My sixth Poet of the People is Dale Bailes. Dale is a long-time icon in the Columbia literary community and an encouraging mentor and friend to many. His poetry is expressive, and you feel his kindness throughout his work. Read his work and become his friend.
Bio: As a poet, Bailes helped design and participated in the Poets In The Schools
Program for the South Carolina Arts Commission. He edited seven anthologies of
student poetry for that program. His poems have appeared in journals and little magazines,
including SOUTH CAROLINA REVIEW, GREAT SPECKLED BIRD, and
CREATIVE CRAFTERS JOURNAL. The poems have been gathered in the
collection CHERRY STONES and in three chapbooks.
Recent publications include poems in Columbia lit mag FALL LINES and
Texas based AMERICAN WRITERS REVIEW.
Bailes holds an MFA in Professional Writing from the University of Southern
California, He has taught college writing and creative writing classes in such
diverse backdrops as state prisons, Navy aircraft carriers, community colleges,
and both USC east and USC west.
He continues his interest as an educator as a part-time Standardized Patient
at the University of South Carolina School of Nursing in Columbia.
____
VIGIL
First sunlight in tops
Of towering green trees.
How is there no music?
THE TRICK
Thinking of you in terms
of two-over-light was easier.
That way you shared
my morning rite and left me
to the idle pleasure
of my day. Now, having
seen you trundle from
a lonely man-filled bar
your shoulders slouched
against the weight of darkness
I know you more than I care
to; know your crumpled
single bed and barren room
know why your ten-hour-day
is comfort to you.
Now instead of leaving me
to my own tight rare existence
you take me trembling with you
into your lonely night.
(from ST. ANDREWS REVIEW)
THE GENTLEMAN CALLER
No need to keep him waiting
fifteen anxious minutes; no stately
staircase has to frame her entrance.
Cordelia sits quite calmly at the table
saucered cup untouched and slowly colding
Her mind commands a sunny day, with horses
she smells the Spring and smiles
at mustached men. A storm can rage there
now, or suns go setting; white-haired
gallants still tip crisp hats and court her,
What matter if those days she lives
are twenty-five or fifty years divided?
This day alone will mean most to her heart
stout friend through all and keeper
of the great loves she has known.
Now he has come, the quietest caller
she has yet received. “Madame?” “oh yes.
I am quite ready. You are right on time.”
Cordelia, rising, bids a host of friends adieu.
Whispers gaily, “It was always you.”
(from MISSISSIPPI REVIEW)
THE JESTER
The Jester on your wall grins
at you. His hand has been, will be
poised to pluck the lute.
You pull yourself from sleep
or death, recall some sound
that scared you to the fading point
where sleep and death are one
and come or don’t come
as your left eye struggles open
and your right eye simply won’t .
He has waited while you slept
while you crept through
the other room of the dream
and out. He has grinned as
a black cat crossed the street
to avoid crossing your path,
as ladders crashed around you
that you wanted to walk under.
He will watch you tumble from
the bed, return from all that pain
awake, stumble to another room
to wet your trembling hands.
His hands will tense, prepare
to play the chord to match
the sound your pleading eyes
will make, as you watch the mirror
drop you and you shatter.
(from SANDLAPPER)