Ray Zimmerman's Blog, page 5
March 20, 2019
Youtube Channel
I now have recorded some of my published work. It is available on my Youtube channel.
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9jd...
https://www.youtube.com/channel/UC9jd...
January 17, 2019
Performance as Genre
A few months ago, I tried to recast some of my performance art as essays. The experiment was an abysmal failure.
Performance art depends on audience interaction, or at least audience response to the speaker, It is art for the ear, not for the page. I have long known art which sparkles on the page may well fall flat on the stage. I now suspect that the converse is true as well.
I have often seen the author of a prize-winning story, essay, or poem fall flat when reading from the stage I used to write this off to delivery, but I now believe the issue may ring deeper. Performance is, I believe, a genre all its own. It is sometimes grouped with poetry, possibly because poets often give public readings of their work. Of course, plays were originally written in verse, and Aristotle’s classic work, The Poetics, is a work for playwrights.
So Poetry, Performance Art, and Plays may have a common thread holding them together, but each is its on genre, as is storytelling, one which may have more in common with performance art than the others. Here is a link to a video of me reading several poems in front of an audience. The very first work is performance art, and you may notice a subtle difference between it an the others.
Me doing performance art.
https://www.facebook.com/PechaKuchaCh...
Performance art depends on audience interaction, or at least audience response to the speaker, It is art for the ear, not for the page. I have long known art which sparkles on the page may well fall flat on the stage. I now suspect that the converse is true as well.
I have often seen the author of a prize-winning story, essay, or poem fall flat when reading from the stage I used to write this off to delivery, but I now believe the issue may ring deeper. Performance is, I believe, a genre all its own. It is sometimes grouped with poetry, possibly because poets often give public readings of their work. Of course, plays were originally written in verse, and Aristotle’s classic work, The Poetics, is a work for playwrights.
So Poetry, Performance Art, and Plays may have a common thread holding them together, but each is its on genre, as is storytelling, one which may have more in common with performance art than the others. Here is a link to a video of me reading several poems in front of an audience. The very first work is performance art, and you may notice a subtle difference between it an the others.
Me doing performance art.
https://www.facebook.com/PechaKuchaCh...
January 12, 2019
Rivers
Rivers
“The care of rivers is not a question of rivers but of the human heart.” – Shozo Tanaka
Robin Wall Kimmerer said in her book Braiding Sweetgrass that her Potowatome language is much richer in verbs than nouns. There is no noun equivalent of river because rivers are alive and give life and are inseparable from the numerous animals who make their homes on the river.
The book of Leviticus speaks of running water for purification.
Annie Dillard speaks of how running water heals psychic wounds.
What do you think of rivers?
“The care of rivers is not a question of rivers but of the human heart.” – Shozo Tanaka
Robin Wall Kimmerer said in her book Braiding Sweetgrass that her Potowatome language is much richer in verbs than nouns. There is no noun equivalent of river because rivers are alive and give life and are inseparable from the numerous animals who make their homes on the river.
The book of Leviticus speaks of running water for purification.
Annie Dillard speaks of how running water heals psychic wounds.
What do you think of rivers?
January 6, 2019
Glen Falls
or How I Became a Poet
I recently completed a class titled stories of place through the International Writers Program of Iowa University. This is one of the essay I wrote while participating.
A backlit tree delights the eye, but one fall leaf in gold or red, translucent with the sun from an angle behind, makes a striking photograph. Light passes through the leaf as it passes through a cellophane wrapper. The forest floor has become a carpet of gold, red and brown as Glen Falls murmurs in the distance. Today, it is strange to think that I wrote the poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” which cemented the persona of nature poet for me, near the diminutive water fall from which I drew the title. That was nearly twelve years ago, in 2007.
I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls, with Lookout Mountain stretching south and west from my home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mountain is a misnomer, for it is a plateau eighty miles long and stretching across the corners of three states. The twin cities of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee and Lookout Mountain. Georgia occupy its northeast end and several villages dot the rest of its landscape. Several steams and one river originate atop the plateau and flow to the valley below. In the Georgia portion, a stream at Cloudland Canyon State Park flows over two falls visible from a hiking trail which descends limestone steps from the top.
