Some Time in Glory
Some time in glory,
We will meet those who have been,
With those who are to be,
And learn why we were.
Some time in glory,
We will hear the cries of our actions,
And the sighs of our dreams.
Some time in glory,
We will see our fears as pebbles,
And our hopes as worlds.
All we did will be measured,
Against all we could have done.
We will feel the space between,
Some time in glory.
Monday, July 21, 2008
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Book Signing at Curiosity Book Shop in Murphy
Saturday, July 26, from 11:00 a.m. until 2:00 pm Shirley Uphouse, author of My Friends, My Dogs, will sign her book at Curiosity Book Shop in Murphy, NC.
She is past Program Coordinator for Netwest and is a well-published writer of personal essays and short stories.
Uphouse has trained and exhibited her dogs for over forty years. Some of the breeds have been Beagles, Pomeranians, an Old English Sheepdog and currently two Australian Shepherds. She competed in conformation, obedience and agility. Uphouse has judged AKC shows for twenty years in twenty-five states from east to west coast and in Canada. Her book My Friends, my Dogs, offers many pictures and stories of the dogs of her life. There are also stories of dogs she has rescued. She looks forward to meeting other dog lovers.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Netwest Honors Nancy Simpson
A surprised Nancy Simpson was honored at the Celebration of Books and published authors and poets on Thursday evening, July 17. After a day at John C. Campbell Folk School where Nancy presented to the North Carolina Arts Council Board along with Kathryn Byer, she found herself acclaimed by award winning poets and recently published poets who began their writing in her classes at the Folk School, or in one of her many classes at Tri-County Community School. Glenda Barrett, whose chapbook, When the Sap Rises, was published by Finishing Line Press, brought a painting of mountains and Lake Chatuge that she had done for Nancy. Kathryn Byer, Poet Laureate of North Carolina and Debbie McGill, Literary Arts Director for the NC Arts Council spoke about when they first met Nancy. "I met Nancy when I came to read in Hayesville at the library when my daughter was a babe in my arms," Kay said. She went on to talk about her admiration of Nancy as a poet. She wanted us to realize that Nancy Simpson, while a wonderful teacher and leader, was first and foremost, a poet.
Debbie remembered how tenacious Nancy had been about Netwest and would not take "NO" for an answer when it came to getting what was needed for writers here in the rural mountains of North Carolina.
Brenda Kay Ledford, award winning poet, spoke about her first class with Nancy and how so many of us who were present Thursday evening, met in Nancy's classes. Glenda Barrett and Mary Ricketson expressed gratitude for Nancy's encouragement to those of us who call her our mentor. Mother and daughter, Dorothea Spiegel and Linda Smith, both met Nancy in one of her classes. Dorothea is likely one of the best poets in the area. She is in her 80's now and still writes excellent poems.
Netwest presented Nancy with a check to add to her computer fund. She is saving for a much-needed new Mac, and we want her to continue to write poetry and finish the historical novel she has begun.
Also, she will need it for her work on the proposed new Netwest anthology she will be editing.
There is no financial value we can put on the dedication and generosity Nancy devoted to NCWN West for thirteen years. Without her constant efforts to obtain funding, to maintain interest in all the counties represented, and keep mountain writers connected to each other and to Raleigh and Chapel Hill, we would not have continued as a program of NCWN.
Celebration of Authors and Poets
A Celebration of published authors of Netwest brought out over thirty members and guests who enjoyed a festive evening of food, wine and mingling with other writers. Michelle and Paul Keller opened their lovely home for a "garden party" set up under large trees in their back yard surrounded with flowers of all colors and kinds.
Writers and poets from Towns County Georgia, Union County Georgia, Clay and Cherokee Counties in North Carolina applauded the success of Brenda Kay Ledford, Glenda Barrett, Jerry Hobbs, Shirley Uphouse, and Mary Ricketson who have published books in recent months. Other writers in the Netwest area have books out but the traveling distance prevented them from coming to the Celebration.
Sam Hoffer, new Netwest member and food columnist for the Cherokee Scout newspaper brought one of her outstanding dishes. Another new member, Marjorie Hobkirk, a resident of Brasstown, was among the writers who attended.
The consensus was that we need more opportunities to come together for socializing and getting to know each other outside our critique groups and readings.
Writers and poets from Towns County Georgia, Union County Georgia, Clay and Cherokee Counties in North Carolina applauded the success of Brenda Kay Ledford, Glenda Barrett, Jerry Hobbs, Shirley Uphouse, and Mary Ricketson who have published books in recent months. Other writers in the Netwest area have books out but the traveling distance prevented them from coming to the Celebration.
Sam Hoffer, new Netwest member and food columnist for the Cherokee Scout newspaper brought one of her outstanding dishes. Another new member, Marjorie Hobkirk, a resident of Brasstown, was among the writers who attended.
The consensus was that we need more opportunities to come together for socializing and getting to know each other outside our critique groups and readings.
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Poll Results
The vote is in and most of our readers escape into fiction/novels when they want to relax and get away from it all. Second place went to non-fiction, and magazines, poetry and romance tied for third place.
What was the last novel you read?
Do you have a favorite author?
Click on comments at the bottom of this post and tell us who takes you away with her/his stories or takes you to a place you'd never go alone.
What was the last novel you read?
Do you have a favorite author?
Click on comments at the bottom of this post and tell us who takes you away with her/his stories or takes you to a place you'd never go alone.
Writing From The Spirit Within Workshop led by Estelle Rice
Estelle Darrow Rice, poet and writer, will teach Writing From the Spirit Within, at the Moss Memorial Library on Saturday, September 6, 9:30 - 3:30 PM.
