SC Writers Association 2024 STORYFEST Early Bird Registration Ends June15th

2024 STORYFEST EARLY BIRD PRICING ENDS JUNE 15

Early bird registration for SCWA’s 2024 Storyfest, set for Sept. 27 through 29 in Columbia, ends June 15.

Fees for the full three-day conference are $250 for members and $325 for nonmembers; those fees will increase by $30 on June 16, so register now and save! Student registration for the full conference is $140. A one-day ticket for Saturday-only sessions is available for $195. Masterclasses, manuscript critiques and query pitches are available for additional charges as add-ons to your registration.

Storyfest, SCWA’s biggest event of the year, will be held at The DoubleTree by Hilton in Columbia, with the added advantage of having the hotel and conference under one roof – and the rooms are less expensive this year, too!

In addition to amazing authors, editors, agents and screenwriters from outside of our state, some of South Carolina’s most prominent writers will be there to make this conference successful. We will have three pre-conference masterclasses and craft classes as well as the invaluable Queryfest, Slushfest, Speed Pitch Session and a “Publishing World Today” panel, which provides cutting-edge self-publishing assistance. Four keynote speakers will provide valuable insights, including information on artificial intelligence and how it will impact the writing world, and Storyfest has 20 other breakout and other presentations – something for every genre. A Saturday cocktail hour, open mic, exhibits, book signings and more also will be included.

We will highlight our keynote speakers and presenters in The Quill between now and September. We featured Lynn Cullen and Grady Hendrix in the May issue; see 2024 Storyfest Faculty bios on all of our fabulous speakers. Here are two more keynoters:

TIFFANY YATES MARTIN

Tiffany Yates Martin has spent nearly 30 years as an editor in the publishing industry, working with major publishers and New York Times, Washington Post, Wall Street Journal and USA Today bestselling and award-winning authors as well as indie and newer writers. She is the founder of FoxPrint Editorial and author of Intuitive Editing: A Creative and Practical Guide to Revising Your Writing. She is a regular contributor to writers' outlets like Writer's Digest, Jane Friedman and Writer Unboxed, and a frequent presenter and keynote speaker for writers' organizations around the country. Under her pen name, Phoebe Fox, she is the author of six novels. Visit her at www.foxprinteditorial.com.

She will offer a masterclass, “Mastering the Holy Trinity of Story: Character, Stakes and Plot;” deliver a keynote, “The Happy, Harsh Truths of a Writing Career;” and present breakout sessions. We are thrilled to have her for 2024 Storyfest.

ALAN ROTH

Alan Roth graduated from Fairleigh Dickinson University in New Jersey with degrees in history and English literature, then attended graduate school at Emerson College in Boston, where he received an MFA in creative writing. He is a member of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences and serves as an adjunct professor of screenwriting at Fairleigh Dickinson’s School of the Arts. He is a winner of the coveted Nicholl Fellowship Academy Award for best original screenplay (Jersey City Story) and works with producers on developing projects for both film and TV.

He will present a keynote, “AI and Current Trends in Writing,” and a breakout session on “Book to Screen.” We are so pleased to have him as part of 2024 Storyfest.

REGISTER FOR 2024 STORYFEST

MORE ABOUT 2024 STORYFEST

The hotel room rate is $169 (plus tax & fees) for one king or two queen beds. For the SCWA discounted rate, reserve at the DoubleTree by Hilton Columbia; book by Aug. 29 for the discount.

RESERVE YOUR ROOM FOR STORYFEST

If you are not a member of SCWA, join now to enjoy the member rate for Storyfest as well as other SCWA benefits. Membership is $75 annually; go to Join Us.

For more information email administrator@myscwa.org

Battle of Musgrove Mill Poetry Reading & Contest - June 28th 10 am - noon

News from the Poetry Society of South Carolina —

Enter our contest by submitting a poem with the theme of revolution or victory to everycornereverycounty@gmail.com.

You can win a beautiful American themed guitar, thanks to our sponsor, Danny Sciortino!

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Mary E. Martin

This week's Poet of the People is Mary E. Martin. I first met Mary in either Rock Hill or Charlotte at a poetry reading put on by Jonathan K. Rice. She has facilitated some of my readings in Rock Hill and has journeyed to Columbia to read for the Mind Gravy Poetry series. She is a elegant poet who writes from a gentle, graceful place. Rock Hill, South Carolina is blessed to have her in their midst.

-Al Black

Mary E. Martin is a poet, dancer, and teacher at Winthrop University in Rock Hill, SC. She
grew up in the west and the south, preferring the rich landscape of the south. She explores a
fusion of text, movement, and music in community performance projects she has developed in the Carolinas. Her poetry has appeared in many journals, including The Kansas Quarterly, The Journal of the American Medical Association, and The Southern Poetry Review.

At the University Inn

As a student waitress
I served Denise Levertov
breakfast—she drank tea,
not coffee.

I almost spilled
my adoration, but her reverence
for the moment stopped me
from recalling the spell
her reading had cast--
only her poetry
breathed, her images
sacred, almost palpable
renderings of the inner
paradise we know exists.

I kept the check slip
she had signed,
taped on a wall
near my desk,
an artifact that lasted
as many years as it took
for me to realize
beauty’s minutiae
is just as sublime
as what we claim
breathtaking.

My Dog Looks Up at the Moon

Late night he pauses
on the deck, doesn’t howl
but quietly stares
at the bright curve above,
his big head, black and white
sixty-pound hunter body
more a still life, a whisper
between dog and moon,

he listening as the moon
tells him he is a being
who loves, a love
that can travel anywhere,
a dolphin splash love;
he wishes he could swim
to the moon, lick her
powdered white cheek, sleep
overnight in a velvet smooth
crater, dreaming an unknown
tenderness, then slip back
down just as I awaken;
mythically happy to see
him again, I kiss him
and feed him breakfast.

Folk song

I like to howl with my dogs
in our own backyard Olympus,
out-sounding the sirens
by blending our voices.

Without judgement or fear
I like to howl with my dogs;
we are neither dog nor human
out-sounding the sirens.

Crooning welcome tears
without judgement or fear
I stretch out my neck;
we are neither dog nor human.

I stand erect as they do
crooning welcome tears,
eyes toward the clouds
as I stretch out my neck.

A pack of screeching troubadours
out-sounding the sirens,
no better heaven than ours
than when I howl with my dogs.

Flint

I sit on my couch

waiting for a spark

of an image, just enough

to keep me writing

in my small house, on a quiet

street, Flint Street,

the only sharp edges

the barking dogs

in almost every house.

My words, the hard quartz tools

I rely on to shape the world,

are like the rough tools

tribes relied on to survive

in the wild brush and windowless caves.

I think of the steel that strikes

flint into fire, angry voices

of a small Midwestern town

shouting out their abuse,

the City of Flint forging

their words into a hard

refusal, to be more than

their namesake’s core,

to be the unshadowed

flame of the heart.          

El Paso
                   When I was young and shy

The dark brick scrubbing
our hands when we grazed the body
of homes on the army base
as we darted everywhere to find
a place to hide. We played at night
with flashlights, the fat tree trunks
our gathering place, the touch
of the bark friendly rough.

Later we lived in an off base adobe
cuddled all around by bushes,
bushes full of secret
spaces I quietly lingered in every day.

Walking to school I always hesitated
at the canal, loud water tumbling over itself,
the bridge with no rails the only connector
to the school. I swear I could see loose
animal bodies shoved through foaming
water, wet fur, and bared teeth.

Our father treated us with short trips
over the border in Juarez,
always stopping at the same restaurant;
we sipped orange sodas,
stared at the polished blue and white tiles,
while my father drank beer
or tequila; none of us
ever questioned why always
the same place, the same food.

The cruel misperception
of others, always a lack
of embrace-- the 1950’s shadow
pulled me to hide
and grow where I hid.

This week's Poetry of the People is a guest from NC - Andrew K. Clark

This week's Poet of the People is Andrew K. Clark.* I first got to know Andrew after a poetry reading in Hilton Head when I had dinner with him after his reading. He was living in Savannah with his wife, Casey, and preparing to relocate to the mountains of North Carolina where he grew up. He now resides and writes in the mountains outside Asheville. He is a prolific poet and author and is a delight to know.