Further south, in Alabama, the Little River descends DeSoto Falls at DeSoto State Park, named for the explorer whose party passed near by when Spain was the colonial power in the southern parts of what is now the United States. The Little River continues down the plateau to Little River Falls, where it enters the Little River Canyon, a gorge with high limestone cliffs on either side. It is a National Preserve. The name Little River is locally confusing. Another river with the same name flows through part of the Great Smoky Mountains, two hours to the Northeast.
I have visited and photographed these grander falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. By comparison, Glen Falls is a mere trickle, a gentle stream such as are found throughout the length of Lookout Mountain to the south, the Cumberland Plateau to the west, and the Appalachian Mountains to the east, all within a day’s drive. Each of those regions has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls.
When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the leaves were just emerging from buds and the birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of the river of warblers which flows through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were still a hope in the heart.
The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with a list of words, a writing prompt received at the open mic at a local bookstore. It also began with the murmur of the stream over the falls, and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:
“I never knew this George or Lisa
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot years ago.”
There ended the poem, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned that I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capitol, on Legislative Plaza.
As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced energy a result of aging. Meanwhile, I took a job which proved to be more physically demanding and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night. I thought it was just my body adjusting to the demands of the job, but in September my doctor performed a stress test and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.
I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just sixteen days away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the turning point of my successful poem I was at another of despair, thinking I might die during surgery or I might become an invalid.
Friday night and early Saturday I was in and out of consciousness like a failing florescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with an audible buzzing sound. By Saturday night I was in a private room, where I would remain for six more days. The mental adjustment after such a surgery is a whole other story.
After discharge from the hospital, I rested for three days at a friend’s house before returning to my apartment, where I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously. My neighbor Julie spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She became convinced that I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend Matt along for support. I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and with the stress of a healing body.
At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright and the crowd noisy. It was my first visit to a crowded urban area since the surgery, and I was in my own world. The canopy under which the ceremony would take place was surprisingly easy to find, though the ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs taking place on the plaza and in the surrounding buildings. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival, a document the size of a small tabloid newspaper, and noticed that a friend had given a reading the day before. Too bad I missed it.
I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart shaped pillow in the other. I explained the importance of the pillow in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance. The pillow was emblazoned with a lovely color schematic of a human heart, not of the valentine’s day ilk.
Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was in fact an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading in a random manner. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers.
With my return to Chattanooga, my neighbor amazed I did not die on the trip, I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but my inspiration from Glen Falls and survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet.
I have since visited Glen Falls on numerous occasions and written two more poems there. I have discovered that I write best while outdoors and have published several poems. The poem “Glen Falls Trail” went on to be included in the Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VI, Tennessee, an annual publication of the Texas Review Press. Each year, they publish a volume of poetry from one state, so most poets have but one chance to be included. Most of the poets are far better known than me and most have three poems in the volume in comparison to my one. I am honored to be included.
I recently completed a class titled stories of place through the International Writers Program of Iowa University. This is one of the essay I wrote while participating.
A backlit tree delights the eye, but one fall leaf in gold or red, translucent with the sun from an angle behind, makes a striking photograph. Light passes through the leaf as it passes through a cellophane wrapper. The forest floor has become a carpet of gold, red and brown as Glen Falls murmurs in the distance. Today, it is strange to think that I wrote the poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” which cemented the persona of nature poet for me, near the diminutive water fall from which I drew the title. That was nearly twelve years ago, in 2007.
I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls, with Lookout Mountain stretching south and west from my home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mountain is a misnomer, for it is a plateau eighty miles long and stretching across the corners of three states. The twin cities of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee and Lookout Mountain. Georgia occupy its northeast end and several villages dot the rest of its landscape. Several steams and one river originate atop the plateau and flow to the valley below. In the Georgia portion, a stream at Cloudland Canyon State Park flows over two falls visible from a hiking trail which descends limestone steps from the top.
