They don’t so much sing as plead
In their droning sound stampede.
I hope they find the love they need —
Something more than meet-and-breed.
Can that even be with insects —
To have sensations beyond touch?
Do they know joy as well as sex?
They don’t so much.
— Paul Jones
Paul Jones is a professor emeritus at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill and the author of the collection Something Wonderful.
Feature Photograph: Courtesy Tufts Archives
(On receiving a picture of this famous
golf architect studying a 6-foot putt)
Brave Donald, in your suit of brown,
I see you studying your putt,
And well I know you’ll run it down;
It is a splendid picture, but
For all the woes you’ve worked for me,
Deep in a bunker you should be.
I smile to see your kindly eye;
’Tis good to see your figure fair;
Six feet away, I’ll say you lie,
And know your second put your there;
They took your picture on the green —
A pit had made a merrier scene.
I should have laughed to see you caught,
Your niblick tightly clutched in hand,
Standing where I so oft have fought
To battle with the stubborn sand;
It would have pleased me more to see
Your ball where mine so oft must be.
Yet, Donald, if perchance the day
Shall come to me when I can brag
That I, like you, have learned to play
My second shots up to the flag,
If I reach any green in two
I’ll have my picture made for you.
— Edgar A. Guest
(Edgar A. Guest, 1881-1959, was known as the People’s Poet.
He wrote this poem for the testimonial dinner honoring Donald Ross at the Pinehurst County Club on March 20, 1930.)
Scrub your face with a vengeance.
Brush your teeth till your gums bleed.
Comb your hair into a pompadour, braid it
into cornrows, buzz cut a flattop with side skirts,
spit-paste that cowlick to your forehead.
That’s how it begins, this becoming who you aren’t.
A twitch or tic or two you may inherit, but the face
in the mirror you recognized only once
before you’re beguiled by the frailties of those who
precede you — your wayward Aunt Amelia,
the lying politician, tongue flickering through his false
teeth, the long-legged temptress slyly sipping a latté
at the corner coffee shop, your scapegrace
one-eyed Uncle Bill — all of them competing
for your attention, all of them wanting you to become
who they believed they were going to be.
Between intention and action, take a deep breath
and welcome the moment you become who you aren’t.
Slap on Uncle Bill’s black eye patch,
stuff those willful curls under Aunt Amelia’s cloche,
pluck your eyebrows, rouge your cheeks, bleach
those teeth whiter than light: then stare deep into
the reflection behind the mirror: who you’ve become
will trouble you, even if you shut your eyes.
— Stephen E. Smith
Stephen E. Smith is a retired professor and the author of seven books of poetry and prose. His memoir The Year We Danced is being released this month by Apprentice House Press.
My father taught me a civil trick.
If you get caught during a rainstorm
at a downtown restaurant, just ask
the bartender if someone left a black umbrella. They will present you with
a cardboard box chock full of them.
It is not a lie: Someone really has left behind each one. You have left many. Part of the loophole is to make sure to give that umbrella to someone who needs it, or at the very least, leave it
in a shady vestibule, on the coat rack next to that sad windbreaker. Otherwise it doesn’t count. Now they could call this all a life hack, but I consider that lacking. The process of inheritance is about so much more than getting what you need.
— Maura Way
Maura Way’s second collection of poetry, Mummery,
was published in November 2023 by Press 53.
In christening gown and bonnet,
he is white and stoic as the moon,
unflinching as the sun burns
through yellow puffs of pine
pollen gathered at his crown
while I pour onto his forehead
from a tiny blue Chinese rice cup
holy water blessed
by John Paul II himself
and say, “I baptize you, Julian Joseph,
in the name of the Father, and of the Son,
and of the Holy Spirit.”
Nor does he stir when the monarchs
and swallowtails,
in ecclesiastical vestments,
lift from the purple brushes
of the butterfly bush
and light upon him.
— Joseph Bathanti
Joseph Bathanti was the North Carolina poet laureate from 2012-2014. He will be inducted into the North Carolina Literary Hall of Fame in October.
Here we are again
on the back porch.
Bluebirds eating mealworms
from the feeder
while the brown-chested
nuthatch takes its time
with the sunflower seeds.
Lili, the pup, is at my feet,
and the sun, my God,
this sun feels so good
on a February afternoon.
There’s coffee and a friend’s
new book of poetry.
Can you hear the saxophone
from the jazz man practicing next door?
A sparrow flies over
lands a foot away
on the edge of the table,
looks at me, as if to say
what more do you want?
— Steve Cushman
Steve Cushman is the author of three novels, including Portisville, winner of the 2004 Novello Literary Award. His poetry collection, How Birds Fly, won the 2018 Lena Shull Book Award and his latest volume, The Last Time, was published by Unicorn Press in 2023.
Because she was fast in her way
And he followed her suit,
They launched horizon’s fruitful gaze
To fortify their fruit.
In short parlance, ahead of him,
She was a gushing bride
Until gray moods turned dark to bend
Their rivers for her tide.
They never had one dissension.
He lived his love the same
Beyond single thought’s contention.
Her body chemistry!
A drinking fountain salutes thirst,
Instant bubble, wet lips.
Then comes what earthly love holds first,
Her muscles fell to slips.
So he slept and woke up alone,
For she was processioned
In Smithfield Manor Nursing Home,
Tenacity, a test.
His eye-lids open every morn.
The bones to him creak rise.
The sun’s obeying crown adorns
Remembrances, her sighs.
— Shelby Stephenson
Shelby Stephenson was North Carolina’s poet laureate from 2014-16. His most recent volume of poetry is Praises.
When the preacher’s son told me
my aura was part halo, part rainbow,
I saw him see me
saintly. God
appeared instantly and everywhere
that summer:
smiling in the pansies,
reflecting us in the farm pond,
beside us on our bikes,
in the barn fragrant with warm cows,
glinting from the hay chaff,
the slatted light.
God touched us as we touched,
electricity in our fingers,
we were shimmery and dewy,
our skin golden, hair sun-bleached.
Angels sang in our voices.
The moon rose in heaven, love,
heaven in the moon.
— Debra Kaufman
Debra Kaufman’s newest poerty collection, Outwalking the Shadow, is forthcoming from Redhawk Publications.
Today the trees release their leaves. The wind
a breath that calls the colors down to earth —
wild dance with crimson, gold, and brown
aloft in death, unfurling flaming fields
and forest floor. If I could hurl myself
like this into each ending, long for nothing
sure or safe, but celebrate the letting go,
descend, a woman trusting the fall.
I’d release all claim to expectation,
breathe the air of possibility,
find beginnings everywhere.
I’d settle down to loamy earth long enough
to nourish life that waits, growing still
in the summons from a savage world.
— Pat Riviere-Seel
Pat Riviere-Seel’s latest collection, When There Were Horses, is available from Main Street Rag Publishing Company.
You’re all eyes,
even on the back of your head
and warty as a road.
Brown as the ground
beneath roses.
Roses red as song,
pink as a whistle,
yellow as whiskey
and white as wishes.
The air
is all roses
breathing, their petals open
to God and glory and whatever good
comes winging this day.
But Toad is bugging.
He’s good at his job; fast and careful.
On time and off, he sees upward,
past roses to his calling
and takes it all
in Toad’s time.
— Ruth Moose
Ruth Moose’s most recent book is The Goings on at Glen Arbor Acre.