-Al Black

Andrew K. Clark is a novelist & poet from the Western North Carolina mountains, where his people settled before The Revolutionary War. His poetry collection, Jesus in the Trailer, was published by Main Street Rag Press. His first novel, Where Dark Things Grow, is forthcoming from Cowboy Jamboree Press on 9/10/24. His work has appeared in The American Journal of Poetry, UCLA’s Out of Anonymity, Appalachian Review, Rappahannock Review, The Wrath Bearing Tree, and many others. He received his MFA from Converse College. Connect with him and read more of his work at andrewkclark.com. 

beautiful screaming

I tried to quit
I really
did
throw’d everything away
so many times
swore off the makeup
swore off them wigs
I’d go to bed
try to forget everything
squeeze my eyeballs
inside out
but seemed like
it called to me
from in the bin
called me
to put it back on
come stand in front of the mirror, boy
it was hardest when
the sun went out
***
first time I didn’t even
mean for it to happen
I got all made up
& I don’t know why but
I went outside
down there
by the pond
that old dirt road
you know the one
the lover’s lane
there was a car pulled
near the water
and I wanted
to see inside
catch me a peek
of what they was doing
only when I did

the girl seen me
she screamed
screamed so loud
it busted my ears
so loud she shook
the whole goddamned world
and the boy trying to jerk
up his pants
& I fell in love with her
right there
& the sounds she made
I ain’t never heard
nothing so beautiful
& she made me
beautiful too
& she seen me
like nobody ever seen me
& she saw how beautiful I was
& everything tingled everywhere
in the whole goddamned world
the whole world tingling up
its goddamned spine
and down between
its goddamned legs
& I went back the next night
& the night after that
seem like more cars come
down by the pond
like people wanted me to
just scare the living
shit out of them
like it turned
them on too
& I gave them what they wanted
& they gave me what I wanted
all that screaming
them tires spinning the dirt
***
them kids made up
hashtags for me

things like
#clownscare
& #clownopocalypse
& it went on like that for a long time
& I made all the papers
& it was beautiful
till
they caught me
& they put me back
in the home
& they chained me
under the box springs
pumped me so full
of all them drugs
& I love all them drugs
when I’m under
the box springs
pumped full
I can’t remember
who my first-grade teacher was
or where I learned to dress up
or who my daddy is
but I do remember
all that screaming
all that beautiful screaming
& how they seen me
really seen me
for the first time

equine | canine

the horses up
the mountain
went wild, forgotten
by their people
nobody come by
to even feed them
until
they forgot they
were horses
grew as feral
as jackals
fought off bears
killed off the coyote
stayed alive
even during winter
no grass on the ground
teeth grinding
down the trees
they fucked each
other constantly
foals rising from
the dark earth
each spring
they ate their brothers
whose legs fell lame
teeth rounding
sharpening canine
until
their eyes grew large
dark manes matted
no one could
approach them
no one could
pet them
but me

paper dolls

drought and famine and violence and
tinder enough to burn the world down,
and it’s only tuesday. but one thing you
understand is that you got to get right
with god. it don’t pay to wait. you ‘re
on the last verse of just as i am, without
one plea, sister gail keeps playing long
as there are sinners out there and you
better get up, fight your curled up
atrophied limbs, fight your jangled up
trifling, get down front to that altar and
make yourself low before the preacher.
you don’t have to do it, i know.
salvation is a choice. but if you don’t,
you should know a few things. one, the
devil has nightmares too. they wouldn’t
make sense to you because they’re
made up of all the beauty of gods green
spring bright fondling, the way vines
creep under doorways and rise to
choke the tallest thickest trees in the
woods out back. did you know there
are flowers with black spider eye
faces? god made those too. bottomless
night holes that fall for miles, sucking
you in by your eyeballs, pulling fibrous
orange slice chunks from your back,
bent and stretched and uglier than you
can imagine. two, you had no choice
but to do it. you might could’ve
become a preacher yourself, shopping
pinstripe suit catalogues, starching
your collars out in a dingy basement,
pull cord lightbulbs burning your scalp.
you might could’ve earned your keep
on the mission field or in a soup
kitchen but when mama took up that
knife and cut that man across his face
for the way he mocked her cooking,
you ain’t had no choice. three, scissors
and girly magazines in your hiding
place under the skirting of the trailer,
stretched out on the warm dirt, you

found magic powers. kaleidoscoping
girls every which way and that: take
this head and put it on that body, put
these legs under those hips, take her
tits and put them on that one there, and
this one, she should be a dancer, so
change her shoes. so much flesh, so
much sin and skin that you mix and
match in peach and black and orange
and cream - you’re nothing if not
wicked. four, when they found your
stash, pulling back the purple curtain,
they took all your lovers away, best
friends too; you had no choice. sister
gail finished the song, and the preacher
ain’t called for another verse, so thank
hallelujah for lighter fluid, kitchen
matches and sweet sulfur black and
blueness.

Pollination
(after Lindsey Alexander)

My beard is a honeycomb you lick when hungry.
On your way to the icebox,
on our daily hike through the woods,
you can’t help but stop and taste it.
Bright and untamed,
Zizzing like bees
in a white box;
your face stays sticky and
you keep licking your cheeks all day,
even during video calls.
Eventually, you send
a dozen mouths
to extract me,
drip by drop,
while you lie back
and wait to be fed.

*While Clark is not a SC poet, we are honored to share his work with you this week via Poetry of the People!

REVIEW: Letters to Karen Carpenter by Richard Allen Taylor - Reviewed by Lawrence Rhu

The heart of Richard Allen Taylor’s new collection, Letters to Karen Carpenter (Main Street Rag, 2023), is “Undeliverable,” the first of its four sections. There Taylor apostrophizes the late singer of poignant hits and anthems of romantic promise like “Close to You” and “It’s Only Just Begun,” as he struggles directly with his book’s core premise and challenge. The intimate beauty of Carpenter’s voice, combined with the pathos of her early death due to complications of anorexia nervosa, often served Taylor and his late wife, Julie, as a compelling soundtrack to their life together, especially during her last days when she was dying of leukemia.

In “Recruiting You, Karen, as a Pen Pal,” Taylor acknowledges his own mother’s quiet disappointment in him for rebuking his daughter’s impulse to address her dead grandfather during a Thanksgiving prayer. Thus, Taylor both confesses and disavows his paternal inclination to lay down the law about communication with the dead. Such religious inhibitions give way to imaginative play audible in this poem’s title and its transformation of “a brass lamp” into a magic lamp that delivers his late mother’s “unsolicited advice.” Moreover, that maternal heirloom, duly capitalized in the next poem, names the record company that released the Carpenters’ first single, Magic Lamp.

You’ll recall that, before there was writing, Orpheus sang as he descended to rescue Eurydice from the land of the dead. Those who turn the feelings such a story relates into compelling songs or poems can deeply affect us. We understand what they are saying, or we know that, someday soon enough, grief will teach or remind us, and we will understand again. In Letters Taylor achieves such effects in representing the process of grief and mourning. His serious yet playful approach enables him to bear the weight of such heavy loads both honestly and nimbly. The epistolary form opens a space for tones of confidentiality and intimate exchange. It puts Taylor in conversation with addressees who are out of reach but familiar and loved. Of course, there are darker sides to such imaginary conversations, and Taylor does not pretend otherwise. In a down-to-earth way, he expands our horizons, so they include mercy and gratitude along with suffering and loss. You can hear it in “Note to Karen about Mortality,” the opening poem of Letters:

                        I watch a lone hawk ride thermals, rise

                        without effort—and think of mortality’s leaden

                        weight, sloughed off like last year’s molting.

                        Not that I believe in reincarnation. Not that I

                        disbelieve. I mean the hawk reminds me

of you, and my wife—who loved your music.

“Undeliverable,” the book’s second section, represents raw encounters with the Grim Reaper in “Chemotherapy” and “Untitled Poem about Dying,” as mute acknowledgment of the limits of language reveals in the first word of the latter poem’s title, “Untitled.” In the following quote, the memorable simile, “like a canal lock,” provides the title for a poem about a waiting room where caregivers bide their time while cancer patients undergo tests and procedures on the day after Valentine’s Day: “The room has filled and emptied many times today, // like a canal lock passing ships into the darkness.”

Though the book’s first two sections display Taylor’s resilience and wit in the face of daunting loss, its final two sections, “Postcards” and “Change of Address,” give those qualities freer range and greater opportunity to shine in his lines. Taylor’s elegiac imperative inspires many poems, but it also leaves room for hope and recovery as well the play of language that gives delight.

-Lawrence Rhu

Lawrence Rhu is the Todd Professor of the Italian Renaissance emeritus at the University of South Carolina. He has written books and essays about the American and European Renaissances, and he edited Shakespeare’s The Winter’s Tale for the Evans Shakespeare series from Cengage. His poems have appeared in Poetry, Two Rivers, South Florida Poetry Journal, Forma de Vida, Jogos Florais, Quorum, Fall Lines, Pinesong, and the Poetry Society of South Carolina Yearbook. In 2018-19, three of his poems received named awards from the Poetry Society of South Carolina. A fourth, “Reading Romance with a Lady Killer,” received the 2018 Faulkner-Wisdom Poetry Award from the Pirate’s Alley Faulkner Society in New Orleans. In 2019, his unpublished poetry collection, “Pre-owned Odyssey and Rented Rooms,” was runner-up for that Society’s Marble Faun Award. In 2020, Conversations: The Journal of Cavellian Studies published or reprinted a dozen of his poems together with his essay on poetry and philosophy, “Other Minds and a Mind of One’s Own.”

This week's Poet of the People is Moses Oaktree - Al Black

This week's Poet of the People is Moses Oaktree. I met Moses several years ago in Augusta, GA, when he was the manager of the Book Tavern Bookstore and a staple of the local poetry scene. Pre-COVID he would sometimes make an appearance at Mind Gravy. After COVID he moved to the Midlands and exploded on the scene. He is (in my humble opinion) the best spoken word poet in the area. He owns the stage and his work stands up well on the printed page. He is a top draw in the region and I fully expect him to become a force throughout the Southeast on his way to a national reputation.

- Al Black

Moses Oaktree is an artist, storyteller, and co-founder of Charleston, SC’s UnSpoken Word Open Mic.  Mosely has performed his signature features across the United States, especially for his homes of New Orleans, Atlanta, Columbia, and Charleston.  His style melds southern lyricism, historical intrigue, and a surrealist take on the African/African-American tradition to create a contemporary black American myth.  He is currently working on his first book of poetry, “Heaven Be A Black Land”.

