Home2011April (Page 2)

by Erren Geraud Kelly there's nothing sadder than looking at the paper and seeing a picture of brown pelicans covered in progress this summer, kids will collect tar balls like they collect seashells the flood that came to new orleans came to nashville, too but it was just god's tears he cried in anger as he exacted  his revenge on us karma is a bitch and she always wins so, taste this toxic gumbo and enjoy it we won't care if the headphones from our cell phones give us cancer in a few years it's just a small price to pay for keeping up with the joneses isn't that what cancer is anyway, a growth that doesn't stop? enjoy your oyster po-boy while you can

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A year after the oil spill, is Gulf seafood really safe to eat, and can we trust the people, like celebrity Chef Alton Brown, who tell us it is? by Erin Z. Bass On April 20 of last year, news broke that more than 3 million barrels of crude oil were leaking into the Gulf of Mexico after an explosion on a BP rig offshore. On April 24, the Coast Guard announced that oil was leaking from two locations at a rate of 42,000 gallons a day. On April 25, that estimate was increased to 210,000 gallons, and BP announced that a third leak had been found. By April 29, the oil spill stretched 120 miles and had become a threat to the Louisiana coast, as well as the coasts of Mississippi, Alabama and Florida. Ten days later, only the smallest leak had been stopped, and engineers seriously discussed stopping the leak by stuffing in trash. Meanwhile, nearly 46,000 miles of Gulf waters became closed to fishing. By May 27, more than a month after the initial spill, the disaster was declared the largest spill in U.S. history and surpassed Exxon Valdez from 1989, which leaked about 11 million gallons into the Gulf. It

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by Nicholas Ward for Mark Edmundson and the Homeric heroes At the University they call it narcissism. But pride tastes like metal And blood. Smells like gun powder And gasoline. Sounds like hounds On a scent. Granddad said He could listen to dogs run Forever and die a happy man. It looks like nothing, eyes Closed kissing. Feels like Sweat burn, true grit, victorious. And I won’t even mention That where I’m from, they Can’t even spell narcissism, Or care to. Neither could Achilles. Nature only cares For strength and beauty, And some can’t spell beauty Either. But they know pretty And they howl righteously, Free from chains and shame, collars Gnawed off, wolves not yet forgotten. A native of Greene County, Virginia, Nicholas Ward currently lives in Charlottesville, where he is finishing his undergraduate studies at the University of Virginia. His experiences in rural central Virginia influence his work, and he is interested in bridging the gap between the world of academia at Mr. Jefferson’s University and the nearby rustic foothills of the Blue Ridge.

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Southerners and fans of Kathryn Stockett's bestseller "The Help" received exciting news last night when the trailer for the movie version of the book was released. While movie details have sort of been kept hush hush, a release date is scheduled for August 12, and excitement seems to be building. We'll keep y'all updated as more details are released and premiers planned across the South. And in case you missed it a while back, we do have a story about the movie filming in Jackson with lots of photos!

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by N. A’Yara Stein One night on the crunchy sand of Biloxi my mother lay with my father and i became I. The stars, she said, whispered; her husband was a distant silken conspirator. Afterwards, they returned to their sparring and to the delta with its raped cotton plants in reddened soil. They toiled, oiled the machines almost ferverishly as the doomed do. Don't you? Haven't you? Never? I have want of luxury but not fury. Easy promises slipped bee-like from tongues and children's ears grew numb with fear of the way things fall apart and people disappear. N. A’Yara Stein is a Romani-American poet and writer living on a chicory farm and has been nominated twice for the 2010 Pushcart Prize. Born in Memphis, she holds an MFA from the University of Arkansas and has been published in The New Orleans Review, The Birmingham Poetry Review, The Oxford American, California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Crossroads: a Journal of Southern Culture, Great Midwestern Quarterly, and Poetry Motel. She currently lives near Chicago with her sons and is looking for a book publisher. 

