HomePosts Tagged "poetry" (Page 36)

by Gina C. Simon Stir, stir, stir. Wipe away tears as smoke fills my eyes, my face, the whole room. Do not stop stirring. Stir, stir, stir. Jump back swiftly from popping grease threatening severe burns. Do not stop stirring. Stir, stir, stir. Breathe a short sigh as the mixture finally changes colors. Do not stop stirring. Stir, stir, stir. Turn the fire off. Darkening still. Slowly, slowly it cools. At last, stop stirring. So why do we bother with this primitive skill, that began in ancient times, maybe further back still? When it comes to a Cajun’s perfect gumbo or stew, the only way to start is with a homemade roux. Gina C. Simon is a writer/songwriter who grew up in the Acadiana region of Louisiana and recently relocated to Mississippi.

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by Vanessa K. Eccles In the night of the South, There is a song that is played. That is made with wings, not with mouth, And with passing hours doesn’t fade. Every day at dark, Their music begins to play. It’s the night’s lovely mark, That reminds me of home when I’m away. A never-ending song of summer From these tiny creatures of God. They sing a beautiful little number, While they’re nestled in the sod. Often times I love to sit, And listen to the nature’s track. In a world that somehow I fit, Although, often I lack. In this world of God’s own hand, He left us a piece of Heaven above. Nature’s own perfect band, That reminds us of His love. When peace escapes you And city life becomes long, Return home to the place you knew, And listen for the cricket’s song. Vanessa K. Eccles is currently an English major at Troy University in Dothan, Alabama, as well as a former intern at Deep South. She completed her first novel last year and is working on her second.

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The Killer by Gary Bloom The last time I saw him he Was at the Jazz Fest in New Orleans A hot spring day at the Fair Grounds A black piano in a muddy field With Jerry Lee Lewis pounding the keys Like his life depended on it. A bottle of beer was up there On the piano, like a candelabra Between songs he would Take a swig or two Do a little dance And get back to work, The beer a metaphor For hard living and wild women, The piano on its last legs Getting pounded to death. Missed Exit by Gary Bloom After twenty years of driving The same road to the same job I wonder what it would be like To keep going on I10 West, all the way to California. What would it have been like To have lived out there, say San Diego. Would I have Married a Mexican girl? Would I have kids? What would it have Been like if just Once I missed exit 53 And kept going on I10 Through New Orleans, through The Texas hill country And the Arizona desert All the way to the blue Pacific. What would that have been like? Airmen At The Mall by Gary Bloom They walk in pairs One wingman, the other Leading the way. They are fresh out of Keesler And look to be about twelve. In their bus driver blue uniforms They could be headed For the Catholic high school. But here

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by Martha Lyons It’s a Sunday afternoon And I’m watching To Kill a Mockingbird again. I’ve read the book and Seen the movie I don’t know how many times. It takes me home To a small southern town, Deep in summer. The air hot and humid, Heavy with the sweet scent of honeysuckle. Children can play outside In the mysterious summer night. Inside, the windows are open and Curtains sway gently, Blown by a lazy fan. Summer sadness Is not lost on a child, who dreams Of popsicles and bike rides, And playing marbles in the dust Under an old maple tree. 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 "Southern Funeral," also published in our "Poetry" section, help her stay in touch with her Southern roots and feel closer to home. 

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by Ross Cavins A typical Summer Sunday in my childhood … Seventy degrees and sunny, a puffy white cloud here and there. Afternoon softball games with relatives in the oversized front yard. Children and grown-ups play without perspiring, The aroma of honeysuckles strong and sweet in the warm air. Fun is everywhere; The newly cut thick green carpet of centipede grass spongy beneath our feet, The freshly oiled leather gloves soft in our hands, The crack of the bat and a friendly scream to run, A bright laughter dancing in everyone's eyes, Sweet tea with ice cubes and tart lemon wedges sweating in old jelly jar glasses. Afterwards, the charcoal is doused with lighter fluid from a squeezy metal can, Salad is tossed with store-bought iceberg lettuce, garden-grown juicy tomatoes, Julienne carrot strips, hot-tasting radishes, slivers of green and red bell peppers, Slices of vine-ripened cucumbers. Hamburger patties are lumpy, hand-made with Worcestershire sauce and ketchup and Onion soup mix and minced garlic. Placed on the grill when it's hot enough to sizzle, Grease-fed orange flames engulfing them with hisses of smoky flavor. The ice cream maker is plugged in and filled with milk and sugar and Vanilla extract and mashed bananas, surrounded by rock salt and ice and Running like a sputtering outboard motor. Buns are toasted with pats of real butter

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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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