Writing from the Spirit Within will stress the essence of our personalities which makes each of us a special individual designed by our Creator. Our goal will be to enrich our response to others and to the universe, thereby creating depth of meaning to our writing. We will use techniques to also enrich our imaginations, whether we are interested in poetry or prose. The workshop is appropriate for beginners as well as more seasoned writers.
Registration fees are $30.00 for members of NCWN West and $35 for non-members. We are not allowed to take money at the library so be sure you send a check made to NCWN West and mail to PO box 626 , Hayesville, NC 28904. For more information on the class, contact Estelle Rice at telnev@cabletvonline.net or Glenda Beall, glendabeall@msn.com.
Sunday, July 13, 2008
An Early Poem by Glenda Beall
Lake Chatuge - photo by Barry BeallMountain Seagull
Mountains stretch like layers,
Payne's Grey parchment,
growing fainter
as they reach toward
pale cerulean sky.
The Bald pokes its head
Mountains stretch like layers,
Payne's Grey parchment,
growing fainter
as they reach toward
pale cerulean sky.
The Bald pokes its head
up through a hood of clouds.
Lake Chatuge wraps mountains,
lapping love, cool in coves
tucked tightly between peaks.
Triangled sailboats, red and yellow
swiftly blow before the wind
that rustles maples, locust trees
where songbirds rest.
My spirit soars above the scene,
a seagull far from home,
yearning to embrace all this
and build a nest.
Lake Chatuge wraps mountains,
lapping love, cool in coves
tucked tightly between peaks.
Triangled sailboats, red and yellow
swiftly blow before the wind
that rustles maples, locust trees
where songbirds rest.
My spirit soars above the scene,
a seagull far from home,
yearning to embrace all this
and build a nest.
Missy, a personal essay by John Malone
Miss Mary Ann McGinty, “Missy,” was my Irish nanny. She came to work for my parents when I was only six months old and stayed with us until my younger sister, Carolyn, went off to boarding school. During those formative years of my life, I saw much more of Missy than I did of my own mother, who spent most of her waking hours pecking at a green Smith-Corona portable typewriter behind her closed bedroom door, trying desperately to conquer depression and write the Great American Novel.
Missy lived six days of every week in her room over the garage in our house in Coraopolis Heights, with a crucifix above her bed and a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall by her dresser, just a few steps away from our bedrooms so she could hear us if we cried. When I was at school or occasionally being looked after by my mother, she would sit there in her freshly-ironed white uniform saying her Rosary. Her beads were always with her, tucked into a pocket of her uniform. When she prayed, she would whisper the words softly, but always loud enough that we children could still hear them. When I was six, I asked my Protestant parents if I could have a crucifix to hang on the wall above my bed, announcing to them that I wanted to be a “Christian like Missy.”
Miss McGinty was a well-loved member of our household for twenty-one years. Nevertheless, upon reaching the age of seventy-five, after Carolyn went away to school, she returned to Ireland and lived with her nephew, Father Liam McCaul, the curate in the tiny village of Bruckless in County Donegal.
In August1960, just four years after Missy went home to Ireland, Carolyn and I made our very first visit there. Both of us fell instantly in love with Ireland, a love that has lasted ever since. I was coming to Ireland from Tel Aviv via Rome and London after traveling around the Middle East all summer. Carolyn had arrived in Ireland earlier, and I was to meet her there in Bruckless with Father McCaul and Missy.
The drive from Belfast to Bruckless was only about 130 miles across Northern Ireland and should have taken only three hours or so, but, between driving on the “wrong side” of what I thought were “bad” Irish roads and my stopping often along the way to see the sights, I took almost all day getting there. I realized as I drove through Omagh that I was only eight miles from Seskinore, my grandmother’s village, famous as the only village in Ireland with a post office, three churches and not a single pub, where most of my dour Protestant Irish cousins still lived and farmed. But Carolyn and I had planned to visit the cousins later together, after spending some time with Missy and her nephew, so I didn’t stop.
Seeing my dear old Missy again after four years was wonderful. She and I both shed happy tears as we met in the parlor of the Parochial House with Carolyn and Father McCaul. They had waited for several hours for my arrival, and Carolyn had even set out walking down the lane to the village, thinking that I might have lost my way searching for the house.
We spent several days there together, being entertained by the voluble priest and driven around the rugged landscape in his little black car. Missy loved outings and would always be ready to go in an instant, wearing her hat and coat and waiting by the front door. We crossed rocky highlands, treeless and barren except for scattered patches of heather and gorse. Father McCaul had been assigned to a Catholic mission near Salt Lake City, Utah, when he had left the seminary in Ireland and been ordained. To remind his listeners of his years in the Utah desert, He kept saying things like, “Ach, Lord, would ye look at that now! Why, we’re in Indian country!” He was a terrifying driver, frequently turning around to talk to the passengers in the back seat while still negotiating the curves of the narrow, hilly country lanes and avoiding the many sheep wandering across them. Fortunately, there was very little traffic in Ireland in those days. About the only people who drove “motor cars” in small Irish villages in 1960 were the priests and doctors, their version of “first responders.”
Catholic Bruckless was a very small village, inhabited mainly by sheep farmers and fishermen. Unlike Protestant Seskinore, however, it was served by several pubs. They were nothing like the cozy fireside pub in the John Wayne-Maureen O’Hara classic, “The Quiet Man.” There were no prosperous, rosy-cheeked, tweed-clad, pipe-smoking country squires gathered around a polished bar enjoying perfectly poured pints of Guinness. There was no impromptu accordion player leading a harmonious chorus of “The Wild Colonial Boy.” No, when I ventured into the village and went into the nearest pub, it was like entering a dark, smoky cave, redolent with the odors of pigs, sheep, fish and human sweat, and guarded by a few solemn old men sitting around the walls on rough benches, trying to make their pints last forever.
