Sarah Mitchell Sonnet

I don't know why I always turn to sonnets when I think of writing in forms. The sonnet is entirely unnatural to me. It counters my narrative instinct. Maybe that is why I seek it out. For limits. For balance. Anyway, I have attempted at last the Sarah Mitchell poem. I see now that it will have to be a series, sonnets or no, but here is one offering. Matt's own poem from his March 25th posting inspired me to post one of my own. Reactions to this poem are welcome, since it looks like it might turn into a long term project (if it wasn't already!).

X: In which Potawatomi braves capture Sarah "Sallie" Mitchell, "sister-cousin" to Nancy Hanks

Just as we approached the river, Dan
stopped. Thinking I'd ask if this were the Rockcastle,
I opened my mouth, but he half-spun and ran.
Just like that, the Indians surrounded us until
they formed a knot, became a ganglion, a net.
My mother fell. Run, Sallie. Salleee!
she screamed. Or was it Dan? His hand out,
a shaky bridge across the water. My knees
pushed against my skirts. I hiked them up.
My twelve-year-old body a single pulsing thought:
Run! Thought moved muscle into motion, but
how could I not pause to look toward Mama
where she lay, a heap of skirts. His knife
would take her scalp but slice in two my life.

I'm not sure if that ending is cheesy. I think it might be. The idea I am trying to convey, or rather the image, as I have said before is the one of the blade of the knife separating two eras. I don't think I've been successful, but it's something, and it's on paper (on screen?). Let me know what you think.

Peace,

Jill

P. S. The image is artist Bradley Schmehl's rendering of the capture scene.

Reverse Ekphrasis Project

I'll be reading two poems April 23 at the Reverse Ekphrasis Project Literary Reading. The project is sponsored by Morehead State University and will take place in the Claypool-Young Strider Gallery at 6pm, (on the campus of MSU). The event showcases collaborations of visual and literary artists: (artists are assigned literary texts and produce visual representations). It's an exciting project facilitied by Crystal Wilkinson. I'm looking forward to the interpretation of my poems. If you're around the area, I invite you to join us. 

Matt

http://www.moreheadstate.edu/arts/index.aspx?id=35094

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=75382580244

Cold Spring Day

Beautiful poem, Matt. I particularly like the nod to Maxine Kumin. One can easily see why poets celebrate spring.

Here it has been cold the last few days. Green. Blooming. And cold. "April is the cruelest month." The weather also makes me think of Leonie Adams's "April Mortality":

Rebellion shook an ancient dust,
And bones, bleached dry of rottenness,
Said: Heart, be bitter still, nor trust
The earth, the sky, in their bright dress.

Heart, heart dost thou not break to know
This anguish thou wilt bear alone?
We sang of it an age ago,
And traced it dimly upon stone.

With all the drifting race of men
Thou also art begot to mourn
That she is crucified again,
The lonely Beauty yet unborn.

And if thou dreamest to have won
Some touch of her in permanence,
'Tis the old cheating of the sun,
The intricate lovely play of sense.

Be bitter still, remember how
Four petals, when a little breath
Of wind made stir the pear-tree bough,
Blew delicately down to death.


Even though I've longed for the return of spring, I can't help but notice the inherent decay in all this birth. The already wilted daffodils. The falling pear blossom. The snowflakes? Wait, that's just nature's April Fools. But the newness fades so quickly. Gosh, what a downer.

It'll be warmer tomorrow.

