Welcome, dreamers. I have always imagined that the poetry experience of Appalachian Places happens around a table in the corner of some favorite old spot, like the elongated circle booth by the jukebox at the much-missed Poor Richard’s on the corner of West Walnut and University Parkway in Johnson City. But this is your dream, too, kind reader, and you may prefer a table by the window in a 1920s Left Bank Parisian café, or a Greenwich Village dive from the middle 1950s. Wherever you imagine us to be, we are joined by five excellent poets, including my own first poetry teacher at the University of Tennessee, Connie Jordan Green. Danny P. Barbare joins us from South Carolina, and emerging writer Morgan Boyer from Pennsylvania. We reconnect with our earlier incarnation, Now & Then Magazine, with new work from a founding editor, Fred Waage. We have four unforgettable new poems from Middlesboro, Kentucky, native, and current Johnson City resident, Larry D. Thacker. Larry is my longtime poetry collaborator — we met during my first year of college at Lincoln Memorial University — and a dynamic visual artist and musician as well as poet and fiction writer.
Before we settle in with these fine poems, we need to place chairs at the head of the table in remembrance of poets lost in recent months: Bill Brown of Nashville, teacher and inspiration to many readers and writers in our region; Robert B. Cumming of Oak Ridge, Tennessee, who published some of the most important books of Appalachian poetry through his Iris Press; and Fred Chappell, a native of Canton, North Carolina, luminary of American letters, contributor to Appalachian Places (read Fred Chappell's previous contributions here), and one of the greatest writers in our literature. Farewell to our departed friends.
— Jesse Graves, Appalachian Places poetry editor
Connie Jordan Green: 'Coffee'; 'Putting the Garden to Bed'; 'Raspberries'; 'To the Streetlight That Isn’t There'; 'Silence'
Connie Jordan Green lives on a farm in Loudon County, Tennessee. Her publications include award-winning novels for young people, The War at Home and Emmy (Margaret McElderry imprint of Macmillan, reissued by Iris Publishing); poetry chapbooks, Slow Children Playing and Regret Comes to Tea (Finishing Line Press); poetry collections, Household Inventory, winner of the Brick Road Poetry Press 2013 Award, and Darwin’s Breath (Iris Press). Her poetry has been nominated for Pushcart awards.
Coffee
My grandfather saucered
his morning cup of coffee—
poured the steaming liquid
into the saucer, extended
his upper lip and blew over
the surface of the coffee,
ripples rising like waves
we kids imagined on oceans
we had never seen, the mountains
enclosing us as securely
as the walls of the tiny kitchen
where my grandmother stood
before the woodstove, flipping
Pa Bert’s once-over-lightly
eggs just the way he liked them,
pausing to pour more coffee
from the stovetop percolator
that bubbled and boiled,
another morning in what
my cousins and I thought
was a never-ending childhood.
Putting the Garden to Bed
Beyond the dying bean plants only the okra
stretches tall, milky white flowers opening
atop sturdy stalks — saucer for hummingbird
and bee — tomato vines loosen their grip
on the hog-fencing where they climbed all summer,
and along the wooden fence, gourds dry, stem
and leaves shriveled remnants of what once clambered
hand-over-hand up the boards, crawled over the railings.
Summer is done with the garden, has brushed
from her skirts May’s hopes, June’s enthusiasm,
July’s dogged determination, whining August.
She has gathered her straggly children, moved on,
only this okra, these few gourds, a handful
of half-ripe tomatoes to wave her on,
wait for what comes next, darkness sliding down
the mountains, settling gently into this valley.
Raspberries
His practiced hand
plucked the ripe fruit —
red raspberries, black ones
gentled into a pail.
Winter days he pruned
the canes, cut away
last summer’s fruited
stems, gave space
to the next crop,
bloom and berry
that would thrive
on the silvery-
purple canes. Fruit
knew him, grew
from his touch,
vining berry or tree
hung with apple, peach,
plum or pear. His calm
steps around the orchard,
his quiet voice as he talked
to me, explained sucker,
water sprout, what should go
to leave tree or shrub fruitful.
Ten years after his death
a last package
of red raspberries
lies shriveled in my freezer,
my hand lingering
over it, no will
to toss this final
tribute to his skill.
To the Streetlight That Isn’t There
Each evening here in the country, we praise
your absence, night a dark coverlet we nestle
beneath, only a lamp to light the book on our
laps, to draw moths to our windows.
Friend of city dwellers, you are not welcome
where owls call their questions all night —
who, who, who cooks for you? We leave you
to those who want midnight bright as noonday,
who fear the soft path through the woods,
that trail our feet see without benefit of light.
Last evening I watched the harvest moon rise
like a pumpkin in the east, and in a few weeks
I’ll stand beneath the bowl of sky where stars
line up in their ancient patterns — Andromeda,
Cassiopeia, Cepheus, Pisces — home to galaxies
spinning through the heavens, light to our longing.
Silence
I am learning about silence
how at the end of day a hush
lies over the fields where
earlier crows spread
their ebony wings
in the singing sun.