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by Darryl Willis Pedestals are designed for urns and figurines but not for priests and parsons. Stained glass and sacred art cannot hide a heart stained by greed and pride. And I so long ago seemed far too strong to fall victim to the lesser sins of lust and rage and drunkenness. My flock held me in respect (and I confess, not without a little awe). And when I walked into a room they turned to me and gave a smile and nod of deference. When the parish built for me a brand new parsonage to honor my long years of service I could not see what was plain as the pious look pasted on my face: how I manipulated and cajoled to get what I thought I deserved. Now as I gaze into my avaricious eyes (as in a mirror darkly) I can see all so clearly now: my glass house is filled with stones. Darryl Willis lives in Texas, and this poem was originally published in Eclectic Flash Literary Journal, Volume 1, September 2010. More of his work can be found on his blog at www.poema2009.blogspot.com.

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by Tracy Sopko As summer painted the night with thunder, Time collapsed down on the grass, his legs akimbo, his white hair mussed about his head like the stuffing pulled from a too-loved teddy bear. Soft flashes of fairy light danced in and out of the subtly bruised clouds. Death grew roots out of his walking shoes, buried his toes into the dirt, dropped his hood and made the decision to take the night off. The stillness of the Southern night was complete. Tracy Sopko was born and raised in small Florida town, hovering, like the state itself, on the fringes of Southern culture. She currently lives in Jacksonville and attends the University of North Florida.

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Harlan D. Whatley I park the blue Chevy ragtop Down by the old Coast Guard station. There are lots of cars in the parking lot Which means the beach is really crowded today. As I stroll down the sandy beach I think about how I got here And how relaxing St. Simons Island is Compared to the big city where I used to live. The people here are as friendly as can be And nobody is in a big hurry. The seafood and local cuisine is delicious And the sunsets are beautiful to watch. So when I feel a little blue I go down to the pier in the village Or sometimes I go to see old Harry Who serves me a most palatable vintage. Harlan D. Whatley is a native of North Louisiana whose poetry has been published in the Birmingham Arts Journal, Heavy Hands Ink, Papercut and Poets for Living Waters. He currently teaches English in Zhengzhou, China.

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by Lydia Ondrusek He takes the hatband off, unspools a Mississippi of black grosgrain; too long alone in the dim back room, he talks. Tells about learning to make hats, shape them to fit people to whom it was important, a good hat. A sign of who and what you were. Tells how gents wore boaters once, all summer, cool and shady. “Punched the tops out when the season ended!” I put my boater on, with its new black ribbon; tip it to my grandfather, watching from the past’s dusty mirror. He raises his own black-banded boater in salute to summer, and to me. A good hat is important. Lydia Ondrusek lives in Richardson, Texas, and often writes about Southern experiences and locations. She has had fiction and poetry published online and in print since 2008 in a diverse range of publications that include Flash Fiction Online and Falling Star Magazine. Follow her on Twitter @littlefluffycat.

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by Timothy Perior My wife and I began in Maryland and ended up in a small town in Georgia. The house is one of those large, almost mansion things on a couple of acres, built pre-civil war. It is great for writing. We love it. This morning I was rummaging about in the attic. In an obscure corner I came across an old disintegrating cloth wrapped package. Between the darkness and the dust I almost missed it. I unwrapped the remains of a shawl to find a brittle leather portfolio. Inside I found a quarter inch of family financial records; among them a hand written sheet of aged, fine stationery. This is what it said. Oh my darling may I write Of the worry and the care tonight; For in the wind a rumor swirls And twists the soul of all the girls. For no man is here to save; No strength of army brave. What color will we look and see? Not gray with red striped lovely. Will the coats of color blue Come to wreak the devil's due; To march into our happy home And cast us to forever roam? Oh, gallant love, this verse is better Than if I penned a fretful letter. My breaking heart could stop this time If I don't fight my mind for rhyme. I think of you that storm inside Of those that

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