  Just. Like. You.  

 Met someone who looked Just

Like You Today.

Honestly, it was uncanny. Your curves;

Your style--

God knows I missed your smile. She was a song

I’d once known well.

I reached for her hand out of reflex. A habit in death throes;

Memories of you echo Through places in me That have no name.

Why do you remain?

Your smile could lift the waves.

I stopped myself just as I felt

the warmth of her body. Goosebumps;

Hot needles in my skin turn to ice. Shudders;

She walked way in the moments tween my

Stutters.

I am reminded

Your smile was paradise.

I, too

                                                                            I love telling folk how Dr King’s “I Am A Man” slogan turned queer in the next iteration of the movement.

I love talking bout Black Lives Matter being run by queer/women.

I love talking bout Bayard Rustin.

I love talking bout how voices, once hushed, still can find their way into the Light.

“I Am A Man”

We are equal as human.

                                                                                                                                            “Black Lives Matter”
                                                                                                                                         We are equal as human.

The final rendition will be “I, too, have a soul”

 But if they kill me, they’ll say it wasn’t true.

  Notes From Abraham

“Life was a constant miracle”, He say.

His body like smoke in the wind; He who gives shape to mist.

Substance like vapors, Both solid and shapeless.

He leans closer before he persists.

“Each breath was a gamble with death”, He say.

“I won so many times I musta cheated. Pain----

Illness----

At times, I was broken.

I took losses, but was undefeated.”

“I wanted it all…” He say.

“I made deals with the Devil- Chasing keys to Heaven.

We don’t realize the moment we

Lost Cause

The more I realized what beauty was;

The more fluent I became in the language of

God”

                                                                                                                                                               Time

Time Manifested

as flesh and bone

Dove into itself to discover its soul Then walked Earth’s mighty plains As the ghosts of the future.

                                                                                                                                                                         I am

                                                                                                                                                                                             .

This week's Poet of the People with Al Black is Lang Owen

This week's Poet of the People is Lang Owen. Before the printing press, balladeers carried poetry and news to the people; Lang Owen writes in that tradition. He is a gifted singer/songwriter who writes poem songs about people and the human condition. Every so often you meet someone who paints stories that sound new every time you hear them sung - I am privileged to know Lang Owen. www.langowen.com/

-Al Black

Lang Owen works straight out of the 1970s singer-songwriter tradition, employing poetic lyrics to express the challenges and possibilities of the current day, often viewed through the perspective of individual's imagined interior lives. Lang’s gift for seeing the world around him and dialoguing with others about their lives informs his songwriting, which often takes the form of conversations between characters in his songs. Lang released his third album, Cosmic Checkout Lane, in April 2024, his second collaboration with musician/producer Todd Mathis. “Cosmic Checkout Lane is about living our wisdom at any moment, including standing in a grocery store checkout line,” Lang says.

In 2022 Lang released She’s My Memory, which the Post & Courier Free Times ranked sixth on its The Best of South Carolina Music 2022 list. Lang’s 2019 debut album Welcome To Yesterday was hailed as “evocative storytelling at its finest” by music writer Kevin Oliver. Lang has played multiple venues in North and South Carolina, and received airplay on radio stations in the United States, Canada, Ireland, and Luxembourg.

Everybody Here 

Everybody here’s my therapist

I need all the help I can get

I look around, I’m losing my ground

I don’t like what I see one bit

I float by like a whisper, you hand me a megaphone

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

Everybody here’s my archeologist

Digging in the dirt for things I miss

Down on hands and knees beneath the olive trees

Finding my love still exists

We live in memory like statues standing in Rome

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

I don’t know what I’m dreaming any more

I just know you’re believing

I don’t know whose shoes are on my floor

I just know you’re not fleeing

What I can do is wash your feet

Patch you up when you’re bleeding

I’ll keep your secrets discrete

I’ll say what you’re meaning to me

I float by like a whisper, you hand me a megaphone

In our own little worlds somehow we’re not alone

We’re not alone

Everybody here

Gravity 

I’m not a smart man, but I know gravity

I drop nails from many a roof, it’s physics obviously

Don’t take paper in a frame to see that things fall

I’ve done this job for twenty-eight years, I’m a jack of all trades

I fix everybody’s leaky walls, water moves in strange ways

Don’t take paper in a frame to know a hammer’s what you need

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

My knees are shot, all the ups and downs, I tell my boy get your degree

I’ve done some things of which I’m proud, it never came easily

Don’t take paper in a frame to know what builds you breaks you down

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

I paint all your empty rooms, I like the smell of something fresh

I leave a little bit of me in there, where your baby lays down to rest

Don’t take paper in a frame to know love’s all in your hands

House to house, I drive around, lots of new cars everywhere

From my truck, I see it clear, this town’s in disrepair

I guess that’s why God put me here

Love Sputnik 

Mr. Hardy taught the sciences, the stuff of life

Backrow kids mocked thinning hair and tattered ties

Astronomy was his true love, Mr. Hardy had no wife

Russia launched first satellite shook the world

Beep beep on ham radio, spaceage unfurled

Mr. Hardy daydreamed at his desk of a long-lost girl

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

18,000 miles an hour light across the sky

Mr. Hardy said change rockets into our lives

When she burned up in the atmosphere, Mr. Hardy cried

I recall a film about the sun Hardy showed

Man in glasses explained giant stars someday explode

In the cosmic scheme of things no one is betrothed

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

Mr. Hardy gazed alone at night crescent moon

Mr. Hardy knew she’s inching away too soon

Mr. Hardy retired from everything that very June

Oppenheimer called out God

Galileo searched the stars

Mr. Hardy lectured genius does no tricks

Sir Iassac’s apple fell to ground

Einstein wrote it simply down

Mr. Hardy questioned who on earth invents

Love Sputnik

Man With A Broom

Thirty years I swept floors, F & M Bank

Retired with a big mug, too many last hugs

Cards and thanks

Now I use a red broom, sweep my curbside

Photos, bottles, pennies, cigar butts

You know it’s not right

My sight is still good, careful when the cars pass

My doctor says she’s never seen a man my age 

With such a strong back

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

I found a brown shoe on the sidewalk nearby

My whole day puzzling what happened to that foot

Can’t say why

My shadow tells time, I don’t wear a watch now

I can see no point in counting the hours 

As they wind down

Who’ll pick up this broom? Nobody wants to sweep

I’m scared things all go to hell when I fall into

That long sleep

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

Neighbor kid walks by with those earphone things

Give me a listen, though it don’t beat Bob Dylan

My heart still sings

Wife calls me inside, says I’ll die from the heat

But this broom’s what I’ve got, and I’ll sweep ‘til I drop

On this clean street

I’ve got so little to leave this big world

I never had a son or a precious little girl

I’m just an old man with a broom

On the street in the sun Monday afternoon

Man with a broom

Used Books

I Sunday browse your shop for hours

We talk about writers when no one’s there

And you proclaim love for Hemingway

For your age that’s pretty rare

You say you can relate

To wine and war and fate

And how this life is so unfair

Your eyes ask me why, you wait for me to try

I scratch my head, I can’t help you there

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing 

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

I once told a girl you never mind my words

“I mind them too much,” she said with a smile

She vanished like a ghost in a cloud of cigarette smoke

I missed that coming by a country mile

I tell this tale to you, I’m no fountain of any truth

Might be the one thing I do today worthwhile

No doubt it’s been said by poets long since dead

There’s nothing in this world we can’t defile

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

Old Man and The Sea, I peruse with iced coffee

I’ll soon forget every page I turn

My days are scribbled down, torn up paper on the ground

Take what I say this once for what it’s worth

You wanna be heard, you gotta listen

You wanna be read, you gotta buy somebody’s book

You wanna be found, you gotta know who you’re missing

You wanna be seen, you gotta really, really look

Oh I swear, my sweet Karina

Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Tim Conroy

This week's Poet of the People is Tim Conroy. I met Tim Conroy several years ago at a Columbia literary event and cajoled him into doing his first poetry feature. We became fast friends, haunting and terrorizing coffee shops throughout Columbia. Later, we teamed up with singer/songwriter, Lang Owen as the Two Hats & a Ponytail trio. When Tim's wife retired, they fled to Florida; however, he will be back in Columbia to perform Tuesday, 05/07 at Simple Gifts and Wednesday, 05/08 at Mind Gravy with Lang and myself for the Reunion Tour of Two Hats and Ponytail.

Tim Conroy is a military brat who has lived all over the country and eventually ended up in South Carolina. A retired educator and beloved social rabble rouser, he has published two books of poetry, Theologies of Terrain, Muddy Ford Press 2017 and No True Route, Muddy Ford Press 2023. During COVID, he co hosted the YouTube poetry interview series, Chewing Gristle

Lousy

My Dad said lousy a lot

to describe his children

a lousy jump shot, a lousy right fielder,

a lousy bedmaker, a lousy dishwasher,

with a lousy attitude.

We had lousy eyes, freckles, and postures.

But he would never admit,

we were stationed in lousy towns.

We could have become lousy

because he fought in three lousy wars,

where he won a few lousy medals.

Every year, we left friends and moved

on lousy cross-country car trips.

He had a lousy temper and backhand.

His world turned lousier when our mom divorced him.

He was lousy in love with her.

He tasted lousy when schizophrenia

came for one of his sons.

