I just want to burn shit down, she says and her voice sounds like a child’s, even though she is forty-five She flicks a Bic at the grass, at each little blade that stands so stoically, at each little soldier cemented to the ground And I understood just how hardContinue Reading
spring sun on red clay the team plows winter’s cold ground a hiss in the barn blackbird on the fence dirty boots sit by the door canned beans and warm bread still days grow longer in a flash of innocence nineteen eighty-one Brandon Michael Ward is a writer,Continue Reading
**On a mobile format this book review is best viewed using landscape orientation. Danita Dodson is a contemplative, a mystic, and an alchemist whose feet are planted solidly in the turf of the natural world – particularly that of East Tennessee. As the poems in her debut collection, TrailingContinue Reading
During this Women’s History Month, please join Appalachia Bare in congratulating Danita Dodson on her outstanding debut book of poetry, Trailing the Azimuth. The following is a poem selected from the book. Join us Thursday for a review of Dodson’s book by our own Associate Editor, poet and litterateur, EdwardContinue Reading
The cold creek water runs over my skin, baptismal in nature, it bends aroun’ the mountainside, banks muddy, water reflecting the darters’ scales and hogmollies, creek chubs and softshells.Continue Reading
Losing him at the instant of diagnosis, leaving no doubt in anyone’s mind but hers, his grandmother watched You wink from view until no more than a grainy dot on the horizon’s last glorious performance of the Great Withdrawal. The picture of a small girl insisting on her way thisContinue Reading
A note from the poet: This poem was inspired by “Appalachian Elegy #6,” a poem from a larger collection by the late Bell Hooks who passed away on December 16th. I wrote “Giles county rapture” before Ms. Hooks’ untimely passing, and, in my most naïve moments, I had hoped thatContinue Reading
Plain seeing Flash, and the flatlander eye swoons with star glint and eardrum roaring crack, a copper spark in sight sounding It was everest over town’s end the thunderhead on high rising to ordovician climes Nearly alleghenies, still half atlas with shoulders lowered since the dislocating swell in pangaea’s heartContinue Reading
Poor Boy’s Gospel My dad died before I could kill him. I always imagined reading back his sins like Saint Peter. I’d reprimand his absence, scorn the idle time he’d wasted, and end with the two kids he’d failed the most. But by then, the man dead to me hadContinue Reading
Tennessee Red Cob Grasping the bound ear with the heel of my left hand, I pierce the top shucks with both thumbs, punching open a slit. Dry husks rip with a groan and squeak as the great creamy teeth gleam. Another hard tug frees the whole magnificent horn ofContinue Reading