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
grandmother she lived in that dirt and baking- soda soil, her drywood fingers cradling book pages gentle as if she were holding a bird, turning those well-worn wings, their songs rustle the living room curtains. her feet shuffled through breakfast with black coffee, and she napped late in the afternoon.Continue Reading
The George Scarbrough Poetry Contest is now closed. Thank you to everyone who submitted such outstanding poetry! We certainly have challenging decisions ahead. Winners will be announced on the evening of Thursday, December 9. Good Luck and Best Wishes! ** Featured image by Voltamax on PixabayContinue Reading
Appalachian writers breathe words. Like meditation. They might gaze out the window, past that liminal space, and describe simple raindrops, circular, solid, and sparkling atop thick green leaves after a summer shower, each one a separate little universe, a micro-microcosm disturbed, perhaps, by a lone redbird landing abruptly on aContinue Reading