I am examining the way
water slips between creek
banks, carries a mute leaf
on its journey to become
silt, forgets the melody
that brought it over the falls
and past the tuning rocks.
I am studying the quiet
in the room after you
have gone, parsing
the way shadows move
from corner to corner
spreading a blanket that
stills the lingering
vibration of footfalls.
I am preparing for a quiet
deep as the universe, a silence
that moves among the spinning
stars, a stillness disturbed
only by the whisper
of imagination.
Danny P. Barbare: 'My Aunt and Uncle’s'; 'Sandburg’s House'; 'The View at Black Mountain'
Danny P. Barbare loves traveling in the mountains of North Carolina. Especially the Blue Ridge Parkway during autumn that has inspired many of his poems. His poetry has recently been published in Rapid River Arts and Culture Magazine, North Dakota Quarterly, and Free Inquiry. Also, he has a collection of poems available through Barnes & Noble. He lives in Greenville, South Carolina, with his wife.
My Aunt and Uncle’s
I love to go here
where the engine bell is on
top of an iron
beam pole,
and dogs
are barking in the
boarding house, in my
memory there are Tab
drinks, a Cub Cadet
for tilling soil and
there is that
sweet delicious cream
corn, why I’m always going
back for seconds.
Sandburg’s House
A Sunday drive to the
mountains
a house on a nook
sunset, the village
asleep
under a hemlock tree
historic
thanks to Mr.
Sandburg, poets
following in his path
around the pond
dreaming of
dirtying a piece of
paper, the songbirds
come calling.
The View at Black Mountain
The pen has a view. So it wants
me to
pick it up and make
a picture out of words.
The squirrel goes
chirp, chirp
as acorns tatter
through the leaves of
yellow, gold, red, and
orange
and bounce on the
ground
as a leaf wafts and
swirls down.
The sun shines on the
wood as the cool
shade is below.
This a view as seen
through the hotel room
window.
The ink sets at Black Mountain.
Morgan Boyer: 'Me As a House Painter'; 'Gray'
Morgan Boyer is the author of The Serotonin Cradle (Finishing Line Press, 2018) and a graduate of Carlow University. Boyer has been featured in Kallisto Gaia Press, Thirty West Publishing House, Oyez Review, Pennsylvania English, and Voices from the Attic. Boyer is a neurodivergent bisexual woman. She resides in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.
Me As a House Painter
If I didn’t have the “sacred” disease,
I’d be a house painter who gets up
with the chariot of the dawn, jumping
into the car seat. I’d blast Yoasobi to
annoy my country music-loving co-worker
from the farmhouse in Fayette to the 7-11 in Greene
I’d pull tape off as if to untangle a spider’s web,
then I’d cloak the carpet in the child’s room
with a sheet of splatters from rooms past,
from the office of the old lady to the bachelor pad
I’d blast second-generation KPOP to block
out the whistles of the bearded men in white t-shirts
who’d stare at my uneven rounds of ass,
shrouded by patterned off-brand leggings
I’d let the country-loving coworker blast Kenny Chesney
on the way back to the warehouse where we’d part ways
until the chariot of the dawn arose again
Gray
the gray of the coming dawn
of another dreary day,
filled with rain-tattered roof tiles
that sit still soaked by water poured
out by God’s carpeted ceiling,
while coughs crowd grocery store aisles
and packed Amazon warehouses,
speaking the same scream
for mercy from a different strain.
It’s days like this that make me ponder about how
a young Sir Isaac Newton, in the midst
of the Second Great Bubonic Plague,
spent his days locked away likely as I have,
stowed quietly away like a porcelain doll
behind latched doors to collect cobwebs,
jotting down whatever thoughts came to his mind,
every now and then his eyes occasionally gazing
upward at an untouchable outside world
waiting for the end only to be greeted by a beginning
Fred Waage: 'Dreaming'; 'The Elder'
Fred Waage is Professor Emeritus at ETSU, and founding editor of Now & Then, an ancestor of Appalachian Places. He taught at ETSU since 1978, with special interest in creative writing and environmental literature. He’s the author of scholarly books and articles, and “creative” works including Sinking Creek Journal: An Appalachian Book of Days, and most recently November (poetry).
Dreaming
Most every night when I am flushed with heat,
Tossing, sculpturing my pillow fruitlessly,
The border collies round our bed astir,
And windchimes restless, pricking peace away,
When finally dreamtime forces itself in,
I find no solace, no fresh new Edenic
Garden of illusion, nor clear still ponds
To mirror your sweet body clasping mine.
No, always I am lost in labyrinthine
Cities, searching for a station, packing
Too late for a flight, my destination ever
One street over, or my ticket lost.
So, when I unarrived, awake, I ask myself:
Was I en route to visit you, Sweet Death?
