ORIGINS

“Crowds of people, walking round in a ring”—1

That’s us, collating the first Greensboro Review.2

The “academics” thought we were a zoo:

Frauds and phonies, our Program a plaything

For poseur slackers unfit for studying;3

And, to be honest, I guess there were a few;4

But most were earnest and to their art were true

And gathered notice what note honest work may bring,5

Though that was nothing they would prophesy,

Bob Watson and Peter Taylor, when they planned

A program to square with the resources on hand.6

“We do not want an artists’ colony.

Let’s teach them,” Peter said, “to learn to read.”7

That sounded duly modest. So Bob agreed.8

 

1. T. S. Eliot, The Waste Land, I, 56. This line became something of a refrain during the activity described in Note 2. I think, but cannot avow, that Bob Watson first recalled it to mind.

2. The Greensboro Review was the brainchild of one of the students, Curtis Fields, a fiction writer and jazz saxophonist. The first issue was delivered to the MFA office from a local printer in separate sheets. The students began collating by laying all the sheets out on tables and then walking from one stack to another, putting them in order. Bob Watson was directing the action. After a while he called me and I came over.

3. Here is a sampling of remarks I heard from my academic colleagues as I walked to and fro from classes: “How’s your little nest of singing birds?” “How many geniuses have we got this year?” “How many Pulitzers have your little crew picked up so far?” “Got ’em writing Odes to Spring yet?” “Can you really teach someone how to write?” “Melville (Hemingway, Steinbeck, Milton, Shakespeare, et al.) would never have taken an MFA degree.” “When’s your first Nobel laureate due?” Etc. Routine stuff.

4. Names omitted to protect the dubious.

5. You may find their works here in Walter Clinton Jackson Library and in thousands of other libraries around the world.

6. The MFA Writing Program was born of desperation. The state legislature, having decided that North Carolina needed fewer colleges and more universities, made it imperative that graduate programs be installed in institutions unready for such and not enthusiastic about the prospect. The English Department was ordered to furnish one and the chair, Dr. Joseph Bryant, came up with the idea of a creative writing program. He hated the idea, but library resources were not sufficient for a solid scholarly graduate program. Once the writing program was installed, he was no friend to it. This made the situation harder for all concerned.

7. Pretty nearly an exact quote.

8. Because a sonnet has only 14 lines, Bob Watson’s contributions are direly slighted here. But to do his labors justice would require an epic about the length of The Faerie Queen . . . Not that he would countenance any such thing.

The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem ALMA REDEMPTORIS MATER

Marketed by Purdue Pharma as a strong, but non-addictive relief for chronic pain, OxyContin was received as a miracle drug and widely prescribed throughout the Appalachian region.
                                                                                                    —Communities Digital News, March 11, 2014

 

Pray for this heavy, lightning-scraped body.
Pray for the halved mountains and sludge fills,

the ridges of fingernails, the ache of the knees.
Pray for the whites of the wrist, the salt-spilled

milk of the breasts, for our swollen hazel eyes
and each of their stolen colors. Pray for the muddled mines

and jagged gas lines, the sky’s hyperventilating blue,
the white-knuckled river waiting for a sign. Pray to

the flicked cigarette, the heap of pine needles, that there
will be no flared uprising in the night, that our blackened

lungs will burn out, vanish like monarch wings midair,
leave us as if we had never been here, cleaved, pinned

against the light. Let us raise our drought-choked throats.
Let us step to the edge and hope the sky can hold us.

ANOTHER MARIA MITCHELL READS THE FORECAST

Snow is water cooled crystal-quick,
mineral and posed;

sleet is snow cast off a lattice,
scaffoldless and smooth;

and hail is rain that fell up, gathered like belief
until its weight gave in to the fact of Earth.

Tonight the sky is clear but
late October in southern New England

I ought to be ready for anything. I take off
my ragged hat. I stand upon my roof alone,

hunched apostrophe waiting for the telescope
to fill with a light that falls only in darkness.

Up here no one to speculate how fast
I might descend.

From the shared and unpredictable night
I pull a new precipitation,

drop a comet on the world.

The Amon Liner Poetry Award IN THE HUMMINGBIRD EXHIBIT AT THE ARIZONA-SONORA DESERT MUSEUM

A green bird hovers above red rock
and disappears into a thicket of ocotillo.

Dashes of color flit around our heads,
dive between branches, rise
to the netted ceiling, scatter

like flecks of paint: blue topaz,
magenta, tangerine.

You grab my shoulder and point
to the cactus beside us—Remember
that one, Kate? Jumping cholla.

My ankle like a spiked bat
in your lap as you pulled the two-inch
spindles from my flesh.

How could I forget? It only takes one time
to learn what not to touch in the desert—

seat-belt buckles, the horned toad,
the blood that shot from its eyes
when I brought it in the house.

Your hand still gripping my shoulder,
the words I knew would come spill
softly from your mouth: diagnosis,

prognosis, atrophy, months. There are tears
in your blue eyes, and my whole body
feels far away, trapped under rock.

You take my sun-warmed hands in yours.
We watch the birds, the fierce choreography

of their rituals, until it’s time to pass
back through the curtain of long rubber slats,
the antechamber and two sets of doors

that keep them inside. As I help you
to your feet, a sliver of purple lands
on your shoulder, decides you’re its flower

for a moment, then shudders from sight—
a piece of dust blown from a band of light.

I read that if a hummingbird lingers
near, it brings with it the power to achieve
something impossible. But when

a sliver of sunlight kisses
the wrinkles of your neck, tickles
your skin with the tips of its wings,

what does that mean? The ruby-throated bird
lifts from the cotton of your shirt, floats

as close as it can get to the sky,
and I wonder where it would go,
what it would do in the world

if it could. Drink chuparosa in Oaxaca?
Steal thread from a red skirt drying on the line?

When the sun staggers behind the Catalinas,
the hummingbirds hold their breath.

The Robert Watson Literary Prize Poem from THE BOOK OF REVELATION

The first child arrived
as through the oiled doorway of the sea

then came the purple dark closing time
the world a sea of insects
rolling on a waterbed into oblivion

Now that I am a mother
I almost never dream

but when I do
I’m sorry

I dream of apocalypse

The first word of Book of Revelation
is apokalypsis
meaning unveiling

man digging into the velvet sack
of the ocean floor—

revealing its labyrinth of bleached coral
divesting the wrecks—

or how at the nursery my son chooses
two kinds of hyacinth to plant

and appraises them daily
until the blooms finally appear

then narrows his eyes
and pushes the flower
into his mouth

his sister laughing
running down the sidewalk
away from us

A child can get sick
on sweet things

and with that tongue
start talking

like a king

BRIEF EDEN

For part of one strange year we lived
in a small house at the edge of a wood.
No neighbors, which suited us. Nobody
to ask questions. Except
for the one big question we went on
asking ourselves.
                                 That spring
myriads of birds stopped over
briefly. Birds we’d never seen before, drawn
to our leafy quiet and our brook and because,
as we later learned, the place lay beneath
a flyway. Flocks appeared overnight—birds
brilliant or dull, with sharp beaks
or crossed bills, birds small
and enormous, all of them pausing
to gorge at the feeder, to rest their wings,
and disappear. Each flock seemed surer than we
of a destination. By the time we’d watched them
wing north in spring, then make
an anxious autumn return,
we too had pulled it together and we too moved
into what seemed to be our lives.