Further south, in Alabama, the Little River descends DeSoto Falls at DeSoto State Park, named for the explorer whose party passed near by when Spain was the colonial power in the southern parts of what is now the United States. The Little River continues down the plateau to Little River Falls, where it enters the Little River Canyon, a gorge with high limestone cliffs on either side. It is a National Preserve. The name Little River is locally confusing. Another river with the same name flows through part of the Great Smoky Mountains, two hours to the Northeast.
I have visited and photographed these grander falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. By comparison, Glen Falls is a mere trickle, a gentle stream such as are found throughout the length of Lookout Mountain to the south, the Cumberland Plateau to the west, and the Appalachian Mountains to the east, all within a day’s drive. Each of those regions has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls.
When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the leaves were just emerging from buds and the birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of the river of warblers which flows through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were still a hope in the heart.
The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with a list of words, a writing prompt received at the open mic at a local bookstore. It also began with the murmur of the stream over the falls, and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:
“I never knew this George or Lisa
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot years ago.”
There ended the poem, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned that I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capitol, on Legislative Plaza.
As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced energy a result of aging. Meanwhile, I took a job which proved to be more physically demanding and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night. I thought it was just my body adjusting to the demands of the job, but in September my doctor performed a stress test and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.
I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just sixteen days away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the turning point of my successful poem I was at another of despair, thinking I might die during surgery or I might become an invalid.
Friday night and early Saturday I was in and out of consciousness like a failing florescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with an audible buzzing sound. By Saturday night I was in a private room, where I would remain for six more days. The mental adjustment after such a surgery is a whole other story.
After discharge from the hospital, I rested for three days at a friend’s house before returning to my apartment, where I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously. My neighbor Julie spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She became convinced that I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend Matt along for support. I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and with the stress of a healing body.
At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright and the crowd noisy. It was my first visit to a crowded urban area since the surgery, and I was in my own world. The canopy under which the ceremony would take place was surprisingly easy to find, though the ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs taking place on the plaza and in the surrounding buildings. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival, a document the size of a small tabloid newspaper, and noticed that a friend had given a reading the day before. Too bad I missed it.
I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart shaped pillow in the other. I explained the importance of the pillow in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance. The pillow was emblazoned with a lovely color schematic of a human heart, not of the valentine’s day ilk.
Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was in fact an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading in a random manner. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers.
With my return to Chattanooga, my neighbor amazed I did not die on the trip, I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but my inspiration from Glen Falls and survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet.
I have since visited Glen Falls on numerous occasions and written two more poems there. I have discovered that I write best while outdoors and have published several poems. The poem “Glen Falls Trail” went on to be included in the Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VI, Tennessee, an annual publication of the Texas Review Press. Each year, they publish a volume of poetry from one state, so most poets have but one chance to be included. Most of the poets are far better known than me and most have three poems in the volume in comparison to my one. I am honored to be included.
December 21, 2018
Rate My Book
My new book Healing and Conflict is now up on Goodreads. You can rate it here,
https://www.goodreads.com/search?q=He...
https://www.goodreads.com/search?q=He...
December 7, 2018
A Visit to the Body Farm
This post is a response to “Back to the Land,” an article which appeared in Orion Magazine https://orionmagazine.org/article/bac...
Chelsea Bandalillo takes the readers on a brief tour of the Texas State Forensic Anthropology Research Facility where forensic anthropologists research the decomposition process of cadavers, hoping to learn gems of information which will help them investigate crime scenes. Though I cannot place a specific reason for the thought, I got the impression that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter. Despite the assertion that she tries but cannot see the remains as human, she tours the facility with “eyes open and mouth mostly closed.”
The short form, in our time challenged, compressed world, gives readers a snap shot view. Perhaps she chose the short form for that reason, or perhaps she senses potential discomfort for readers and chose the short form so that they will read through the text without putting it down.
The subject matter provides rich ground for a more in-depth treatment. Though I have not toured the Texas facility or the similar one operated by the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, I have taken the virtual tour of the Knoxville facility http://www.jeffersonbass.com/tour-the... . Dr. William Bass oversees the Knoxville “body farm” and teamed up with writer Jon Jefferson to produce ten volumes of mysteries known as the “Body Farm Series” under the pen name Jefferson Bass.