Afterward, he was never a lousy grandfather

or a lousy money giver.

He remained lousy at saying sorry.

When he died, we never felt lousier

and knew a pilot's love didn't land empty,

his caps and his godawful shirts,

his lousy flaws, our hearts.

No True Route, Muddy Ford Press, 2023

The Flight Jacket

hung in the closet to forget the throttle

and how it zoomed from carriers during

the Korean War, dipped into battle

of the Chosin Reservoir for the troops

to make a break for it through scarred paths

and never told its story, zipped up mute

stayed cold to the touch preferring the dark

every day its arms down not saluting

while its empty pockets refused to hold

onto the sound of bombs and men waving

screaming hello, goodbye, and blood marking

each sleeve forever, but the leather saved

many lives, though not Dad’s, his explosions

and how he didn’t want us to touch him

The Child We Need

 In front of imperial drones,

swollen under cement blocks

—tongues, old and young

because we doubt what is told

because it takes silence to listen

because we need to learn gestures

to rise reversals from wombs.

War-born babies and hostages

with no chink of light, no angels,

no safe mangers even for donkeys,

only hunger and inconsolable wails

until we embody the dead,

the child we need to live won’t

sing and fly paper kites in Gaza.

The Best Part

The truth be known,
gay or straight,

the priest gets paid,
the nun has a shitty deal,
the minister wants his ass kissed.

 Meanwhile I have felt a voice
in the forest of owls and ordinary spaces.
Strangers have rescued me from peril;
like you, love has saved me.

Your neighbor is human.

We don’t listen or tell it right,
we take it literally,

we can’t write it down better,
we make it too complicated.

Who have you loved in this journey?
What is it you have given?

From Theologies of Terrain, Muddy Ford Press, 2017

A Fitted Game

 The American Legion is full of men and women who battle

video games for printed slips to exchange at the bar for cash.

They don't dare add up the losses, so full of gin and silent friends.

Some say it's a loss of purpose and only passing time.

My Dad would have died playing if he hadn't croaked in bed.

His fingers reached, but I did not know what to tell him.

Their sacrifice isn't gone, and the popcorn kernels are still free,

salted, and buttered, sliding down throats that burn like cigarettes.

The flashing screen doesn't care who presses the fortune of the hours,

shouldering memories with sips. No soldier deserts the machine

that programs a fitted game, though many dream of a different outcome.

I have loved those players who won once

Al Black's Poetry of the People Features Janet Kozachek

This week's Poet of the People is Janet Kozachek. Shortly before COVID I hosted an ekphrastic poetry event at the Arts Center in Kershaw County, Camden, SC; Janet has had a lot to do with introducing me to many opportunities to host poetry events in Camden, Orangeburg and Hampton County. She is a dynamic advocate of the creative arts and a talented poet, writer, and visual artist. I look forward to participating in whatever event she creates next.

-Al Black

Janet Kozachek  has led a long and eclectic career as a writer and visual artist,  pursuing work and advanced study in Europe, China, and New York.  She was the  first American to matriculate in the Beijing Central Art Academy (CAFA), where she studied  painting, poetry, and calligraphy.  Ms. Kozachek moved  to the Netherlands with her husband Nathaniel Wallace,  to teach with the University of Maryland overseas division for two years.  Returning to the United States she became a graduate student at Parsons School of Design. 
During graduate work at Parsons in New York, Kozachek studied painting and drawing with Larry Rivers, Paul Resika, Leland Bell, and John Heliker, and poetry with  J.D. McClatchy.  It was this brush with McClatchy, then editor of the Yale Review and author of Painters and Poets, that first inculcated the idea for Kozachek that painting and poetry could emanate from the same creative source in western as well as in  eastern art.

In South Carolina, Kozachek embarked on a long peripatetic career as an artist in residence and sometimes adjunct professor teaching Chinese art and Mosaic making throughout the state under the auspices of the South Carolina State Arts Commission.  Kozachek founded and became the first president of the Society of American Mosaic Artists in 1999.  She wrote for, and co-edited, the society’s quarterly publication, Groutline, and co-authored the catalogue for the first international exhibition of mosaics in the United States.   She also actively wrote for Evening Reader Magazine, publishing essays on art and social issues.  She is the author of four books of poetry. 

Song of the Sinuses

(On the occasion of the discovery that researchers playing ancient ceramic musical instruments would sometimes hear a note that others could not because it was generated from resonance inside their sinuses) 

The archaeologist,

with his vinyl gloves 

and his plastic straw,

played the ancient globular flute,

last touched a millennium ago

by Shaman’s lips.

Six whole notes

climbed up a scale

as the pressure of modern air

yielded sound.

For the record there were six notes.

The archaeologist heard seven.

Investigators played that tape

again and again

– in search of that seventh note.

that they were certain that they heard.

What was that seventh unrecorded final note

that could not be bound 

yet rang persistently in their heads?

It was a singular sinus sensation!

The lonely note was for 

the hearing of the solitary.

It was a spiritual resonance

of an internal sound

echoing in the caverns of their skulls.

Not every note must be noted.

Not every thought must be voiced.

Not every sound need be heard by others.

Not every action must be known,

nor every meaning ascertained.

Not every desire must be met.

There must be quiet in the world

to leave a space for internal music.

Listen.

News Cycle

( After a Drawing by Laurie Lipton)

Another school shooting

the jaded eyes and numbed mind

observe on the rectangular

porthole to the outside world

Another invasion

I watch the troops float onscreen

above my painted toes

Another disaster

A family sleeps on borrowed blankets

outside the rubble

of what was once their home.

I scan them while reclining

in my own bed

in my air-conditioned room.

Another war

feeds my evening news cycle

I watch it through

the hazy steam

that emanates from my

museum shop coffee cup 

decorated with scenes from

Picasso’s Guernica

aesthetically wrapped snugly

around the glazed form.

Purchased for just

$9.99 at the museum shop.

Another famine

plays out across my television

Mothers cradle emaciated infants

My cat cries out

wanting to be fed

I pause to feed her

and switch the channel

I am told

that brain surgery is performed

with just local anesthetics

to get below a scalp’s surface

with sedatives to blunt awareness

of what is inserted or extracted 

from the matter of mind

Brains don’t feel pain

Patient patients

close their eyes then

and don’t panic 

at what they see or hear

Another massacre?

Too many in a day now

to be counted

With the precision of a scalpel

the news cycle enters

through an anaesthetized cloud

of indifference

blunted by frequency

numbed by distance

cushioned with a thick cotton blanket

blocking out the fear

that the news 

some day

will find me

Celestial Beings and Lesser Gods

(Zaparozhia and Melania Perik)

Objects upon a white cloth

lay as offerings to people passing by

in the torpor of late afternoon shadows.

A solitary apple, a tempting trinket,

sit as the trappings of yearning

for a warm bed and respite from hunger.

A mass of woman sits

swaddled in a woven coat

and a thinking hat.

She nods her head downwards,

as hypnogogic hallucinations

fly within and without the hollows of trees.

Celestial beings and lesser gods,

half human and half chicken,

turn right side up and upside down

in their flight between somnolence and wakefulness.

They have been conjured.

They cavort among the boughs,

and then are exorcized 

from haunted limbs. 

Crow

Crow watches you

with eyes you cannot see,

black on black  against the setting sun,

waiting in quiet silhouette upon a branch.

Crow seeks you

in benevolent predation,

to feed upon your sorrows,

and swallow your regrets.

Crow finds you

alone among the living,

lost within memories of departed souls

who call and call your name.

Crow grasps you

in her claws folded

tight around your waist,

her black beak cool against your face.

Crow knows you

when you cross the bridge

into that great void

and come back home again.

Jasper Project Board Member AL BLACK Creates New Poem to Celebrate Announcement of ONE BOOK 2024 Novel - BEAVER GIRL by CASSIE PREMO STEELE

In honor of the announcement of Cassie Premo Steele’s novel, BEAVER GIRL, as the selection for the ONE BOOK 2024 community reading project, we asked Jasper Project board of directors member and local poetry guru, Al Black, to read Beaver Girl and craft a poem in response to the message of the book. Al did not disappoint! Please read Al’s poem, and the signature poem for this project, The Remembering, below, then pick up your own copy of Beaver Girl, and write a poem, paint a picture, or create a piece of music in your response to the book and enter it in the Jasper Project’s THE ART OF ONE BOOK 2024 Arts Contest.

The Remembering

Leave your shoes here on the stump.

Go forward on bare feet,

step through into the Remembering.

The ground will know you.

The mycelium will announce your approach. 

Next to the beaver pond remove your gown.

Sit naked on the bank. Tonight is the Leaving of the Kits. 

The recitation of old stories 

of Livia, Chap and their families

Tales of a time when humans and beavers 

spoke the same language 

and learned to live together, again.

Tonight, young beavers must leave their parents

make space and time for the next litter.

They may invite you to swim 

to the far side of the pond with them.

There they will leave the water 

and begin their journey to new streams.

Not all of your sisters or all of the kits will remember, 

but if they listen,

they will feel memories of the Healing Time 

that came after the Great Dying Away. 

And maybe - if you are blessed,

you will remember and believe the old stories of a beaver girl

and that ancient laws of preservation are based in truth.

The door of enchantment is only open a short time

so do not question me, remove your shoes and enter the Remembering.

