A man from Texas said: “I live in Texas
We have no fiddles in Texas.” The reason they’ve no
fiddles in Texas is because they have records
in Texas. Remove the records from Texas
and someone will learn to fiddle in West Virginia.
I am Virginia
I was Virginia
I am to be Virginia
I was to be Virginia
I am being Virginia
I was being Virginia
I had been being Virginia
I have been Virginia
I had been Virginia
I will have been being Virginia
I will be Virginia
I will be being Virginia
I will have been Virginia
I have been being Virginia;
-Logan K. Young
"The poem explores the "ordinary extraordinary" quite well and the inner workings of human desire and dreams that we all share. "The Nap" also gives place to the deep mystery that pervades our lives and the Spirit working through us in the unseen." T. Byron Kelly, N/S Editor
The ceiling fan pushing,
no, dropping the air down
in the rhythm of the blades
going round lulled me to sleep,
to take a nap
something I rarely do,
but I was thinking of you
and that you I have yet
to know so i drifted into dream,
one of love.
Of course, the edges
were erotic. What is love without
touch? Indeed, what is the divine
without it and what is more divine
than love between two willing to risk
what can only be found here?
So I thought
as I dozed off, "a twenty minute
power nap." Nearly three times
as long when the cat nipped
my dangling arm by some cat
So I awoke longing,
just like when I
awake in the morning.
The nap didn't do a damn thing,
no more clarity than if
I'd slept through the night.
Of course, I'd have to say,
most dreams are like that --
even the ones that have come true.
"This poem brings to mind crisp early-autumn mornings as the birds are preparing for the weather change ahead - and have a lot to say. The coolness of the morning is a silence unto itself, unbroken by the raucous sunshine, but this poem brings to my ear all the hustle and noise that follows soon after." Sarah Rossey, N/S Editor
The faintest warble of the thrush comes
from deep in the woods,
even before light.
The tiniest warp in the cool air,
as if the sound was not apart
but deep within the cochleae.
Before joined by the raucous jay,
the trill of the junco,
the staccato drill of the chippie,
before the cock his strutting wail begins;
a reminder of how rare
This poem is classic AppalTrad wrapped in modern poetic techniques. It's almost perfectly AppalTrad, a link between Appalachia's shapeshifting present and its settled, comfortable, familiar past. Sabne Raznik - N/S Editor
The ancestors killed for food:
hogs shot, strung up, gutted; chickens axed, rabbits trapped.
The ancestors tilled the ground, clods of red clay,
sown seed rows.
The ancestors canned peaches, strung leather britches,
made ketchup, chow-chow, piccalilli, green tomato pie.
They milked cows, smoked ham, churned butter.
Like Antaeus, their strength came from earth.
This is the stuff of country music, porch swappin', the Georgics.
Crosshatches in my hands are dirty from working this morning
the soil of my garden. No amount of pumice
or progress removes the longitude within my palm.
No amount of rainfall can wash these roots away.
The song goes up to the mountaintop,
the one that resurrects those who remember the shed,
the table of pies, the hand on the hoe.
Ghosts in a tomato jar hot out of the bath,
in first green shoots, in muddy boots by the door.
"This poem beautifully conveys a sense of eternity through a transcendent look at the "ordinary extraordinary"- a revised view of things right beside us and also within us." - T. Byron K., N/S Editor
Dirt Ditch Lilly
ditch lilly dirt
roads curved like the
side of the moon
leaning towards heaven's face
to catch God's glance
and take it deep
and with catalytic courage
into a deeper gold
than we can see
of this sun's reflection
day by day renewed
blessed one day
gone with grace
but renewed the next
This poem feels like a lovely yearning for a fragile moment with only a little sadness for its passing. I imagine falling asleep al fresco as the rhythm of the poem ebbs slowly into "Goodnight." - Sarah Rossey, N/S editor
Oh The Moon