Fans of the Jefferson Bass series or the successful television series, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, with its multiple spin-offs, would probably enjoy Bandilillo’s article more than literary readers. They might even read a more in-depth article. Though Bandiillo cannot bring herself to say the word cadaver in reference to the bodies which attract them, the paragraph on butterflies at the end is a nice touch. I would enjoy seeing the butterflies.
Written as an assignment for an online course on writing nonfiction.
Chelsea Bandalillo takes the readers on a brief tour of the Texas State Forensic Anthropology Research Facility where forensic anthropologists research the decomposition process of cadavers, hoping to learn gems of information which will help them investigate crime scenes. Though I cannot place a specific reason for the thought, I got the impression that she was uncomfortable with the subject matter. Despite the assertion that she tries but cannot see the remains as human, she tours the facility with “eyes open and mouth mostly closed.”
The short form, in our time challenged, compressed world, gives readers a snap shot view. Perhaps she chose the short form for that reason, or perhaps she senses potential discomfort for readers and chose the short form so that they will read through the text without putting it down.
The subject matter provides rich ground for a more in-depth treatment. Though I have not toured the Texas facility or the similar one operated by the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, I have taken the virtual tour of the Knoxville facility http://www.jeffersonbass.com/tour-the... . Dr. William Bass oversees the Knoxville “body farm” and teamed up with writer Jon Jefferson to produce ten volumes of mysteries known as the “Body Farm Series” under the pen name Jefferson Bass.
Fans of the Jefferson Bass series or the successful television series, CSI: Crime Scene Investigation, with its multiple spin-offs, would probably enjoy Bandilillo’s article more than literary readers. They might even read a more in-depth article. Though Bandiillo cannot bring herself to say the word cadaver in reference to the bodies which attract them, the paragraph on butterflies at the end is a nice touch. I would enjoy seeing the butterflies.
Written as an assignment for an online course on writing nonfiction.
December 1, 2018
Glen Falls
A backlit tree delights the eye, but one fall leaf in gold or red, translucent with the sun from an angle behind, makes a striking photograph. Light passes through the leaf as it passes through a cellophane wrapper. The forest floor has become a carpet of gold, red and brown as Glen Falls murmurs in the distance. Today, it is strange to think that I wrote the poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” which cemented the persona of nature poet for me, near the diminutive water fall from which I drew the title. That was nearly twelve years ago, in 2007.
I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls, with Lookout Mountain stretching south and west from my home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mountain is a misnomer, for it is a plateau eighty miles long and stretching across the corners of three states. The twin cities of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee and Lookout Mountain. Georgia occupy its northeast end and several villages dot the rest of its landscape. Several steams and one river originate atop the plateau and flow to the valley below. In the Georgia portion, a stream at Cloudland Canyon State Park flows over two falls visible from a hiking trail which descends limestone steps from the top.
Further south, in Alabama, the Little River descends DeSoto Falls at DeSoto State Park, named for the explorer whose party passed near by when Spain was the colonial power in the southern parts of what is now the United States. The Little River continues down the plateau to Little River Falls, where it enters the Little River Canyon, a gorge with high limestone cliffs on either side. It is a National Preserve. The name Little River is locally confusing. Another river with the same name flows through part of the Great Smoky Mountains, two hours to the Northeast.
I have visited and photographed these grander falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. By comparison, Glen Falls is a mere trickle, a gentle stream such as are found throughout the length of Lookout Mountain to the south, the Cumberland Plateau to the west, and the Appalachian Mountains to the east, all within a day’s drive. Each of those regions has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls.
When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the leaves were just emerging from buds and the birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of the river of warblers which flows through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were still a hope in the heart.
The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with a list of words, a writing prompt received at the open mic at a local bookstore. It also began with the murmur of the stream over the falls, and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:
“I never knew this George or Lisa
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot years ago.”
There ended the poem, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned that I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capitol, on Legislative Plaza.
As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced energy a result of aging. Meanwhile, I took a job which proved to be more physically demanding and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night. I thought it was just my body adjusting to the demands of the job, but in September my doctor performed a stress test and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.