Al Black, 04/21/2024 

Announcing the Jasper Project's THE ART OF ONE BOOK 2024 CONTEST for Literary, Visual, and Musical Arts!

The Art of ONE BOOK 2024 – Cassie Premo Steele’s BEAVER GIRL!

Want to bring your own interpretation of 2024’s ONE BOOK  selection? The Jasper Project has an opportunity for YOU! Read Cassie Premo Steele’s Beaver Girl, then write a poem, paint a picture, or craft a piece of music with or without lyrics.

Entries

A panel of experts in the art of your entry will review submissions and choose winners in the following categories:

·         Poetry

·         Visual Art

·         Original Music

Winners will receive prizes, be featured in the Fall 2024 issue of Jasper Magazine, and be celebrated at the ONE BOOK 2024 Round-Up Party on Sunday, September 22nd at the One Columbia Co-op! DEADLINE JULY 1, 2024!

All submitted work must be original, family friendly, and capable of being performed or displayed in an outdoors setting. Both 2D and 3D work will be considered for the visual art competition.

Submission Instructions

Email your files to submissions@jasperproject.org. In the email please include your name, mailing address and phone number. Submissions are limited to 3 entries in each arts category.

Include the following attachments in your email:

·         Poetry – Word Document or PDF

·         Visual Art – Hi-res photos or scanned image of your work.

·         Music – MP3 or WAV (If files are under 150 mb you can attach them to the email). For larger files please send a Google drive, Dropbox or One Drive link. Youtube, Vimeo and Sound Cloud links are also fine.

Poetry of the People – Ashley Crout

This week's poet of the people is Ashley Crout. I met Ashley a few months ago and since then I have heard her do readings and had lunch with her and another friend. It is like we have known each other for years. 

You can hear her this Wednesday at Mind Gravy. 04/10 - 7 pm Cool Beans.

Bio

Ashley Crout was born in Charleston, SC, and graduated from Bard College and the MFA program at Hunter College. She is the recipient of a poetry grant from The Astraea Foundation, has received awards from The Academy of American Poets and the Poetry Foundation and is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has been published in Michigan Quarterly Review, New Orleans Review, Atticus Review and Dodging the Rain, among others. She lives in Greenville, SC, with her hound, Stella.

CLOSED ADOPTION

All I knew of my birth mother then
was the fierce red color of her hair
that burned away any usual humanness,
her build still slight with youth
and her love of the horses she rode
across the mind of my childhood.
I filled my room with horse figurines
so that we would have something shared
between us when she came one day
to find me. But sometimes what is missing,
does not know how to return. You find
yourself seeking the safety of certain devotion
such as the loyalty of vaguely human horses
like the ones in westerns who know how
to head home if ever they are separated
from their cowboy in the course of the story.
I cannot end this with even a brief singular nod
of acknowledgement. I saw her once
decades too late, the woman who carried my life
until it could be separated from hers.
I recognized her the way I know myself
in the mirror. She moved as I moved. Her face
was trapped in my face. I would not let her out.
I had never resembled anyone. You would think
it would have connected us. I was once
brand new in the world. I needed her then
is what I said during our single intersection.
She had no language for how she heard this,
did not respond. I considered being devastated,
then I decided to take my life back.
I pictured all my horses restless in the barn,
alerting me to a dangerous presence, a coming
storm indifferent to my safety, my survival,
the interdependent structures of my house.
You’ve grown old, I might say. I will outlive you.

SONNET IN A TIME OF CONTAGION

A slant rain deadens the night-dark highway.
There’s something I’m trying to leave behind.
In some yesterday, a new disease came.
You now must hold yourself still in stopped time,
 
stand at a remove from the living world—
seen but unheard, your voice hushed by distance.
Skin on skin touch forbidden, that’s the curse.
You could be coated with it. That’s the dance.
 
You could look like yourself but carry it,
sicken someone, accidental murder.
You could hate it but find you’ve married it.
This has happened before. It grows further.
 
I mean your death could stand right next to you
and you wouldn’t know it. You wouldn’t move.

WOMAN WHO SAID $37 MILLION JACKPOT WIN HAD RUINED HER LIFE FOUND DEAD IN HER HOME

And so it seems you cannot buy your way out of lonely.
 
How many years did she string her
luckiest numbers together looking
to match the winning sequence
before the unlikely day that she did.
 
She had not meant an avalanche of dollars
but the people she believed they would draw
towards her. She had never before been special
to anyone. She had outlived an entire line
of women who aged unwitnessed, unmentioned
by any voice in any room.
 
Some tragedies are about what does not happen.
 
Maybe she sat in her usual house, and the money
overwhelmed her with its possibles, its faces
of former rulers as immovable as the dead become.
Maybe she waited for the townsfolk to begin
to swarm their singular greeding hive mind
at her property’s edge. She dreamed of crowds
that at once would know her, at once would love her
if only they all drew together imitating an embrace.
 
There is no account of the how it had,
as she is said to have said, left her life a ruin.
Maybe it could never have been enough
for the madness of hands sticky with want
that surrounded her mother’s mother’s house
and outstretched their temporary mouths
revealing the entire top rows of their teeth.
 
Maybe all those who beamed at her briefly,
just polite enough to make their faces grateful,
bought garish gleaming boats and sailed away.
Maybe she felt smaller then as if seen
from a distance until she was almost an absence
like the failure of light outside her windows.
Even her body left her alone in her sleep.
 
Authorities found her days too late – unable
to separate what once she was, a physical house
abandoned, from the thin sheet she’d drawn to her
as one does when desperate for the necessity
of touch. Maybe, in her wealth of grief, she submitted
to sleep so fully, its shutdown of conscious
calculated wants, that it kept her body in such
a stillness that it never moved again. Maybe
she lost all knowledge of how to lift herself out
 
again into the gold sun, the sight of its glare
like coins placed on the eyes of the dead.

LAND DWELLLERS

When you are inhabited by a geography, its waters –
the animal scent of the marsh, the brine-soak
of the ocean – rise into your mouth. You swallow.
 
You are never not swallowing. Its land hums under
your feet. You cannot place the song. Its land loosens
into silt. The rust red dust sinks, is sinking, until it settles
 
on the flat of your diaphragm. To breathe, you have to
lift entire cities as if holding an offering up to God, excavate
your body from the roots of the family that named you.
 
You never had their thick drawl in your mouth, how it
stretches every word backwards into a story that glories
the past. Your mother and your mother’s mother could
 
have been someone but they only sat watching the world.
Slatted rocking chairs cast them forward then back
then back. The slowed sound of their language lingers,
 
like the crushed lavender scent at their necks, long
after it means whatever it meant. Your chest is resonant
with human voice. You are both the house and the one
 
locked out, your flushed face cooling against the windows.
One day you will run. One day you will run back
for the same reasons that you left. You are populated
 
both with those whose sins are unforgivable and those
who prophet a God to them. Every one of them, every last
one of them, is yours. Every goddamn one of them is you.

Black Nerd Mafia Presents All My Friends are Dope – An Immersive Interactive Art Experience

“All my friends are dope, you could pull a name out of a hat and whatever name you pulled would be amazing”

This brag about members of Black Nerd Mafia’s artist collective, The Cool Table, from founder and Jasper Project board member, Kwasi Brown, last year was the inspiration for their upcoming event: All My Friends are Dope – An Immersive Interactive Art Experience. Returning for a second year on Saturday, April 6th at the Ernest A. Finney Cultural Arts Center, the experience features a variety of art disciplines. The event starts at 5pm and features a panel conversation, poets, visual artists, and live music. The lineup includes Tam the Vibe, Eezy Olah, Kenya T, Airborne Audio, Cre the Creative, Wannapoundjuu, Niyah Dreams, Moonkat Daddi, Kuma The Ambassador, Yyusri, Dooozy, AC3 Sage, Bugsy Calhoun, Roc Bottom Studios, Dogon Krigga, Jakeem Da Dream, Dr. Napoleon Wells, Deidra Morrison Wells, and TBRH Co-Heaux. There will also be food trucks and vendors as well.

Check out the video below from last year’s event and learn more about Black Nerd Mafia in the Fall 2023 Issue of Jasper Magazine.

Facebook Event

Poetry of the People - Jennifer Bartell Boykin

This week's Poet of the People is Jennfer Bartell Boykin. I first met Jennifer when she was a student at the University of South Carolina and she has graced the mic of poetry events I host in the Midlands. She is busy advocating for poetry throughout our community and I encourage you to hear her if you have an opportunity.; she is an insightful and delightful poet and serves us the Poet Laureate of Columbia, SC. - you won't be disappointed.

Bio:
Jennifer Bartell Boykin is from Bluefield, a Black community in Johnsonville, South Carolina. She is the Poet Laureate of Columbia, South Carolina, writes poetry and nonfiction and teaches in Columbia, SC. http://www.jenniferbartellpoet.com/
She has a new book, 'Traveling Mercy.'

Your Grandfather’s Collard Green Patch

I watch the boys play
at a tailgate of his truck.
Or I should say only one
is kneeling in the dirt.
Three black boys. Two black men.
In a field between Lynchburg
and Bishopville. Where the cotton
has already been picked, piled, and hauled
off. Their grandfather’s collard greens
stand proud in the background.
The one kneeling is listening
to the dirt, learning how to make
it yield. And it is the granddad’s
voice that whispers back into his
ear. The collard greens standing
proudly in the background, their price
already haggled. They will be New Year’s
greens with the field peas and black eyed-peas,
our chance for good luck even though
Omicron is looming, and Delta has yet to leave.
But still the grandfather smiles and the grandsons
laugh, because this overcast Wednesday
is one more day.