It was during that first visit to Ireland that I came to appreciate the full significance of the old saying, “Make hay while the sun shines.” A typical weather forecast for a summer day in Ireland is “showery with sunny spells.” Driving around Donegal with Father McCaul, we would come over the top of a rocky hill and descend into a green glen that was enjoying a few hours of sunshine. People of all ages and genders seemed to have appeared magically from nowhere, wielding scythes and rakes and “saving the hay,” as Father McCaul put it. Many of the men stripped off their shirts and worked in sleeveless undershirts, their faces red and sweating in spite of the fact that the temperature was only in the sixties. Women and children were raking, bundling and stacking the hay so it would stay dry after the next shower, never very long in arriving.
On the 6th of November, 1979, our dear Missy passed away at a nursing home in Sligo, Ireland, aged ninety-eight. My two sisters and I later converted and became Catholics. Carolyn once said to me, “Missy prayed us all into the Catholic Church.”
Missy lived six days of every week in her room over the garage in our house in Coraopolis Heights, with a crucifix above her bed and a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus on the wall by her dresser, just a few steps away from our bedrooms so she could hear us if we cried. When I was at school or occasionally being looked after by my mother, she would sit there in her freshly-ironed white uniform saying her Rosary. Her beads were always with her, tucked into a pocket of her uniform. When she prayed, she would whisper the words softly, but always loud enough that we children could still hear them. When I was six, I asked my Protestant parents if I could have a crucifix to hang on the wall above my bed, announcing to them that I wanted to be a “Christian like Missy.”
Miss McGinty was a well-loved member of our household for twenty-one years. Nevertheless, upon reaching the age of seventy-five, after Carolyn went away to school, she returned to Ireland and lived with her nephew, Father Liam McCaul, the curate in the tiny village of Bruckless in County Donegal.
In August1960, just four years after Missy went home to Ireland, Carolyn and I made our very first visit there. Both of us fell instantly in love with Ireland, a love that has lasted ever since. I was coming to Ireland from Tel Aviv via Rome and London after traveling around the Middle East all summer. Carolyn had arrived in Ireland earlier, and I was to meet her there in Bruckless with Father McCaul and Missy.
The drive from Belfast to Bruckless was only about 130 miles across Northern Ireland and should have taken only three hours or so, but, between driving on the “wrong side” of what I thought were “bad” Irish roads and my stopping often along the way to see the sights, I took almost all day getting there. I realized as I drove through Omagh that I was only eight miles from Seskinore, my grandmother’s village, famous as the only village in Ireland with a post office, three churches and not a single pub, where most of my dour Protestant Irish cousins still lived and farmed. But Carolyn and I had planned to visit the cousins later together, after spending some time with Missy and her nephew, so I didn’t stop.
Seeing my dear old Missy again after four years was wonderful. She and I both shed happy tears as we met in the parlor of the Parochial House with Carolyn and Father McCaul. They had waited for several hours for my arrival, and Carolyn had even set out walking down the lane to the village, thinking that I might have lost my way searching for the house.
We spent several days there together, being entertained by the voluble priest and driven around the rugged landscape in his little black car. Missy loved outings and would always be ready to go in an instant, wearing her hat and coat and waiting by the front door. We crossed rocky highlands, treeless and barren except for scattered patches of heather and gorse. Father McCaul had been assigned to a Catholic mission near Salt Lake City, Utah, when he had left the seminary in Ireland and been ordained. To remind his listeners of his years in the Utah desert, He kept saying things like, “Ach, Lord, would ye look at that now! Why, we’re in Indian country!” He was a terrifying driver, frequently turning around to talk to the passengers in the back seat while still negotiating the curves of the narrow, hilly country lanes and avoiding the many sheep wandering across them. Fortunately, there was very little traffic in Ireland in those days. About the only people who drove “motor cars” in small Irish villages in 1960 were the priests and doctors, their version of “first responders.”
Catholic Bruckless was a very small village, inhabited mainly by sheep farmers and fishermen. Unlike Protestant Seskinore, however, it was served by several pubs. They were nothing like the cozy fireside pub in the John Wayne-Maureen O’Hara classic, “The Quiet Man.” There were no prosperous, rosy-cheeked, tweed-clad, pipe-smoking country squires gathered around a polished bar enjoying perfectly poured pints of Guinness. There was no impromptu accordion player leading a harmonious chorus of “The Wild Colonial Boy.” No, when I ventured into the village and went into the nearest pub, it was like entering a dark, smoky cave, redolent with the odors of pigs, sheep, fish and human sweat, and guarded by a few solemn old men sitting around the walls on rough benches, trying to make their pints last forever.
It was during that first visit to Ireland that I came to appreciate the full significance of the old saying, “Make hay while the sun shines.” A typical weather forecast for a summer day in Ireland is “showery with sunny spells.” Driving around Donegal with Father McCaul, we would come over the top of a rocky hill and descend into a green glen that was enjoying a few hours of sunshine. People of all ages and genders seemed to have appeared magically from nowhere, wielding scythes and rakes and “saving the hay,” as Father McCaul put it. Many of the men stripped off their shirts and worked in sleeveless undershirts, their faces red and sweating in spite of the fact that the temperature was only in the sixties. Women and children were raking, bundling and stacking the hay so it would stay dry after the next shower, never very long in arriving.
On the 6th of November, 1979, our dear Missy passed away at a nursing home in Sligo, Ireland, aged ninety-eight. My two sisters and I later converted and became Catholics. Carolyn once said to me, “Missy prayed us all into the Catholic Church.”