I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just sixteen days away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the turning point of my successful poem I was at another of despair, thinking I might die during surgery or I might become an invalid.
Friday night and early Saturday I was in and out of consciousness like a failing florescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with an audible buzzing sound. By Saturday night I was in a private room, where I would remain for six more days. The mental adjustment after such a surgery is a whole other story.
After discharge from the hospital, I rested for three days at a friend’s house before returning to my apartment, where I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously. My neighbor Julie spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She became convinced that I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend Matt along for support. I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and with the stress of a healing body.
At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright and the crowd noisy. It was my first visit to a crowded urban area since the surgery, and I was in my own world. The canopy under which the ceremony would take place was surprisingly easy to find, though the ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs taking place on the plaza and in the surrounding buildings. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival, a document the size of a small tabloid newspaper, and noticed that a friend had given a reading the day before. Too bad I missed it.
I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart shaped pillow in the other. I explained the importance of the pillow in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance. The pillow was emblazoned with a lovely color schematic of a human heart, not of the valentine’s day ilk.
Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before I stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was in fact an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading in a random manner. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers.
With my return to Chattanooga, my neighbor amazed I did not die on the trip, I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but my inspiration from Glen Falls and survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet.
I have since visited Glen Falls on numerous occasions and written two more poems there. I have discovered that I write best while outdoors and have published several poems. The poem “Glen Falls Trail” went on to be included in the Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VI, Tennessee, an annual publication of the Texas Review Press. Each year, they publish a volume of poetry from one state, so most poets have but one chance to be included. Most of the poets are far better known than me and most have three poems in the volume in comparison to my one. I am honored to be included.
I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls, with Lookout Mountain stretching south and west from my home in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Mountain is a misnomer, for it is a plateau eighty miles long and stretching across the corners of three states. The twin cities of Lookout Mountain, Tennessee and Lookout Mountain. Georgia occupy its northeast end and several villages dot the rest of its landscape. Several steams and one river originate atop the plateau and flow to the valley below. In the Georgia portion, a stream at Cloudland Canyon State Park flows over two falls visible from a hiking trail which descends limestone steps from the top.
Further south, in Alabama, the Little River descends DeSoto Falls at DeSoto State Park, named for the explorer whose party passed near by when Spain was the colonial power in the southern parts of what is now the United States. The Little River continues down the plateau to Little River Falls, where it enters the Little River Canyon, a gorge with high limestone cliffs on either side. It is a National Preserve. The name Little River is locally confusing. Another river with the same name flows through part of the Great Smoky Mountains, two hours to the Northeast.
I have visited and photographed these grander falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. By comparison, Glen Falls is a mere trickle, a gentle stream such as are found throughout the length of Lookout Mountain to the south, the Cumberland Plateau to the west, and the Appalachian Mountains to the east, all within a day’s drive. Each of those regions has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls.
When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the leaves were just emerging from buds and the birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of the river of warblers which flows through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were still a hope in the heart.
The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with a list of words, a writing prompt received at the open mic at a local bookstore. It also began with the murmur of the stream over the falls, and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:
“I never knew this George or Lisa
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot years ago.”
There ended the poem, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned that I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capitol, on Legislative Plaza.
As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced energy a result of aging. Meanwhile, I took a job which proved to be more physically demanding and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night. I thought it was just my body adjusting to the demands of the job, but in September my doctor performed a stress test and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.
I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just sixteen days away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the turning point of my successful poem I was at another of despair, thinking I might die during surgery or I might become an invalid.
Friday night and early Saturday I was in and out of consciousness like a failing florescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with an audible buzzing sound. By Saturday night I was in a private room, where I would remain for six more days. The mental adjustment after such a surgery is a whole other story.
After discharge from the hospital, I rested for three days at a friend’s house before returning to my apartment, where I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously. My neighbor Julie spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She became convinced that I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend Matt along for support. I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and with the stress of a healing body.
At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright and the crowd noisy. It was my first visit to a crowded urban area since the surgery, and I was in my own world. The canopy under which the ceremony would take place was surprisingly easy to find, though the ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs taking place on the plaza and in the surrounding buildings. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival, a document the size of a small tabloid newspaper, and noticed that a friend had given a reading the day before. Too bad I missed it.