Waiting: Starbucks on Piney Grove

for Mary Kathryn Coleman

 Feels like I’ve been here before but
it is the first time. I’m trying to be
within myself. I’m looking out of the
window at the yellow and black design
of Waffle House. I am sipping my coffee
drink, that is more than just coffee;
my coffee game is notoriously weak.
My father drank Sanka. Instant
coffee. That’s decaffeinated. And that
is my coffee blood line. I’m trying
to get some writing done. I’m trying
not to look at the three teenagers
together, but not, each on their phones,
a convex mirror to the outside world.
This is how to hang with your friends
and not. In this world we have managed
to build for ourselves. To be trapped in
the orbit of our own small illuminated
planet. The baristas are baristering.
People come in and out,
some to pick up their mobile orders,
others to get orders to go. The only
other person in here is a guy on his laptop.
Is this his office? A woman comes in with
her daughter. I am waiting for my friend
who I haven’t seen in months, who has
had a baby since last I saw her, who has
bought a house. The guy on his laptop
is packing up. He is moving on too, but
here I will remain, to wait for my friend.
To see her and smile, and laugh
because it’s been too long because of life,
but because of COVID too. Thanksgiving
is tomorrow, and most days I am grateful
for the simple breath that keeps this body
upright from day to day. Thanksgiving
is a Day of Mourning. But I am going to go
to somebody’s house and eat some macaroni
and cheese. It better be good. I digress.
There’s wonder in the wait. The Always Open,
the hotels and restaurants that surround this place,
the interstate just in the distance.

 Home

for Monifa Lemons

 Santee, you see is where you meet me,
with arms like poetry flung wide
and a smile
that could love and cut
at the same time. 

When you think of South Carolina,
you think of home and where
the ancestors walked and where,
if you are real quiet and still,
you can hear the Spanish moss
whispering your name. 

Santee, you see, is where us tribe be,
but us tribe be in the air and everywhere
and infinity times two. At Santee we got
poetry and poetry got us.

Muh knee is fa’ praying
and Monifa praying that
BLACK LIVES MATTER
BLACK POETS MATTER
SC is ours. They can’t have it.

Santee, you see, is where you met me,
but not where you left me.
We walk this dirt road to find
The Watering Hole, to find the sweet water
that sustains us in these bitter times.
And the dirt road welcomes you back,
remembers your footprints, and the prayers
you sent. The dust underneath your feet
exhales: Welcome Home.

Call of Duty: Modern Warfare

for Blless

They’re back in their spawn
Oh, damn. Here we go again. I’m trying
to level this fucking Kar.

What you doing? I’m ‘bout to eat soup
my wife made for me.
I need to level up my gun. It’s dumb

slow: this call of duty
of working all day, creating truth from beats,
and melodies from the vision of a future 

that will never come. Maybe I win today. Damn.
He is garbage. Finding peace
at being who you are gets tiring and over-

rated as most games are. Win.
Defeat. Coalition. Begin. You, being
the one that fell again. The one who got up.

This Road I Take

Whether it slithers like the satan-
like snake or lies flat like a sheet
on a freshly made bed, we must
travel either way. Peace, be
like a sword. Traveling mercy,
follow me wherever I may go.
Joy, don’t forget me at night
either; I need you then too.
Grief, my life partner, don’t
be as cruel in the end as you
were in the beginning. Whether
it be forked or diverging in a woods,
I know not. I must travel it,
I must come to know
each bog and bump on this road.
Though it is not smooth
the whole way, I made it.
And I had so many along the way
to give me cool drinks of water.

Congratulations to Poetry Out Loud Winner JESSIE LEITZEL!

JESSIE LEITZEL

The Jasper Project congratulates Jessie Leitzel on winning first place in the South Carolina Poetry Out Loud State Finals, held Saturday, March 9th at Richland Library. Leitzel was one of six finalists who competed in the finals for the national recitation competition and will go on to compete in the final competition in Washington DC later this spring.

“Leitzel was composed, confident, and they presented themself as a bright and progressive representative of South Carolina,” says the Jasper Project executive director Cindi Boiter who, along with Jasper Project board of directors member, Al Black, Marilyn Matheus, and Lester Boykin, adjudicated the event. Ray McManus was the host of the event, and Paul Kaufmann was the accuracy judge. Shannon Ivey was the performance coach and Eric Bultman served as recitation coach.

Leitzel is a nonfiction writer and poet studying creative writing at Charleston County School of the Arts in North Charleston. They are the co-founding editor of the literary magazine, Trace Fossils Review, a 2024 Presidential Scholar in the Arts nominee, a gold medalist of the Scholastic Writing Awards, and a YoungArts Award winner with distinction in nonfiction.

Winning second place was Abhirami Nalachandran from Calvary Christina School in Myrtle Beach and Catherine Wooten of Westgate Christian School was awarded the third place prize.

Other finalists included Eve Decker of Spartanburg Day School, Erin Maguire of Socastee High School, and Gemma Williams of Ashley Hall in Charleston.

Congratulations to all the finalists, as well as to the Columbia SC arts community for coming out to support your literary artists!

Al Black Celebrates 1000th Poetry Event March 13th at Cool Beans

At the Jasper Project, we’re excited to share the news of a celebration of one of our own, Al Black, SC’s poetry guru!

Fueled by a labor of love to share and encourage the creation of poetry among his friends and neighbors writ large, for years, Al Black has been staging poetry events ranging from readings to open mic nights to song writers’ circles, and more. Next Wednesday, March 13th will be Al’s 100th poetry event. We’re happy to join the SC Poetry Society in congratulating Al and celebrating this momentous occasion at t pm at Cool Beans coffee in Columbia, SC.

The event is open and free to the public.

Congratulations, Al!

Poetry of the People: Jesus Redondo Menendez

Our first Poet of the People of 2024 is Jesus Rodondo Menendez.

Jesus is a dynamo. He immigrates to this country in his 40s, becomes a successful teacher, works on an advanced degree in school administration, navigates the waters of marriage and writes delightful poetry.

Jesús Redondo Menéndez was born and grew up in Spain, developing a love for books as tools of learning, and as open roads for his imagination. He graduated in Psychology, in his forties decided to move to the United States and started a career as an educator in South Carolina. Now, almost ten years later, he is finishing the process to become a school administrator. He deeply thanks America for this transformational change. Now and then he enjoys writing poetry and short fiction, and experiencing new places in the loving company of his wife and their four legged child, Chomsky   

____

A belonging recipe: a bit of matter, time and self 

I've sat on 

the wooden bench 

in front of the river... 

Couldn't help but crying 

and gasping, 

overwhelmed by 

the daunting sense 

of belonging 

to just the 

intersection

of that moment, 

that place, 

and my most 

intimate 

and inner 

self... 

____

Bay of Dreams 

There is a picture 

I often like to revisit, 

and truly enjoy to see, 

one with my little dog 

watching us 

at the beach, 

his defenseless back 

pointing to the sea. 

I called it Bay of Dreams, 

because we always 

pictured our hopes 

somewhere overseas, 

in a sort of secret place 

where you could find them 

guarded by him, 

bathed and soothed 

by the lullaby 

of ocean beings. 

But as it happens in every dream, 

there are moments when 

the bay turns into a tree, 

and we, and our hopes, 

are together, 

embraced by its leaves. 

There’s an uneasy sense 

of uncertainty coloring the scene. 

And we can see the cloud 

that announces the storm, 

and we can feel the strong 

and chilly wind 

as it starts shaking the tree. 

And we see our hopes 

falling to the ground, 

as the cloud darkens, 

as the wind blows, 

as the leaves fly, 

as our fear grows… 

And we hold to each other 

and to myself I keep 

how much 

I would like to believe 

there is some purpose 

above us 

that is shaking 

the tree. 

_____

You make it easy (to Lola) 

There are some days, 

I have to say it, 

I don’t want to leave 

my bed, 

‘cause there lays 

everything that makes 

me feel safe: 

the woman that leads 

my boat, 

the pet that watches

my footsteps. 

Life can be wonderful 

you often can hear me say, 

sometimes a little bitchy, 

that I keep to myself, 

but every morning 

I walk to the mirror 

tying my tie, 

reminding to myself 

who I am. 

A person that may 

stumble and fall, 

but always stands up; 

that may need to 

try a thousand times, 

but never gives up: 

those and many more 

are the things 

that make me who I am. 

And there’s no day 

I don’t wonder where 

you get your strength from, 

how can you have 

such a clear mind 

to target all our goals, 

I don’t mind confessing 

something that I truly enjoy: 

I’m still figuring you out, 

because from all that breathes 

in this world 

you amaze me the most. 

And I think to myself 

that I don’t care whatever it takes, 

I don’t need to know what it is, 

it doesn’t matter the pain, 

because you make it easy. 

____

My people 

My people dared me 

to play kickball 

so I told my people 

I didn’t know the game. 

My people raised eyebrows, 

because, you know, 

it seems that 

my people know. 

My people don’t know 

that my people still 

blame me for what 

my people did 

500 years ago, 

while my people 

celebrate 

old fashioned speeches and parades. 

My people know 

my name when 

I ask to close the check, 

while my people 

keep reminding me 

that I am 

just another guy 

from 10 miles away. 