The Elder
Bent almost double,
she was guided by
her grandson; her cane
confirmed the sphynx’s
riddle, we all watched
covertly, using
her image to feel
young still, but when she
was seated, looking
up, we could discern
within her face that
other magic face,
that young girl’s face,
living still
Larry D. Thacker: 'Collection'; 'You can reach for a hammer'; 'That Moment'; 'Casting'
Larry D. Thacker’s poetry and fiction can be found in over 200 publications. His books include four full poetry collections, two chapbooks, as well as the folk history, Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His two collections of short fiction include Working it Off in Labor County and Labor Days, Labor Nights, as well as a co-authored short story collection, Everyday, Monsters. His MFA in poetry and fiction is from West Virginia Wesleyan College.
Collection
We horde. Gather unto ourselves
things our minds declare can surely fashion
the finest nests of comfort. Prickly. Jagged.
Or soft as thoughts of our first suckle at the breast.
Whatever we pull in, hug around as barricade
cannot hurt as badly as the evil world.
Or what might hide within.
We horde. Stuff it all in boxes, stacked,
unmarked. Unpack and repack. Cram it
in bags and bags, piled in collapsing pyramids.
Stare it down over time. Or how long forgotten?
Folded, leaning in corners. Undusted.
Packed in plastic. A thing wrapped, held
to a failing heart through dark crowding like quilts
sewn up of six-year-old junk mailings,
birthday cards, a hundred half-burned candles.
We horde. Afraid. Of? Someone might:
happen over a part of us down in the archaeology,
recognize our lost limbs, a smile, a missed queue.
Who rounds up the pieces, sets right
the cockeyed drawers overflowing
with mismatched socks and scarves, little Bibles,
purses, the bags of Christmas bows?
We horde. In case we forget.
The little stacks of journals, calendars full
of familiar marginalia. Budgeting. Scripture.
Dates. Practiced scribble across page after page
while talking on the phone with family.
Passwords: back into what?
Back to where?
Remainders. What to drag out by the hair
of its head, skin of its teeth, by the britches,
away from rooms, hallways, out the backdoor,
across the backyard to the glowing burn barrel.
Over and over.
Have we held down enough fire to do our duty?
To set final flame to the heavy, airless weight
pressed into the container. Is there a place,
back in the house, where all the air is freed up
now, were collections of motel and campaign
matchbooks are hidden, where a box of Zippos
with a dab of remaining fluid might be found?
Anything with a little hot light left.
To strike. A spark for the fire. For making
new ash. Not to keep, but to loose
like hordes released from sleep.
You can reach for a hammer
all your life, use the implement
for its mundane, intended purpose,
but there will come a time, hopefully,
when a hesitancy works its way
into those laboring movements.
Who’s to say when a young man
reaches that threshold, when he one day
picks up a tool — a hammer or ax,
a plain knife, a garden spade —
and suddenly knows, or, at least,
senses the long history of a thing,
the essence of an instrument’s presence
over the years, the storied generations.
That’s the sudden new attentiveness,
a moment of consideration before
going on and driving a nail, or taking
a limb off a tree, or cutting a twine bale.
The gift of wondering. Asking.
Realizing you’re part of the question.
That Moment
I remember my father slipping out of the house
early Sunday mornings, walking down to the church
long before Sunday School and regular services,
to start up a stack of albums on a player in a tiny closet.
These were church organ albums, songs of chimes
and bells, choirs, pumped up through loudspeakers
mounted on top of the church building and heard
across the east side of town. As the rest of us
were home, a block away, getting ready, the music
sounded like it played in the air over the house
in an echoing, almost ghostly manner, like angels
I sometimes thought. There was comfort in knowing
what my father was doing at that very moment
as his hands filed through the old albums,
set the playing arm, double checked the player,
turned off the closet light with the little bulb chain,
closed the door and made his way out of the building,
locking the church behind himself, before
walking home to us to the sound of calling angels.
Casting
“And tell me, people of Orphalese,
what have you in these houses?
And what is it you guard with fastened doors?”
The Prophet, Kahlil Gibran
What did I expect, casting runes at these crumbled foundations?
What divining had I hoped for, turning up my medicine bag
of bone shards, willow branch, and crystal on the dirt where
I played as a child? What answers linger in this churned, filthy
bulldozer mud, once my grandfather’s fertile garden, that fed us
giant tomatoes, corn sweetness, and the greenest peppers?
Are you tempted to carry off broken strips of magic bark
from the willow my father grew from a sapling, a tree I watched
grow from my childhood window? What is under the chunked
asphalt where they’ve leveled the restaurant, where my mother’s,
mother’s home stood for sixty years? Old rusted jacks played
once belonging to my grandmother? Can I take this handful
of spared creeping phlox to transplant in my yard? Drag my shoes
along the rust of this basement’s combined heap, the essence
of my father’s woodwork and aging tools clinging to my heels?
This canned food label from my mother’s cabinets, is it worth
keeping? Why inhale the dirt like I might preserve some hint
of a spell they’ve tried to crush to unrecognizable heaps?
Because the message is in here still, down in the twisted
and crashed mess, wanting a voice if it might be translated.