I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart shaped pillow in the other. I explained the importance of the pillow in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance. The pillow was emblazoned with a lovely color schematic of a human heart, not of the valentine’s day ilk.
Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before I stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was in fact an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading in a random manner. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers.
With my return to Chattanooga, my neighbor amazed I did not die on the trip, I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but my inspiration from Glen Falls and survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet.
I have since visited Glen Falls on numerous occasions and written two more poems there. I have discovered that I write best while outdoors and have published several poems. The poem “Glen Falls Trail” went on to be included in the Southern Poetry Anthology: Volume VI, Tennessee, an annual publication of the Texas Review Press. Each year, they publish a volume of poetry from one state, so most poets have but one chance to be included. Most of the poets are far better known than me and most have three poems in the volume in comparison to my one. I am honored to be included.
November 22, 2018
Thanksgiving Day, 2018
Have a happy day. This is the time of traditional harvest festivals, and Thanksgiving, despite its political overtones, is in some sense, a continuation of that tradition. I know, the Pilgrims and Indians scenario is a travesty, a glossing over of a continent lost by indigenous peoples, but I would hope we could all recognize on this day and every day that we have much for which we should give thanks. Blessings.
The Hickory behind our building stands taller than her peers and this morning her golden leaves were backlit like a girl's hair showing highlights in the sun. Catching the suns rays, the leaves transformed to a transparent aura surrounding her branches. The slightest breeze made them shimmer and they began to fall like butterflies fluttering their wings, descending for a rest. For that moment, I am thankful
Later in the day, I walked to my neighbors house for a visit. On my way back, I heard a hissing sound, low in the understory trees to my left, along the roadside. A quick glance revealed a Carolina Wren behind the leaves and branches. Perhaps she was the same wren who nested on my porch last summer. The feathers bore a pattern of rich dark brown and lighter brown or beige with lines of black spots on the margins of the tail and wings. The tail was upright, as wrens and chipmunks usually hold their tails. I watched for minute to see what the wren would do when another gave the boisterous call of wrens. Such enthusiasm for a bird smaller than my hand! I turned to look, and when I glanced back, the wren I had been observing was gone.
Later, I drove to a friends house for Thanksgiving dinner. Some mutual friends arrived and we visited, awaiting the arrival of his family from Georgia. A houseful of his parents, siblings and nephews and nieces ate dinner with us interlopers, some of us strangers to them. Then I built a fire in the back yard. We gathered around the fire, guitars were pulled out of vehicles and the singing began. After a bit we all departed to separate homes. What a day for which to give thanks.
The Hickory behind our building stands taller than her peers and this morning her golden leaves were backlit like a girl's hair showing highlights in the sun. Catching the suns rays, the leaves transformed to a transparent aura surrounding her branches. The slightest breeze made them shimmer and they began to fall like butterflies fluttering their wings, descending for a rest. For that moment, I am thankful
Later in the day, I walked to my neighbors house for a visit. On my way back, I heard a hissing sound, low in the understory trees to my left, along the roadside. A quick glance revealed a Carolina Wren behind the leaves and branches. Perhaps she was the same wren who nested on my porch last summer. The feathers bore a pattern of rich dark brown and lighter brown or beige with lines of black spots on the margins of the tail and wings. The tail was upright, as wrens and chipmunks usually hold their tails. I watched for minute to see what the wren would do when another gave the boisterous call of wrens. Such enthusiasm for a bird smaller than my hand! I turned to look, and when I glanced back, the wren I had been observing was gone.
Later, I drove to a friends house for Thanksgiving dinner. Some mutual friends arrived and we visited, awaiting the arrival of his family from Georgia. A houseful of his parents, siblings and nephews and nieces ate dinner with us interlopers, some of us strangers to them. Then I built a fire in the back yard. We gathered around the fire, guitars were pulled out of vehicles and the singing began. After a bit we all departed to separate homes. What a day for which to give thanks.