Prince of Dark Corners
From the weblog of gulahiyi.blogspot.com
RUMINATIONS FROM THE DISTANT HILLS
Watch "Prince of Dark Corners"
Coming up Thursday, July 10 at 10:00PM on South Carolina ETV (on the Southern Lens program) is a peformance of Prince of Dark Corners, written by the prolific Sylva storyteller and artist Gary Carden.I love it when these great old stories of Appalachia come to life.
From the Prince of Dark Corners website:At the time of his capture in 1881, Lewis Redmond was the most famous outlaw in the country, outshining contemporaries Billy-The-Kid and Jesse James. To the people of Southern Appalachia he was an American Robin Hood, fighting revenuers and bootlegging ‘moonshine’ to pay their taxes and save their land in the lean and hopeless years of Reconstruction.At the same time, Northern journalists depicted him as a degenerate, morally bankrupt and cold-blooded murderer. His story sheds light on a time and place in American history that has long been shrouded in mystery.Neal Hutcheson's film production of Carden's story finds just the right balance: complementing, but not overpowering, what is essentially a one-man stage performance.We see first a young Lewis Redmond and then an older Lewis Redmond, both portrayed by Milton Higgins. He brings us an outlaw who is as wry and wistful as he is defiant. The language of Carden's script is deeply rooted in this place, expressing loss, alienation, and the power of memory. And though the words themselves evoke vivid images, Hutcheson adds to the mood with shots of foggy mountains, old photos, paintings and ancient maps.Another refreshing aspect of the production is the musical score, which avoids the predictable dulcimers and banjos of every other Appalachian film you've ever seen.Posted by GULAHIYI at 7:35 AMLabels: cultural memory, southern appalachian
RUMINATIONS FROM THE DISTANT HILLS
Watch "Prince of Dark Corners"
Coming up Thursday, July 10 at 10:00PM on South Carolina ETV (on the Southern Lens program) is a peformance of Prince of Dark Corners, written by the prolific Sylva storyteller and artist Gary Carden.I love it when these great old stories of Appalachia come to life.
From the Prince of Dark Corners website:At the time of his capture in 1881, Lewis Redmond was the most famous outlaw in the country, outshining contemporaries Billy-The-Kid and Jesse James. To the people of Southern Appalachia he was an American Robin Hood, fighting revenuers and bootlegging ‘moonshine’ to pay their taxes and save their land in the lean and hopeless years of Reconstruction.At the same time, Northern journalists depicted him as a degenerate, morally bankrupt and cold-blooded murderer. His story sheds light on a time and place in American history that has long been shrouded in mystery.Neal Hutcheson's film production of Carden's story finds just the right balance: complementing, but not overpowering, what is essentially a one-man stage performance.We see first a young Lewis Redmond and then an older Lewis Redmond, both portrayed by Milton Higgins. He brings us an outlaw who is as wry and wistful as he is defiant. The language of Carden's script is deeply rooted in this place, expressing loss, alienation, and the power of memory. And though the words themselves evoke vivid images, Hutcheson adds to the mood with shots of foggy mountains, old photos, paintings and ancient maps.Another refreshing aspect of the production is the musical score, which avoids the predictable dulcimers and banjos of every other Appalachian film you've ever seen.Posted by GULAHIYI at 7:35 AMLabels: cultural memory, southern appalachian
Friday, July 11, 2008
Contact your Netwest County Representative
Are you a good fund raiser? Some people have the knack and some don't. Netwest is planning another anthology with work by mountain writers who live in the Netwest area. Before we ask for submissions, we must raise money for the printing of the book.
All Reps have been asked to raise $300 in their counties. Haywood County reached their minimum last week. Cherokee County has a commitment for the amount needed. Clay has the designated amount ready for deposit. If you can help with this effort, and your County Rep has not contacted you, please call or email her/him.
If you are not a member of Netwest, but can make a donation or help with this project, contact us. writerlady21@yahoo.com
In 2003, the anthology, Lights in the Mountains, was published through the efforts of volunteers, Shirley Uphouse, Nancy Simpson, Paul Donovan, and many others. Because of these NCWN West members, poems, stories, and essays from 52 mountain writers and poets graced the pages of this lovely book. Mary Ricketson who is now treasurer for Netwest took the photograph for the cover.
Netwest sold out of 1500 copies of Lights in the Mountains. Fred Chappell wrote the introduction, Kathryn Byer shared a poem in the book and wrote a blurb. Ruth Moose helped choose fiction and Steve Harvey chose the essays for the anthology. All of us who were fortunate enough to be included in the book, take great pride in it. Every member of Netwest benefited from the publication and sales of Lights in the Mountain. Those sales have sustained Netwest for seven years. We are sure the next Netwest anthology will do even better. If you are a member of NCWN West, I hope you will help with fund raising in whatever way you can to bring the second book to fruition.
Representatives for Netwest are:
Nancy Purcell in Transylvania County
Lana Hendershott in Henderson County
Betty Cloer Wallace in Macon County]
Gary Carden in Jackson County
Kay Byer in Jackson County
Al Manning and John Malone in Haywood County
Mary Ricketson and Jerry Hobbs in Cherokee County
Our Georgia Reps are Carole Thompson and Robert Kimsey
Our S. C. rep is Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Contact writerlady21@yahoo.com for more information.
All Reps have been asked to raise $300 in their counties. Haywood County reached their minimum last week. Cherokee County has a commitment for the amount needed. Clay has the designated amount ready for deposit. If you can help with this effort, and your County Rep has not contacted you, please call or email her/him.
