, Sylva, NC. The poet’s group is just one of several under the umbrella of the Netwest Mountain Writers, affiliated with the North Carolina Writers Network. (Check outwww.netwestwriters.blogspot.com.) We are convened by Kay Byer, a former NC Poet Laureate, who has graciously encouraged me to reflect on my thirty years of often hidden poetry writing. As I have been reflecting on this welcome task, two poems popped up that I thought I’d share with you. They both involve the quirky, unexpected way that poems elude our normal patterns of perception and expression. I thought you might enjoy them.
I Love That Poetry
Do you like poetry? I asked.
Oh yes, he said. Last year I went to see a poet
Maya Angelou and she was beautiful.
The curtain opened and the spotlight lit upon her hair,
not white, but lustrous gray.
She wore a long crushed velvet dress, much like a kaftan,
bell shaped sleeves descending to wide cuffs
embroidered with a band that looked like kinte cloth.
A long string of pearls draped down from her broad shoulders,
picking up the highlights in her hair.
She was surrounded by a bank of ferns that reached up to her waist
as she sat down among them.
The ferns were like extensions of the dress. They billowed like her hair.
Oh, it was gorgeous. I just love that poetry.
I’m glad you liked it, passed my lips. Perhaps you might cut off a little more
above my ears. I want to look my best tomorrow night.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Mary Mike Keller and Rosemary Royston from Young Harris, GA made the trip over the mountains. Both shared poetry with the group which included William Everett, author of Red Clay, Blood River,and Pat Montee, wife of the late Ralph Montee, writer and poet. It was especially nice to see Pat again, in pink above.
Diana Jurss is the featured reader for the next Coffee with the Poets in Sylva. Her book is forthcoming in August. Cynthia Gallinger was also present today. I look forward to next month's CWP at City Lights. Perhaps other poets and writers will come and share their work at Open Mic.
Thursday, June 3, 2010
She is ready,
hands pocketed in resolution,
standing by her charge.
Will she fly through puffball clouds,
piercing azure heavens like a needle?
Or will she cruise majestically across the land,
blowing tumbleweeds and sagebrush in her wake?
Perhaps the sea shall feel the power of her legs,
the undulations of her mermaid form.
For she is ready,
her glowing hair pinned sleekly back,
the keys clutched in her hand.
She is the girl with the ’55 Plymouth fins.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
The following arrived this morning from Bill Everett. Thanks a lot, Bill. It's good to be reminded of Lewis Green's work.
I was awakened to the peculiar depth of Appalachian writing by Lewis Green’s The Silence of Snakes (1984). We were building our home on the slopes of Wolf Pen Mountain, near Waynesville, when an old friend recommended that I read a tale set where we had decided to live. The Silence of Snakes is the tragic story of a traumatized World War I hero, Earl Skiller, whose sufferings lead him to a series of gruesome murders in which the line between military heroism and depraved criminality disappears, exposing the two-edged sword of civilized “order.”
Through Green’s story I could see the life deep within these rocks and trees. I met the rattlesnakes that symbolize for Earl Skiller the secret depth of his life. As he told his fellow soldiers, “…I could turn into a rattlesnake in my mind, and then I could come and go and do my damage and nobody watched. I learned a big lesson once from rattlesnakes. … They’re silent in spite of the rattles. They’re silent at the right time. They can do a lot of damage. If they’re silent and it’s dark, then who can see ‘em?”
And I felt the ragged edge of mountain humor. Hear these lines between the discoverer of one of Skiller’s victims and the local physician. “We need fer ye to come and announce somebody dead. Some son-of-a bitch killed Mitchell Sanger. They cut his head off.” “Is that a fact? he finally asked. “Cut his head off?” “Yes sir.” “Well, I don’t have to go up there. I can tell you from here that he’s dead.”
Because of this book, the power to speak of place and of the crushing conflicts out of which humanity is hewed have remained the hallmarks of the writing in these hills.
William Everett retired from 35 years of teaching ethics in order to write and make furniture in Waynesville, NC. He is the author of Red Clay, Blood River (2008) and numerous poems, the most recent appearing in Fresh. He blogs at www.WilliamEverett.com.
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
There is a space between chapters,
a crack in the spine,
an empty space
where two pages meet
into a hidden abyss
where things are sewn invisibly together.
Some memory is driven by pain, fear, and anger. We have memories that we seek to flee, avenge, or obliterate. Other memories are driven by love – memories of joyous events, Edens of new beginnings, of children, spouse, and friend. In my own case, the old slides produced this poem driven by a memory of love.
Like a Russian doll
she wears each passage of her life in polymorphous coats.
She is the wise companion, etched by years of circling suns,
the woman burnished silver with accomplishment,
the mate with auburn hair and radiant eyes,
the holder of the household lamp,
the mother of the squirming baby nestling at her breast,
the college ingénue with voice of lark and witty tongue,
the pigtail girl in the taffeta dress,
the urchin hanging from her knees and laughing at her dad.
a manifold of nesting forms
around the holy light within
each one the doll,
each one the woman that I love.
For some, the “crack in the spine” is full of fear and pain, for others, joys and Russian dolls forgotten in the daily grind. Most of us will find a mixture where we seek an alchemy to compound futures out of right remembrance.