by Ted Olson

When I began writing this monthly column for Rapid River Magazine in June 2009, I thought I’d primarily be reviewing books by contemporary Appalachian poets. I did so more or less regularly for about a year, but then began to explore other territory….for no other reason than there were many other territories to explore. Thereafter, I often turned my attention to the poetry of other countries and other cultures. I’ve periodically returned in my Rapid River Magazine columns to my original focus on Appalachia, writing reviews of particularly interesting poetry books from regional poets.

Over the past year or so, I have frequently avoided the traditionally analytical role of the reviewer and have instead responded to the world of poetry as an unself-conscious fan. This column will follow along that vein.

Below are some recent poems by five exciting poets from across Appalachia. These poems are somewhat arbitrarily selected from the memorable books in which they originally appeared, all published in the past year. My hope and recommendation is that if you like the poems, you will seek out the books. You’ll not regret becoming more familiar with these poets and those books.

Conversation

by Thomas Rain Crowe

Let the god-knows-what be brown as earth
on skin and bone
Let the young morning become soft night and the disappearing dew
become stone
Let the open nectar of flowers be like bald meadows
high on The Roan
Let the murmur of song sparrows seep from rivers
melted from frost and fire
Let wet smoke bloom and dance after soft rain goes wild
blushing at blue wind fecund of flickers and rise higher.

from Every Breath Sings Mountains

[Voices from the American Land, Vol. II, No. 3, 2011]

 

Axed by a FAX

by Kennon Webber

He had just returned from his 2 week vacation when

He got the Word:
…services no longer…clean out your desk by…

His final check arrived by mail with a curt note
“Don’t fail to apply for COBRA”

Plus a cheery reminder from
Human Resources to sign up
ASAP for employment counseling and an
Anger management seminar

Job search networking scheduled soon
A precise date forthcoming

Yes, axed by a FAX, just when it was no longer
The Job but a way of life

But he had heard for years that over-55
Men and women were disappearing from the

National work force
Now, he was going to find out where they went.

from Leo Poems [an internal chapbook in Minotaur #60, 2011]

 

Punch

by Linda Parsons Marion

I fought it for years, buying cigars for a man
Who kicked cancer’s ass, beat heart attacks, TIAs.
Then asking his favorites, I left the tobacconist
With a boxful of Punch Deluxe. A premium smoke,
He strokes the Sumatran wrapper like a foreskin,
Blend of fine Honduran broadleaf he wets in the O
Of his lips. He tells of visiting Castro’s Havana, late
‘60s, clandestine factory tour in treacherous times,
loco Americano slipping in the sifde door. Coffee-dark
workers handed him fresh fresh Maduros, sealed with a hark
of spit. Although Tampa, or maybe that trip to the Bahamas,
is the closest my father ever sailed to Cuba, I let him
disembark on its turquise shore, let sand scuff his shoes,
canefields sweeten every inlet for miles. He taps ash
on his pantleg, inhales revolution, the sweating rollers
and cutters, the spice routes of old. To get the last dib
of good, he screws the hot stub in a corncob pipe
and draws to the bitter end.

from Bound [Wind Publications, 2011]

 

Devil’s Snuff

by Jesse Graves

My cousin David and I made sport of it,
Ranging into the woods to see who
Could turn up the most,
Then smashed our shoes
Down on the knobby brown heads of dust—

The devil felt so real to me that I trembled a little
At the spores spreading wide in the air,
His hot breath breaking
Loose upon the earth,
Our laughter another sign that he owned us.

from Tennessee Landscape with Blighted Pine [Texas Review Press, 2011]

 

Gather

by Rose McLarney

Some springs, apples bloom too soon.
The trees have grown here for a hundred years, and are still quick
to trust that the frost has finished. Some springs,
pink petals turn black. Those summers, the orchards are empty
and quiet. No reason for the bees to come.

Other summers, red apples beat hearty in the trees, golden apples
glow in sheer skin. Their weight breaks branches,
the ground rolls with apples, and you fall in fruit.

You could say, I have been foolish. You could say, I have been fooled.
You could say, Some years, there are apples.

from The Always Broken Plates of Mountains [Four Way Books, 2012]

Rapid River Magazine’s 2012 Poetry Contest Winners –>