If you are not a member of Netwest, but can make a donation or help with this project, contact us. writerlady21@yahoo.com
In 2003, the anthology, Lights in the Mountains, was published through the efforts of volunteers, Shirley Uphouse, Nancy Simpson, Paul Donovan, and many others. Because of these NCWN West members, poems, stories, and essays from 52 mountain writers and poets graced the pages of this lovely book. Mary Ricketson who is now treasurer for Netwest took the photograph for the cover.
Netwest sold out of 1500 copies of Lights in the Mountains. Fred Chappell wrote the introduction, Kathryn Byer shared a poem in the book and wrote a blurb. Ruth Moose helped choose fiction and Steve Harvey chose the essays for the anthology. All of us who were fortunate enough to be included in the book, take great pride in it. Every member of Netwest benefited from the publication and sales of Lights in the Mountain. Those sales have sustained Netwest for seven years. We are sure the next Netwest anthology will do even better. If you are a member of NCWN West, I hope you will help with fund raising in whatever way you can to bring the second book to fruition.
Representatives for Netwest are:
Nancy Purcell in Transylvania County
Lana Hendershott in Henderson County
Betty Cloer Wallace in Macon County]
Gary Carden in Jackson County
Kay Byer in Jackson County
Al Manning and John Malone in Haywood County
Mary Ricketson and Jerry Hobbs in Cherokee County
Our Georgia Reps are Carole Thompson and Robert Kimsey
Our S. C. rep is Jayne Jaudon Ferrer
Contact writerlady21@yahoo.com for more information.
Monday, July 7, 2008
Steal This Poem by James Cox
In the daring drunken days of youth
I stole a woman’s virtue and lost mine
I stole time from the interested and made a salary of scorn
I stole sympathy from the concerned and remained broken
I stole the magic wordings of the gods and lost sanity
I stole from the poor and ate a dry crust of cynicism
I stole innocence from children by giving them the world –
The wild panorama of fanatics, destroyers, and lying thieves,
The ubiquitous greed
I lost self-respect
I stole pleasures and borrowed fitful shame and sleeplessness
But when I stole into the labyrinth and found the whirling core
I turned against the world
With a reversing wind
I stole my soul back and became real again
Now, in these older days of slippery stone,
Descending slopes watery with sunlight
I steal wisdom from wise men and become bearded
I steal love from those who still love and still love
I steal the hatred of the worldly and become holy
I steal the heart of my experience to feed poems,
To steal beauty is no crime
I steal loneliness from those hidden away
I steal happiness from the rain of losses
I steal freedom and leave those who would chain to rage
I steal visions from the atmosphere
So, steal this poem, if you please
Put it where you will:
In your heart
In a friendly place
On a printed page
On a wall
In the soul of the world
I dream your satisfaction
But remember, make sure of your direction:
When you steal, think what thieving means;
When you steal from another’s soul you lose
Safety and good luck, self-confidence,
The ease of the spirit in the world.
I stole a woman’s virtue and lost mine
I stole time from the interested and made a salary of scorn
I stole sympathy from the concerned and remained broken
I stole the magic wordings of the gods and lost sanity
I stole from the poor and ate a dry crust of cynicism
I stole innocence from children by giving them the world –
The wild panorama of fanatics, destroyers, and lying thieves,
The ubiquitous greed
I lost self-respect
I stole pleasures and borrowed fitful shame and sleeplessness
But when I stole into the labyrinth and found the whirling core
I turned against the world
With a reversing wind
I stole my soul back and became real again
Now, in these older days of slippery stone,
Descending slopes watery with sunlight
I steal wisdom from wise men and become bearded
I steal love from those who still love and still love
I steal the hatred of the worldly and become holy
I steal the heart of my experience to feed poems,
To steal beauty is no crime
I steal loneliness from those hidden away
I steal happiness from the rain of losses
I steal freedom and leave those who would chain to rage
I steal visions from the atmosphere
So, steal this poem, if you please
Put it where you will:
In your heart
In a friendly place
On a printed page
On a wall
In the soul of the world
I dream your satisfaction
But remember, make sure of your direction:
When you steal, think what thieving means;
When you steal from another’s soul you lose
Safety and good luck, self-confidence,
The ease of the spirit in the world.
Friday, July 4, 2008
Brenda Kay Ledford publishes with Finishing Line Press
LEDFORD PUBLISHES POETRY CHAPBOOK
Brenda Kay Ledford’s poetry chapbook, SACRED FIRE, will be released by Finishing Line Press this September.
A native of Clay County, North Carolina, Ledford earned her Master of Arts in Education from Western Carolina University. She studied Journalism at the University of Tennessee and was creative writing editor of Tri-County Communciator.
She received the Paul Green Multimedia Award for her poetry books, Patchwork Memories and Shew Bird Mountain. Her work has appeared in Our State, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Pembroke Magazine, Old Mountain Press, Appalachian Heritage, Main Street Rag, Asheville Poetry Review, and upcoming in The Reach of Song.
Ledford is a member of North Carolina Storytelling Guild, North Carolina Writer’s Network West, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, Georgia Poetry Society, Appalachian Writer’s Association, and listed with the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.
According to Maureen Ryan Griffin, an award-winning poet and commentator for Charlotte, North Carolina’s NPR station, “A lovely offering indeed is Brenda Kay Ledford’s SACRED FIRE. It pays homage to her Cherokee, Scots-Irish ancestors, and the Appalachian Mountains she calls home. Despite the pain and desolation present in this patchwork of Appalachian moments, SACRED FIRE is in the end an uplifting book, filled with beautiful images lovingly rendered.”
The cover of Ledford’s book is a beautiful image of Hayesville’s historic courthouse framed by flaming maples. Ledford took the picture that received an award in the Georgia Mountain Fair Photography Show last year.