November 11, 2018
Sunrise
Sunrise
November 11, 2016
The morning sun gave light in brilliant bands of red, offset by cloud cover gray, the sort of brilliant sunrise once attributed to air pollution. The air still smelled of yesterday’s smoke, a thick haze of particles. I could smell the smoke in my apartment, in my workplace, and anywhere I went outside. I was frightened.
I had heard about how the fire at Gatlinburg had invaded the city and burned a thousand buildings, but that did not frighten me. Neither did the tales of all the timber burned at Cohutta wilderness in North Georgia.
Health alerts from local agencies warned those with heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality to stay indoors, run air conditioning not at all.
I have heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality. I was afraid I would breathe smoke until I gurgled my last breath through congested bronchial tubes, unlike the pleasant sensation as my exhalations once gurgled from the hose of a regulator as I observed shocking neon green and blue fish at coral reefs near the Florida Keys.
This dry October caped the hottest summer on record, with the driest October in 140 years, according to official figures. A man from California said that this is no drought, not like it is out west, with his state and several others dividing the water from the Colorado River. That river becomes a dry stream bed by the time it reaches the Sea of Cortez.
This year, our relative abundance of water is paltry. The parched leaves and twigs of forests became a tinder box prepared for any spark. The land may lose its hair at any turn.
Mountains blaze in Georgia and East Tennessee. Gatlinburg suffered the worst but is not alone. Campfires are strictly prohibited. Lightning struck at Cohutta Wilderness. The area remains closed until further notice. Fires rage on Fox Mountain and Signal Mountain, on Lookout Mountain, and at Cleveland, Tennessee.
More fires blaze in North Carolina.
Meanwhile, there is good news from out West. Conservation groups bought some water rights and left a little water in the Colorado. Water reached the Sea of Cortez and recharged marshes and estuaries.
Here in Tennessee, we hope for rain that the green earth may be restored.
Further reading:
We think of fire as a hazard to the natural world and to ourselves, but some natural areas depend on fire for their continued existence. In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer address our relationship to nature. The chapter “Burning the Headland,” specifically addresses beneficial aspects of fire.
Question:
How do you feel when confronted with aspects of nature that are beyond our control?
November 11, 2016
The morning sun gave light in brilliant bands of red, offset by cloud cover gray, the sort of brilliant sunrise once attributed to air pollution. The air still smelled of yesterday’s smoke, a thick haze of particles. I could smell the smoke in my apartment, in my workplace, and anywhere I went outside. I was frightened.
I had heard about how the fire at Gatlinburg had invaded the city and burned a thousand buildings, but that did not frighten me. Neither did the tales of all the timber burned at Cohutta wilderness in North Georgia.
Health alerts from local agencies warned those with heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality to stay indoors, run air conditioning not at all.
I have heart disease, asthma, and other conditions aggravated by poor air quality. I was afraid I would breathe smoke until I gurgled my last breath through congested bronchial tubes, unlike the pleasant sensation as my exhalations once gurgled from the hose of a regulator as I observed shocking neon green and blue fish at coral reefs near the Florida Keys.
This dry October caped the hottest summer on record, with the driest October in 140 years, according to official figures. A man from California said that this is no drought, not like it is out west, with his state and several others dividing the water from the Colorado River. That river becomes a dry stream bed by the time it reaches the Sea of Cortez.
This year, our relative abundance of water is paltry. The parched leaves and twigs of forests became a tinder box prepared for any spark. The land may lose its hair at any turn.
Mountains blaze in Georgia and East Tennessee. Gatlinburg suffered the worst but is not alone. Campfires are strictly prohibited. Lightning struck at Cohutta Wilderness. The area remains closed until further notice. Fires rage on Fox Mountain and Signal Mountain, on Lookout Mountain, and at Cleveland, Tennessee.
More fires blaze in North Carolina.
Meanwhile, there is good news from out West. Conservation groups bought some water rights and left a little water in the Colorado. Water reached the Sea of Cortez and recharged marshes and estuaries.
Here in Tennessee, we hope for rain that the green earth may be restored.