--Jill

Essay on Spring

What's a poetry blog without poetry? Here's something I've been working on today, sans punctuation because that's always the last thing. Enjoy,

Matt





Almost always first the pear tree
Smelling like some stray dog you found on the side of the road
Starved but looking good, good, all white
And bobbing in a sea of new green
Then Daffodils, what you call Easter flowers
Clusters of Tiger Lily reeds
And the strange, familiar smell of warm growing things
Like cowshit, the effluvia of straw and wild onions
On the first day of sun
Real sun that melts like butter on your face
And days of rain too, with wind scattering the water
Across your neck almost like the salt spray of the ocean
And the tiny hairs sticking up for a moment
Just long enough for you to remember
The morning walk down the long hallway
Slouched a bit to hold your son's hand
Rows and rows of artwork covering the walls
Tiny handprints on colored construction paper
And in each classroom
Tucking a length of hair behind her ear
The teacher turns and bends among the children
The miniature tables and chairs
In the closest room, voices begin to sing
Good morning, good morning, good morning to you
The day is beginning, there's so much to do

Readings and Captives

In a word, Kathleen's reading from Seed Across Snow was wonderful. I only wish it had been longer! Her long poem, "Overture," which she jokingly called the trailer for her book, captivated me as her poems (and her voice) do, especially the image (I almost wrote "scene;"it really was cinematic) of the stricken neighbor and the fluttering red envelopes. So beautiful. I tried to get a copy, but the bookstore closed right after the reading, much to my dismay. So I have ordered it from Village Lights, our new independent bookstore in town. Expect more commentary on Driskell's poems soon.

In other news, I had a reading of my own Tuesday. It will be a good story for the Humble Beginnings file. It was supposed to be a "poetry in the round" affair-- one other poet showed up, and the bookstore owner and my two month old daughter, Esphyr, were our audience. But this is not a complaint! Nita West and I read back and forth to each other and had a blast. Time flew! She has promised to send me an offering for the blog, so you can look forward to that as well.

I have another solo (gulp!) reading tonight, also at That Book Place (that's really its name) at 6pm. My parents will be there, if nothing else.

As for my little captive heroine poem, it is still nascent, alas. But growing. As are all living things that have been so long dormant. Get outside! Enjoy.

Jill

KPA

In my last post, I mentioned some upcoming readings. One of these took place at the Kentucky Philological Association Conference (KPA) a couple weeks ago.

I could complain about how poorly my own reading went; but I'd rather take this opportunity to remember the poets whose work was so astounding.

Don Boes, author of The Eighth Continent

Gregory Hagan, editor of Gadfly, read a hilarious poem entitled "Why I Cross-dress"

Mari Stanley, an old friend and fellow Spalding graduate, whose poem "Marooned" can be found at Garbanzo!

Kelly Moffett, author of Waiting for a Warm Body to Fill It

Donelle Dreese, author of A Wild Turn

Nettie Farris, lecturer in the Depart of English at University of Louisville

Charles Daughaday, editor of Tales from the Plum Grove Hills (Jesse Stuart)


Thanks for sharing your work. I really enjoyed everyone's selections.

-Matthew Vetter

P.S. In other news, Spring Break! and (almost) Spring-like weather conditions.

The Writer Who Doesn't Write

Since Matt opened the door, I thought I'd make a full confessional. I haven't been writing. I have actually done some research for the Sarah Mitchell poem. That's the girl who was captured by Native Americans/Indians, whichever you prefer. Now I am torn. I don't know whether to write something long and sprawling, like a ballad, which was my original intent, or taut and tense, like a sonnet or a small open verse poem. The painting that my cousin sent me is of course the latter, because, well, it's a painting, so it has to freeze time in a single moment. So if I'm working from that, then the small lyric makes more sense. And if I listen to Simonides, I should work from that: poetry is painting that speaks, painting is poetry that is silent. It's a useful test. I'm very interesting in the image of the blade. In the painting, a warrior stands over Mitchell's mother with his knife raised. I know from the historical accounts that she was scalped. So I'm going to sit with that frozen-moment image for a while.

A few things I am looking forward to: 1) Kathleen Driskell and Tori McClure's readings at Spalding next Tuesday. 2) A couple of readings of my own the following week here in town at That Book Place. Hopefully, some of the poets in Women. Period. will join me for at least one of those. Must get the word out. If you are reading this and your poem is in the book, email me.

Alright, I must go out and enjoy the sunshine. It's 75 degrees!

Happy days,

Jill