To order Ledford’s book, send $14.00 to: Finishing Line Press; PO Box 1626; Georgetown, KY 40324.
You may also order online at: http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ and click on “New Releases.”
Brenda Kay Ledford’s poetry chapbook, SACRED FIRE, will be released by Finishing Line Press this September.
A native of Clay County, North Carolina, Ledford earned her Master of Arts in Education from Western Carolina University. She studied Journalism at the University of Tennessee and was creative writing editor of Tri-County Communciator.
She received the Paul Green Multimedia Award for her poetry books, Patchwork Memories and Shew Bird Mountain. Her work has appeared in Our State, Chicken Soup for the Soul, Pembroke Magazine, Old Mountain Press, Appalachian Heritage, Main Street Rag, Asheville Poetry Review, and upcoming in The Reach of Song.
Ledford is a member of North Carolina Storytelling Guild, North Carolina Writer’s Network West, North Carolina Poetry Society, Byron Herbert Reece Society, Georgia Poetry Society, Appalachian Writer’s Association, and listed with the Directory of American Poets and Fiction Writers.
According to Maureen Ryan Griffin, an award-winning poet and commentator for Charlotte, North Carolina’s NPR station, “A lovely offering indeed is Brenda Kay Ledford’s SACRED FIRE. It pays homage to her Cherokee, Scots-Irish ancestors, and the Appalachian Mountains she calls home. Despite the pain and desolation present in this patchwork of Appalachian moments, SACRED FIRE is in the end an uplifting book, filled with beautiful images lovingly rendered.”
The cover of Ledford’s book is a beautiful image of Hayesville’s historic courthouse framed by flaming maples. Ledford took the picture that received an award in the Georgia Mountain Fair Photography Show last year.
To order Ledford’s book, send $14.00 to: Finishing Line Press; PO Box 1626; Georgetown, KY 40324.
You may also order online at: http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ and click on “New Releases.”
Tad, Jessica, Kathryn, Rebecca, Lynne, Lois, Paul and Pat at JCCFS
Tad,+Jessica,+Katherine,+Rebecca,+Lynne.jpg)
Lois Bertram to the right in photo.Left: back row: Tad, Jessica, Kathryn, Rebecca, Lynne,
Front: Glenda, Lois, Paul and Pat
In March of 2008, eight students ranging in age from 25 to 66 plus, met each other for the first time in the new writing lab at JCCFS. I had expected older people to come to my class on writing your life stories, but to my surprise three of the students were young women 25 to 35 years old. I called them the young ones. Lois Bertram refers to them as The Girls in her essay below. To my surprise this class quickly bonded, and the older women and "The Girls" melded into a tight group with deep respect for each other. Paul and Tad, both men retired from successful careers, seemed to feel the same affection for the young women. Tad plans to write about "The Guys". All have kept in touch and shared writing by email for the past four months. Lois sent her essay for critique and I asked if I might share it with readers of this blog.
The Girls
Sixty-six years just flew by. How did I get to be so old – so fast? That reflection and question brought me to the realization that “this” was it: there would be no more “as soon as”. It was both a depressing thought and a liberating one. If “this” was it, what did I have to lose now? What had I not done because of so many foolish rules about failing or looking foolish or doing something non-productive – God forbid? What had I missed by following those rules? My creative soul had not been fed, I reasoned, that’s what I needed – to feed my creative soul.
The Girls
Sixty-six years just flew by. How did I get to be so old – so fast? That reflection and question brought me to the realization that “this” was it: there would be no more “as soon as”. It was both a depressing thought and a liberating one. If “this” was it, what did I have to lose now? What had I not done because of so many foolish rules about failing or looking foolish or doing something non-productive – God forbid? What had I missed by following those rules? My creative soul had not been fed, I reasoned, that’s what I needed – to feed my creative soul.
I dabbled in various endeavors drawing, painting, photography but they were just appetizers. I wanted more. Then in North Carolina I found my entrée…writing. Your Life - Your Stories to be precise. Perhaps it was the timing - I needed to be sixty-six to understand my life in perspective and if I didn’t do it now - there was no “as soon as” any longer. For whatever reason or for all of them, here I was in a class of 8, a knowledgeable teacher and a beautiful environment.
As we met one another that first morning, I’m sure we all made assumptions and wondered if we would work well together. Our guard was up. Of the 8, two were men and I thought it great - to get a man’s perspective – life having already taught me that a man’s point of view would be different. But I questioned the three girls. If I thought anything in particular about their presence it was that they were so young to be writing about their lives. After all, you had to live it to write it…right?
Settling into our writing lab, our instructor Glenda, gave us our first assignment to write about some memento that we had brought with us. With little talk and heads down we began. Writing about the snapshot that I had brought was cathartic as I set down my deepest emotions on paper. It opened old wounds. It felt good, I thought, in re-reading what I had written but that was quickly changed as Glenda asked us to read them aloud to all the class. I had not anticipated this and I struggled to say aloud to strangers my painful private thoughts. The character of my classmates became instantly known as they created a safe haven for me with their patience and gentle attitude.
The girls impressed me as they each read their stories. All well educated, they wrote well, but it was the subjects and how they handled them – Kat’s sense of humor, Rebecca’s family memories and Jessica’s story of her father, which hinted at more. Perhaps these girls had lived more life than I would have thought or at least they recognized their lives in a way I hadn’t at that age. I seemed to have surged through my life. They appeared to have noticed theirs.