Further reading:
We think of fire as a hazard to the natural world and to ourselves, but some natural areas depend on fire for their continued existence. In her book Braiding Sweetgrass, Robin Wall Kimmerer address our relationship to nature. The chapter “Burning the Headland,” specifically addresses beneficial aspects of fire.
Question:
How do you feel when confronted with aspects of nature that are beyond our control?
November 6, 2018
Eyeshine
February: Eyeshine
A warm winter night sent me down the road with car windows open. My body told my mind that anything could happen. The mountain road was lonely enough to break your heart … or fill it to overflowing.
The green shine of an eye rose on the road, perhaps the eye of a deer. As I hit the brakes a much smaller creature appeared. A fox ran off the road and into the bushes below.
I exited the car and walked to the side of the road, but the fox was gone. I turned to walk back and glimpsed fur on the roadside. Three young foxes lay on the berm. I could have tapped them with a toe but did not.
Instinct told them, “don’t move if you want to live.” They lay as flat to the ground as possible. Their eyes were paradoxically rolled up to the top of their heads, fixed on me, the large predatory threat above. In this pose they looked as though a cartoon artist had drawn them there, among the sparse roadside vegetation in the light of a half moon.
Their fur looked coarse with the guard hairs which protect wild creatures from briars and catch snow, natures insulation for the body beneath. Under the guard hairs, the short fur next to the body would be soft as a duckling’s down, warm to the touch.
I did not try to touch the three. Foxes can give a painful bite and are known to carry disease, including rabies, but there was more to it than that. Seeing them here in the light of a half moon was a rare gift of nature, whom I have called my muse. I would intrude into their world no further.
Caught up in the magic of that moment, I nearly jumped when a fast-moving shape cut through the brush below; crashing through the woods as if it were a bear or a human. When I looked back down, they were gone, following an adult fox to safety.
I have since pondered that distraction. Foxes can move silently. Why did the adult fox crash so noisily through the underbrush? It had to be an intentional distraction. It got me to look away as the three escaped. I was sure that these three would safely reach adulthood, though they certainly are gone by now, more than twenty years later.
For further reading:
Sally Carrigher gave close views of wild creatures in her books, including One day at Beetle Rock, The Twilight Seas, One day at Teton Marsh, and several others.
For the Reader:
Describe your own close encounter with a wild creature.
A warm winter night sent me down the road with car windows open. My body told my mind that anything could happen. The mountain road was lonely enough to break your heart … or fill it to overflowing.
The green shine of an eye rose on the road, perhaps the eye of a deer. As I hit the brakes a much smaller creature appeared. A fox ran off the road and into the bushes below.
I exited the car and walked to the side of the road, but the fox was gone. I turned to walk back and glimpsed fur on the roadside. Three young foxes lay on the berm. I could have tapped them with a toe but did not.
Instinct told them, “don’t move if you want to live.” They lay as flat to the ground as possible. Their eyes were paradoxically rolled up to the top of their heads, fixed on me, the large predatory threat above. In this pose they looked as though a cartoon artist had drawn them there, among the sparse roadside vegetation in the light of a half moon.
Their fur looked coarse with the guard hairs which protect wild creatures from briars and catch snow, natures insulation for the body beneath. Under the guard hairs, the short fur next to the body would be soft as a duckling’s down, warm to the touch.
I did not try to touch the three. Foxes can give a painful bite and are known to carry disease, including rabies, but there was more to it than that. Seeing them here in the light of a half moon was a rare gift of nature, whom I have called my muse. I would intrude into their world no further.
Caught up in the magic of that moment, I nearly jumped when a fast-moving shape cut through the brush below; crashing through the woods as if it were a bear or a human. When I looked back down, they were gone, following an adult fox to safety.
I have since pondered that distraction. Foxes can move silently. Why did the adult fox crash so noisily through the underbrush? It had to be an intentional distraction. It got me to look away as the three escaped. I was sure that these three would safely reach adulthood, though they certainly are gone by now, more than twenty years later.
For further reading:
Sally Carrigher gave close views of wild creatures in her books, including One day at Beetle Rock, The Twilight Seas, One day at Teton Marsh, and several others.
For the Reader:
Describe your own close encounter with a wild creature.