My people invite me 

to parties, 

bridal and baby showers, 

after work meetings 

poetry readings,

 and jazz, 

while I know 

about my people’s lives 

on Facebook or Instagram. 

My people ask me 

if I want to stay, 

and my contract 

waits to be signed 

on my desk, 

while my people 

keep asking me 

when I’ll go back home, 

how long I’m gonna 

be away. 

My people, one year ago, 

a 30 degrees morning, 

and short sleeved people 

had to show 

their best behavior 

to come to Español, 

but my people yesterday, 

last class of the week, 

didn’t care that much at all. 

And today my people 

are here in West Columbia 

listening to my words. 

Thank you for your patience, 

my people. 

____

Squeezing a verse (to Evelyn) 

And there she goes, 

a dynamic explosion 

of creative bangs, 

a swag of jeans, 

and bright lemons, 

squeezing verses 

like demons 

sliding down 

the darkness 

of his shirt, 

feeding our hearts 

with something mellow 

bringing light 

in the yellow shape 

of delicious fruits 

with citric flavor.  

Congratulations to the Accepted Contributors to Fall Lines - a literary convergence, volume X

On behalf of the Jasper Project, we’re delighted to announce that the following literary art was selected for inclusion in Fall Lines Volume X, releasing in spring 2024. These contributions were selected from several hundred poetry and prose submissions, and we couldn’t be happier to include them in this milestone tenth volume of Fall Lines – a literary convergence.

In early 2024 we will announce via the same website where and when we will hold our annual Fall Lines reading and awards ceremony, as well as the winners of the Saluda River Prize for Poetry, the Broad River Prize for Prose, and the Combahee River Prize in Poetry and Prose for a South Carolina Writer of Color.

Until then, congratulations and thank you for sharing your talents with the Jasper Project and allowing us to share them with the world.

Paul Toliver Brown – Digging to China

Allen Stevenson -- Shep’s Story

Bryan Gentry – Some People Never Change

Ruth Nicholson – The Red and Blue Box

Suzanne Kamata – Community Building

Evelyn Berry – Home Party

Randy Spencer – Next Day Now

Liz Newell – Red Hill Fans

Debra Daniel – Eve Purchases an Apple Watch

Shannon Ivey – As I Went Down to the River to Pray

Eric Morris – Straight Down Shadows

Lonetta Thompson – The Differences

Napoleon Wells – The Court of Thieves

Tshaka Campbell – Pews

Ann-Chadwell Humphries – Urban Eagle

Jacquelyn Markham – The persistence of limited memory  & Storage

Brian Slusher – *Improv 101 & What else for you darlin?  

Worthy Evans – *Blue Song for Bringing the Body Home & Blues Song for Never Having What I am Relative to Everybody Else

Rhy Robidoux –*Whereas

Nadine Ellsworth-Moran – *Nasturtium grows lush

Susan Craig – Migration & Treating our mother's last living friend

Heather Emerson – Divorce & Ceilings  

Joshua Dunn – Clearing House

Candice Kelsey – Chainsaws  & Renewable Energy

Terri McCord – Following a Blast

Randy Spencer – *Reading Ann’s Poem & In Passing

Debra Daniel – *Studies in Reproduction

Loli Munoz – Liminal

Frances Pearce – Strawberries

Ann Herlong-Bodman – One More

Jo Angela Edwins – A Neighbor Calls a Cool June Evening a Miracle

Kristine Hartvigsen – What I’ll pack for the apocalypse  & Inagaddadavida

Al Black –*Meditations on the Lawh-i-Aqdas & Midnight Call to Prayer

Tim Conroy – Journeys

Jessica Hylton – Space

Amanda Warren – Divination Road

Danielle Ann Verwers—How was your day

Libby Bernardin – Ode to the Santee Delta & Ramble of thought as I read an article in the New York Times

Ellen Blickman --The Mystery of Pomegranates

Allison Cooke – Whippoorwill Elegy

Julie Ann Cook --  Into blue

Bryan Gentry – Hail, Fuse

Kelley Lannigan – Aubade

Gilbert Allen -- T**** IS PRESIDENT

Jane Zenger – Choices

Anna Ialacci – Ruined

Nicholas Drake – The Space Beside Her  

Graham Duncan --  Exceptionalism

(* indicates finalists for the Saluda River Prize for Poetry)

Fall Lines - a literary convergence is made possible through a partnership between the Jasper Project, One Columbia for Arts and Culture, Richland Library, and the Friends of Richland Library.

Poetry of the People: Amy Alley

This week's Poet of the People is Amy Alley.

Amy Alley is a poet, writer, educator, and artist who I originally met through Cassie Premo Steele. She hosts poetry and art events from Greenwood to Newberry. She is a quiet, nurturing, and generous connector of people and talents and is the keeper of the poetry torch in her corner of South Carolina  . 

Amy is a talented freelance writer, poet, author,  artist, educator, and solo mother of one son who somehow managed to make it to University (hooray!) Because that isn't enough, she is currently training to become a certified yoga teacher. A so-called ‘curator of sophisticated chaos,' she knows what it is like to strive for balance in the throes of a busy, hectic life - but she has learned to breath deep and embrace the flow. She has a passion for service and enjoys helping others express the story they wish to tell through writing and/or art as well as discover new tools for creative expression to promote wellness and wellbeing. She also loves fashion and style, like, a lot.

If You Reached Out  

If you reached out 

While children clamor at our feet 

And on our laps 

And people chatter all around us 

In a language I fall in and out of understanding 

I would take your hand 

If you reached out 

I would follow you into your world 

I would let you lead me 

All the way 

Because I’m so tired 

Of being at the wheel 

If you reached out 

I would let you teach me 

The language of your ancestors 

So that I could speak to you 

With the same words that 

You dream in. 

If you reached out 

I would let you into my world 

Where the solitude you’ve never known 

Bears fruit 

In color that swirls on the canvases 

That you admire so much 

If you reached out 

I would take you to a place 

Where you can hear the owls 

Call to one another 

Their ancient language one 

With the sound of night settling 

If you reached out 

Across this table 

And these children 

And these worlds 

And languages 

And all that seems to lie between us 

I would fall into a space 

That seems to be as vast 

As the night sky  

We both dream beneath 

Counting the stars 

In different languages  

Living in worlds 

We both fall in and out of 

Understanding. 

Shoe Fetish 

I’ve kicked off more shoes than you could imagine 

Wasted, wanton shoes 

confining 

shoes that fit only for an instant 

and never 

never ever 

let me dance. 

I’ve kicked off more shoes that you could imagine 

and ran barefoot instead 

through meadows of clover and freedom 

where nothing is too tight 

and I can dance as much as l like 

 to the tune 

of me. 

MYCELIAL 

I wanted to write about me,
but I am possessive
so it comes out as my
and my mind goes to mycelium
and mycelium is another name
for God, I have been told.
And God was possessive, right?
The source of what connects us all
and it runs deep underneath,
connecting everything to itself.
The fungi know this. There’s
communication down in the deep,
dark spaces where the gods really live.
There’s magic in my and mine and
maybe not so much shame
in wanting to possess something
completely. Mycelial networks
are so intrinsic, a worldwide
web of their own. We don’t see it,
just like we don’t see the internet,
but it’s there all the same, sparking
magical mystical connections.
And there’s magic in me and mine
and he and his and we can’t own
each other but we can think about it.
We can go down deep into
all the dark places below where
the mycelial hyphae of our minds 

run like strands of Ariadne’s thread, 

under all the layers of us,

and earth is this space where
we finally touch one another,
touch the magic, and watch the light
of it spread to all of our parts.

Black and White Dream

Spring came too early,

again. It seeped in 

everywhere, overnight. Dew

glistening on green like 

sweat on skin after

making love. Sunny and 

74, too early. March 3

is not Spring. A long

afternoon walk leaves me

like dew on green - 

anew - as though everything 

wasn't breaking down,

as though I'd spent 

idle hours with 

Wang Ming's Humble Hermit

of Clouds and Woods,

having stumbled upon him

in a black and white

dream, making love between

cups of tea in his

thatched cottage, hidden

by ink branches and 

boughs of pine. And 

why not, when everything

is breaking, broken.  At least 

once before, this scene, in a 

dream, waking up

like dew on green

leaves - anew - but not

enough. I have spent days

in woods, in clouds, in

meditation, trying to find

my feet back on that

jagged path. Hermits like

to make us think that they

are wise, but I take 

my gurus with a grain of salt 

these days. Fragile as me

they are, and just

as broken. Spring has come

too early, again. And everything

is breaking,  broken, except

the black ink branches and 

pine boughs that hide 

a thatched cottage where

lives the man who

prefers silence and solitude 

to the chaos of Spring. Who

prefers his loneliness

to my black and white

dream. Who doesn't see 

everything breaking, broken, 

who doesn't see me

blinded is he 

by a warm Spring sun.

Too early.

Last Night I Dreamt of Pow Wows  

Last night I dreamt of friends long past 

Divorced from one another 

And otherwise scattered 

Lost to the winds of time 

Lost to the miles between us 

Lost to themselves  

And lost to me. 

But for a moment 

Together again. 

Some long ago powwow 

Where we laughed and sang together 

And danced under starshine 

To a drum as familiar 

As the beating of my own heart. 

I wake up  

Wanting to reach out 

Find everyone 

And bring us all together again. 