Days passed, and as we were given more prompts, read aloud, critiqued each other I found myself explaining to them my words and the past. It became obvious to me that one of life’s mysteries was being solved as I listened: How was the world going to survive with today’s young people in charge? Youth seemed to be so into themselves, didn’t take their jobs seriously, breaking rules, couldn’t count change! If they took over, the world would implode! For whatever reason, perhaps the setting and being so tuned in to really listening to the words and what was behind them, I began to see that it was no longer my world but theirs…it had already happened. I was free to enjoy what was left of my life; it was now their watch.
We had listed in class, world changing events in our lives, and they were missing wars, depression/recessions, Civil Rights, Watergate, Wounded Knee – even the atomic bomb! I worried, would they be able to lead without those lessons? The answer was yes, but in their own way and hopefully better. They seem to roll with life easier than we did. Rules are challenged, and their priorities seem different. And honestly, looking back at our world events list, it occurs to me that we didn’t do so well after all.
Free-spirited Rebecca who sees the world so unencumbered with “old people’s rules” anticipates the possibility, not the fear for what is to come, is in charge. Jessica, who was assigned to a prison for her first position, overcame her fear, discovered her strength and now leads others to a better life. And Kat, the young pastor who recognizes that old rules aren’t necessarily good rules, that goodness is better than righteousness, leads youth to a true understanding of “love one another”.
Today, I’m writing with the knowledge that I don’t have to please anyone and living an enlightened life with the knowledge that “the girls” and all like them are in charge. I wish them well.
Lois Bertram
29 June 2008
Glenda Barrett Publishes Poetry Chapbook
By Brenda Kay Ledford
Like peeling an apple and slicing it, Glenda Barrett gets to the core in her poetry chapbook, WHEN THE SAP RISES. Finishing Line Press in Georgetown, KY published the book.
Barrett describes with her Southern voice hardships, heartaches, health issues, family, farming and fishing. She writes the way she lives—unpretentious. There’s a reverence for the land and her ancestors. She says in her poem, “Echoes”:
…I can follow in the footsteps
of my ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge Mountains.
“I was born here, and I’ll die here!”
Her ancestors worked hard on the farm to feed their family. They hoed the fields in the hot sun, but loved the land. In the poem, “Southern Soil,” they proudly said, “I own this land all the way to the top of the mountain. I’ll not sell one piece of this land the longest day that I live.”
A native of Hiawassee, Georgia, Barrett recalls hoeing the cornfield as a teenager. In her imagination, she can still hear the sharp click of her hoe hitting the hard, stony ground.
Her father was a farmer. He plowed gardens for neighbors, didn’t charge a dime. When Barrett sees corn ripening and bales of hay scattered across a pasture, she thinks of him.
Barrett has fond memories of her grandma. They fished together, had picnics of Vienna Sausage and soda crackers. She recalls walking barefoot as a girl over the dirt road to her grandmother’s house. It was a place filled with unconditional love.
It’s no wonder Barrett dedicated her poetry chapbook to her grandmother, Hattie Foster. She told Barrett wonderful stories and inspired her to become a writer.
The title of her book, WHEN THE SAP RISES, came from her grandmother’s sayings. She predicted the weather by observing nature. Barrett writes in her poem, “When the Sap Rises”:
... “See those thick corn shucks.
We can be on the lookout
for a rough winter.”
One day when I visited, she said,
“In the spring of the year, when the sap
rises is a hard time for sick folks,
another time is in the fall,
when the sap goes down.”
The sap seems to rise on the cover of Barrett’s poetry chapbook. She painted an old-time house including a rock chimney, tin roof, a giant tree in the yard, a front porch, and greens in the garden. A dirt road circles the farmhouse and merges with a lavender sunset over the misty mountains. It’s serene and flows with an undercurrent of faith.
Barrett took an oil painting class at Young Harris College and received an Associate of Arts Degree in 1969. She’s painted over thirty years and her art is displayed on the online art gallery, Yessy.com.
She also studied at North Georgia College and took creative writing under Nancy Simpson at Tri-County Community College. Barrett worked twenty years in the health care profession before she developed a neuromuscular disease.
The doctors echoed words like heredity and genetics before giving her the diagnosis. “At times, I am silent, stare into space, and retreat to a place no one else can go,” she says in her poem, “Family Ties”. It’s a place where she no longer wonders what her father thought.
Her poem, “Kindred Spirit,” describes a cardinal at the feeder. Barrett feels a deep connection with the bird because it is blind in one eye. She expresses her health issues in this verse:
…A feeling of knowing,
no matter what happens,
there will always be hope
and endless possibilities.
The moisture from my breath
leaves a circle on the windowpane,
and I watch from my scooter,
until the cardinal flies out of sight.
Barrett is recovering from a recent surgery on her foot. She’s in a scooter now, but hopes to walk soon. She finds comfort in her family and talking with friends on the telephone. She also enjoys reading and crafting poetry.
A member of North Carolina Writers’ Network-West, Barrett’s work has appeared in many magazines and five anthologies. Her poetry has been published in Kaleidoscope, Nostalgia, Wellspring, Hard Row to Hoe, Living with Loss Magazine, A Time of Singing, Mindprints Journal, Wordgathering Journal, Farming Magazine, Artists Against Domestic Violence, and Nantahala Review. She has poetry upcoming in Breath and Shadow.
According to Nancy Simpson, “Glenda Barrett gives us the most authentic Appalachian voice to rise out of the southern mountains in years. Whether she is eating an apple with a knife or if she is knee deep fishing in Owl Creek, here is a woman who is as immersed in her environment as in her daily existence. Barrett’s concerns for family and heritage go beyond what happened, for her poems celebrate life, transcend sorrow, and show the reader what was learned.”
Barrett’s books are available locally at Mary Ann’s Restaurant in Young Harris, Georgia. You may also order online at: http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ .
Like peeling an apple and slicing it, Glenda Barrett gets to the core in her poetry chapbook, WHEN THE SAP RISES. Finishing Line Press in Georgetown, KY published the book.
Barrett describes with her Southern voice hardships, heartaches, health issues, family, farming and fishing. She writes the way she lives—unpretentious. There’s a reverence for the land and her ancestors. She says in her poem, “Echoes”:
…I can follow in the footsteps
of my ancestors,
people who were truthful,
who held firm to their beliefs
and rose above their hardships.
People whose voices still echo
across these Blue Ridge Mountains.
“I was born here, and I’ll die here!”
Her ancestors worked hard on the farm to feed their family. They hoed the fields in the hot sun, but loved the land. In the poem, “Southern Soil,” they proudly said, “I own this land all the way to the top of the mountain. I’ll not sell one piece of this land the longest day that I live.”
A native of Hiawassee, Georgia, Barrett recalls hoeing the cornfield as a teenager. In her imagination, she can still hear the sharp click of her hoe hitting the hard, stony ground.
Her father was a farmer. He plowed gardens for neighbors, didn’t charge a dime. When Barrett sees corn ripening and bales of hay scattered across a pasture, she thinks of him.
Barrett has fond memories of her grandma. They fished together, had picnics of Vienna Sausage and soda crackers. She recalls walking barefoot as a girl over the dirt road to her grandmother’s house. It was a place filled with unconditional love.
It’s no wonder Barrett dedicated her poetry chapbook to her grandmother, Hattie Foster. She told Barrett wonderful stories and inspired her to become a writer.
The title of her book, WHEN THE SAP RISES, came from her grandmother’s sayings. She predicted the weather by observing nature. Barrett writes in her poem, “When the Sap Rises”:
... “See those thick corn shucks.
We can be on the lookout
for a rough winter.”
One day when I visited, she said,
“In the spring of the year, when the sap
rises is a hard time for sick folks,
another time is in the fall,
when the sap goes down.”
The sap seems to rise on the cover of Barrett’s poetry chapbook. She painted an old-time house including a rock chimney, tin roof, a giant tree in the yard, a front porch, and greens in the garden. A dirt road circles the farmhouse and merges with a lavender sunset over the misty mountains. It’s serene and flows with an undercurrent of faith.
Barrett took an oil painting class at Young Harris College and received an Associate of Arts Degree in 1969. She’s painted over thirty years and her art is displayed on the online art gallery, Yessy.com.
She also studied at North Georgia College and took creative writing under Nancy Simpson at Tri-County Community College. Barrett worked twenty years in the health care profession before she developed a neuromuscular disease.
The doctors echoed words like heredity and genetics before giving her the diagnosis. “At times, I am silent, stare into space, and retreat to a place no one else can go,” she says in her poem, “Family Ties”. It’s a place where she no longer wonders what her father thought.
Her poem, “Kindred Spirit,” describes a cardinal at the feeder. Barrett feels a deep connection with the bird because it is blind in one eye. She expresses her health issues in this verse:
…A feeling of knowing,
no matter what happens,
there will always be hope
and endless possibilities.
The moisture from my breath
leaves a circle on the windowpane,
and I watch from my scooter,
until the cardinal flies out of sight.
Barrett is recovering from a recent surgery on her foot. She’s in a scooter now, but hopes to walk soon. She finds comfort in her family and talking with friends on the telephone. She also enjoys reading and crafting poetry.
A member of North Carolina Writers’ Network-West, Barrett’s work has appeared in many magazines and five anthologies. Her poetry has been published in Kaleidoscope, Nostalgia, Wellspring, Hard Row to Hoe, Living with Loss Magazine, A Time of Singing, Mindprints Journal, Wordgathering Journal, Farming Magazine, Artists Against Domestic Violence, and Nantahala Review. She has poetry upcoming in Breath and Shadow.
According to Nancy Simpson, “Glenda Barrett gives us the most authentic Appalachian voice to rise out of the southern mountains in years. Whether she is eating an apple with a knife or if she is knee deep fishing in Owl Creek, here is a woman who is as immersed in her environment as in her daily existence. Barrett’s concerns for family and heritage go beyond what happened, for her poems celebrate life, transcend sorrow, and show the reader what was learned.”
Barrett’s books are available locally at Mary Ann’s Restaurant in Young Harris, Georgia. You may also order online at: http://www.amazon.com/ and http://www.finishinglinepress.com/ .
This article first appeared in the Smoky Mountain Sentinel newspaper.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
TRANSYLVANIA WRITERS ALLIANCE
Transylvania Writers Alliance,
Brevard, North Carolina
All meetings will be held on the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of each month 3:00PM-5:00PM
Brevard-Davidson River Presbyterian Church (Education Bldg-Parking in back)
300 E. Main Street, Brevard, NC 28712
Welcome poetry and prose materials for reading and critiques. Contact:
Wayne Drumheller
260 Frank's Coved Road
Brevard, NC 28712
Phone 704-287-9806 cell
Phone 828-877-5133 home office
Email mystory@citcom.net
Email wd2999@yahoo.com
Brevard, North Carolina
All meetings will be held on the 1st and 3rd Wednesday of each month 3:00PM-5:00PM
Brevard-Davidson River Presbyterian Church (Education Bldg-Parking in back)
300 E. Main Street, Brevard, NC 28712
Welcome poetry and prose materials for reading and critiques. Contact:
Wayne Drumheller
260 Frank's Coved Road
Brevard, NC 28712
Phone 704-287-9806 cell
Phone 828-877-5133 home office
Email mystory@citcom.net
Email wd2999@yahoo.com
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)