HomePosts Tagged "poetry" (Page 30)

by Martha Lyons The sweat trickles between my shoulder blades and down my back. It is hot as hell in this room. Papa died two days ago. We are all waiting in a small white clapboard church In a small north Louisiana town To say our final goodbyes. The air is almost visible with humidity. There is a sound – the whoosh of paper fans. I catch a whiff of Shalimar. Finally the speaking is over and it is time for the last viewing. I leave through the front door. I do not want to see. The empty grave is waiting for its owner. Martha Lyons was born and raised in Winnsboro, Louisiana, and received her BA in English from the University of Louisiana at Monroe. She was halfway through a master’s degree in literature when her husband (now ex) took her away to Orange County, California. She took up writing again through classes at a junior college there and "was lucky enough to have Michelle Mitchell-Foust as my professor, and she gave me the courage to write," says Martha. Poems like this one and another, titled "Mockingbird Summer," which we'll run later in the season, help her stay in touch with her Southern roots and feel closer to home. 

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The following poem was the winning entry in Gulf Shores/Orange Beach, Alabama's contest in celebration of National Poetry Month in April. by Denise McKinney of Selma, Alabama Gulf Shores is my favorite place Such a friendly, pretty, open space Beautiful beaches, waves and sunsets Having to leave will be your only regrets Looking forward to my return Swimming, tanning and even the sun burn Gulf Shores is my favorite town Fun during the day and when the lights go down So come for a visit You don't want to miss it White sandy beaches Warm rays of sun Gulf Shores has all of the family fun!

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A Q&A With Tupelo Poet Patricia Neely-Dorsey by Erin Z. Bass Patricia Neely-Dorsey grew up in Tupelo, Miss., and is a 1982 graduate of Tupelo High School. She attended Boston University, then moved to Memphis for almost 20 years, before returning to her home state in 2007. Moving back into the house she grew up in sparked lots of memories that first year, so much so that Dorsey began to write down her thoughts on paper. Her book of poems, "Reflections Of A Mississippi Magnolia," was published in February of 2008. In honor of National Poetry Month, Dorsey spoke with Deep South about her style of poetry, growing up in Mississippi and how she was influenced by writers like Eudora Welty. With titles like "Mississippi Through and Through, "Southern Man," Right to Vote" and "Making Cracklings," there's no denying the sense of place in Dorsey's writing. You can find several of her poems from the book in our Southern Voice section, and her book is sold on Amazon, at Reed's Gum Tree Bookstore in Tupelo and several other independent bookstores in Mississippi. How did you start writing poetry? I never thought about being a writer. It kind of came to me in my sleep

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The following four poems by Patricia Neely-Dorsey of Tupelo, Mississippi, were taken from her book "Reflections Of A Mississippi Magnolia" in honor of National Poetry Month in April. Read our interview with her here.  Preaching Sunday In the old country church, Preaching Sunday was quite a big deal; In just a few words, I'll give you a feel. White gloved ushers monitor each bench and pew, Wearing uniforms starched to look like brand new. Little girls decked out in ruffles and bows, Sit with mothers in hats sharp From their heads to their toes. The minister quotes scriptures With deep breaths And a long pause, He makes so dramatic each and every clause. At the end of the message, when some hymn is sung, Shouts ring out between every rung. There's jerking and fanning and some falling out, Small ones wonder what all the commotion's about. When everything's over and the service is done, Everyone enjoys a grand feast on the lawn. Neighborhood Groceries Asby's Mayhorn's Cherry Street Pickled Souse Rag Bologna Liver Cheese Dill Pickles in a jar Penny Cookies Coconut Chocolate Chip And Butter Stage Planks Moon Pies Apple Sticks Tootsie Rolls Point out what you want Behind the glass. Service with a smile. Home folks you know. Right to Vote I love to hear the stories, That my mama and daddy tell; Sometimes, we'll just sit a while, And they'll talk for a spell. They've told me of how hard it was, For

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by Darrell Bourque Since that afternoon years ago when my mother put us on our knees and told us she was leaving, I have placed myself in the world, measured myself against the horizon, let the sky cover me like some angel bird hovering. I have seen wide ribbons of pine making a trot-line at the earth's edge. I have studied things up-close; stunted trees growing out of rock. I have gone beyond tree lines where grasses open seedpods like prayers. I have stood at the water's edge and wobbled, and still no one knows who knifed the unreadable lettering on my mother's new cedar chifferobe that day. She and my father drove to town to buy garfish for our usual Friday supper at my aunt's house. We were questioned again on her return but no one confessed -through the fish cleaning, the seasoning, the frying. I can't remember when exactly we laughed and ran through the yard with our cousins. It was night when we went home. We were happy. Just last week, some fifty years later, one of us brings it up in my mother's presence. She has not walked for years and it is no big matter to her now, but none of us are fessing up today either. We all know who didn't do it, and one of us knows who did. Bourque's poem tells the story

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