But my heart says no 

It is a time long past 

They are lost to the winds of time 

Lost to the miles between us 

Lost to themselves 

And lost to me. 

I begin my day nostalgic 

With the memory of moccasins on soft earth 

Keeping time with a drum  

That fell silent long ago. 

Making War 

The way of the peaceful warrior 

is not my way. I fight. 

Against the grain, against 

myself. Against the oppression 

of cultural expectations and 

societal norms. What is normal 

anyway, the collected insanity 

of the masses? Peace 

is not achieved without a fight. 

Inner, outer, it doesn’t matter. 

You have to slay the demons, and 

they fight back, scratching and biting 

and you bleed and your blood flows 

to all the inner and outer places. And 

They don’t go down easily, no. Begging  

and pleading and willing them away 

won’t work. You have to fight back. That’s 

why it’s important that you know how.  

You, sitting on your velvet cushion with your hands 

folded, thinking “Namaste,” you better know 

how to throw – and take – a punch. Because 

the way of the peaceful warrior is not 

achieved through the bliss 

of meditation, no. It takes the screaming of war 

to get to that place, inner or outer, 

where peace resides. It takes 

making war on yourself 

to stop making war 

on the rest of the world. It takes 

fighting back. Hard.  

And you get stronger, scrappier. And 

wounded. But the bleeding 

stops. And scarred, you put away your sword, 

for now. You can only be 

a peaceful warrior if you put 

it down completely.  

And you might. 

But I fought too long 

and too hard for the right 

to hold mine 

to just let it go. I’ll 

put it away, though. And I’ll sit 

on a velvet cushion, with 

my hands folded and think “Namaste” 

all day. I will 

be peaceful.  

I will. 

You should know, though… 

in a moment’s notice 

I can be armed  

and ready for war 

in the event 

that you choose 

to wage it. 

Poetry of the People: Jerred Metz

This week's Poet of the People is Jerred Metz. Jerred found and befriended me a decade or so ago and is my irregular lunch partner at Arabasque. We talk of poetry and prose, family and friends. He challenges me to become a better writer without losing my voice or becoming derivative of what I read; he is a gift to the poetry community of South Carolina.

Jerred Metz has had seven books of poetry, three non-fiction, and two novels published, and over one hundred poems and stories in literary journals. He taught creative writing at the University of Minnesota, Webster University, and Coker College. For fifteen years he was poetry editor for the Webster International Poetry Review. He has degrees from the University of Rhode Island (B.A., M.A., English) and the University of Minnesota (Ph.D., English and Philosophy.)

        Honey, My Muse

Her wild shadow wakes, rises, and

comes toward me. I love her,

frightening as she is, her eyes

the color of water,

her wings

battering the air.

When she flies the world unfurls

like a backdrop

behind and beneath her.

Benevolent bees

fill her hollow body

with hive and honey.

She tells me,

never minding the calendar,

“In 1929 I had to leave school to marry the banker who holds the mortgage on my poor mother’s homestead since we could no longer meet the payments. Believe me, life was no picnic, me only twelve and missing all my friends and my teachers and what if the townspeople learned that the banker had a twelve-year-old wife? I learned to cook, keep house, and please my husband in bed. Believe me, that was no easy task, me only twelve and him well into his fifties, his hair and moustache still shining black. There were no sex manuals then. Those few who had them considered themselves lucky to have books of etiquette. And this banker had been around and was particular about his sex. Oh, where could I turn? Who could I ask for help?”

           She brings me visions. 

In return, I show her

a new place to press

or kiss,

a new position,

a fresh phrase to

utter.

Muse, 

whose sacred body—

hive for queen and drone,

worker and larvae,

and honeycomb

rich with sweetness,

comes toward me

holding another poem. 

____

I created these “overheard” snatches and snippets of a private detective in Newark, New Jersey in the 1890s. Accounts of incidents in his career, each hinting at a “before” and an “after.” They are from Sad Tales and Sordid Stories: Interruptions. There are about 30 of them.

What was Not Her Astonishment 

Harland was a friend of Hattie's

of whom The night before Hattie had written to

 Charlotte of Harland, who was a friend—

"a very fine, spirited man

whom Charlotte would like,"

she thought and believed.

What was not Charlotte’s astonishment

when she found he was nothing

like the man Hattie described.

The Air was Unusually Mild 

Harland strolled out

with Charlotte before

going to the office.

The air was unusually mild

for this time of year,

such days being part of

the recent past

or far in the future.

Strange to say,

he was empty-handed.

The manuscript—

its worn wrapping

exposing some

of the contents

to public view,

which I expected

him to be carrying—

was nowhere to be seen.

I felt safe now;

I knew the lady’s name—

“Hattie the hat”—

an old schemer—

and proceeded to her boarding-place,

had her summoned,

introduced myself, mumbling

a name that sounded like that of a con

from Newark who she had heard of,

and began talking to her

about literary matters,

favoring the popular writers

over the serious ones.

Harland’s Henchmen in the Restaurant

Had they hunted her

or were they acquaintances of Harland's

who found her there by accident and

simply followed her down?

I wanted to speak with the proprietor,

but they might be customers

who always spent as much as tonight,

and clearly Charlotte was charmed by them.

I was a stranger here— 

why should the owner listen

to my meagre dribble of coin

against the music of

their smiling wallets?

“She is an Angel,” or,

"Her Eyelashes are Harpstrings Angels Thrum" 

In spite of all the assurances

I offered her Charlotte

would not single out

any of the men as her attacker.

She claimed not even to be sure

that any of them had been on

the trolley that morning.

But when I saw their shy glances

in Charlotte’s direction

I was certain she had made

An impression

upon their minds,

and now they wished

they were not thieves and murderers,

but pleasant young men

who might sit beside her and say,

"Your eyelashes are harpstrings

angels thrum.

Come with me to tented Elberon

and stroll the boardwalk,

sipping lemon ices,

sit in the breeze

at the edge of

the sea."

____

I call these epigramatics, by definition concise, clever, and amusing

1
             Homo Sapiens

       An
               Invasive
                               Species.
2

Technology
Every day
     I learn something
          I wish
               I didn’t
                    Need to know.
3
Our Quietest Meals
Are when we
eat fish.
Not that fish
makes us
more serious,
just more
careful.

4
A Simile on Free Writing
Like looking
For something
In an empty attic.

5
Catastrophe
—the Great Fuck-Up—
is Mother
and Father—
the Hermaphrodite—
of Invention.

____

Positano

Positano bites deep. It is a dream place that isn’t quite real when you are there and becomes beckoningly real after you have gone. 

                                                     John Steinbeck Harper's Bazaar, May, 1953 

I

In Ancient Days

Vesuvius’ razed Pompeii and Herculaneum

A rain of burning ash buried Positano.

Before then, on westward treks Greeks and Phoenicians

traded at Positano, so history says.

Named for the Sea God,

Poseidon in quiet and wrath—

the old cosmology still alive.

Or is this what happened?

Pirates stole  a thirteenth-century  

Black Madonna icon from Byzantium. 

When they reached the bay,

in anger at the theft, Poseidon

tore the waters in storm.

The thieves heard a shout, "Posa! Posa!”

“Put down! Put down!”

The storm-struck ship crashed,

a wreck on the shore.

Still alive, the pirates hauled

the Madonna up the steep cliff

to the village, delivered Her to

Santa Maria Assunta’s priest.

The storm stopped, the sea quieted, the sun smiled.

Good citizens of Positano ever after—the reformed pirates.

Posa. Posa. Positano

II

The Plate of Clay

Whole, then broken, buried,

unearthed, repaired with reverence.

The beauty of the broken,

The marvel of the restored,

marking its own perfection.

The border—geometry, repetition, variety,

the shapes of flowers—holds all the universe. 

The border beyond, before Chaos, its own beauty.

III

Praise Invention, Praise Conception

The artificer,

whose brush followed hand,

whose hand obeyed mind,

whose mind embodied the muse.

How much beauty can a wall contain

before bursting forth in song?

IV

Seven Sisters

The single band of cloth twirling, and breeze

 lifts to its own dance, tying sister to sister.

What song do they chant?

“Who are we?

Seven sisters, Pleiades

dance, dive,

divide and gather.

How are we called?

 Maia,

        Electra,

       Alcyone,

                            Taygete,

                           Asterope,

                Celaeno

Merope.

Seven daughters of father Titan Atlas, who holds up the sky,

and mother Ocean, Pleione, Mother to Sailors,

whose Fate she governs.

Zeus, Poseidon, and Ares fathered children

upon us, made us a small dipper

of stars in Taurus.

See us twinkle and nod,

sharing our songs in code.”

“Who are we? Half-sisters to the

seven Pleiades and the Hesperides.

We, the seven Hyades,

sisterhood of nymphs,

the rain-makers,

who fall as rain,

our weeping, rain.

When a wild beast killed the hunter Hyas we wept,

became a star cluster in Taurus’ head,

a dipper to hold our tears.

V

Perched Positano

Thanks to its location, Positano’s climate is mild—

winters warm, the summers long and sunny,

refreshed by sea breezes, and

by the landscape’s beauty.

Long, steep stair link the village high above

with the valley beneath, the sea beyond.

A hard walk down, a hard climb up.

Below, the happy throng at Positano, blissful,

bless the sea suspended in ecstasy,

bless the patient town,

the happy villas above which become

beckoningly real after you have gone.