Welcome to where I am, where my kitchen's always messy, a pot's (or a poet) always about to boil over, a dog is always begging to be fed. Drafts of poems on the counter. Windows filled with leaves. Wind. Clouds moving over the mountains. If you like poetry, books, and music--especially dog howls when a siren unwinds down the hill-- you'll like it here.


MY NEW AUTHOR'S SITE, KATHRYNSTRIPLINGBYER.COM, THAT I MYSELF SET UP THROUGH WEEBLY.COM, IS NOW UP. I HAD FUN CREATING THIS SITE AND WOULD RECOMMEND WEEBLY.COM TO ANYONE INTERESTED IN SETTING UP A WEBSITE. I INVITE YOU TO VISIT MY NEW SITE TO KEEP UP WITH EVENTS RELATED TO MY NEW BOOK.


MY NC POET LAUREATE BLOG, MY LAUREATE'S LASSO, WILL REMAIN UP AS AN ARCHIVE OF NC POETS, GRADES K-INFINITY! I INVITE YOU TO VISIT WHEN YOU FEEL THE NEED TO READ SOME GOOD POEMS.

VISIT MY NEW BLOG, MOUNTAIN WOMAN, WHERE YOU WILL FIND UPDATES ON WHAT'S HAPPENING IN MY KITCHEN, IN THE ENVIRONMENT, IN MY IMAGINATION, IN MY GARDEN, AND AMONG MY MOUNTAIN WOMEN FRIENDS.




Tuesday, February 3, 2009

GLORIFIED



Here's a patch of a poem from my poem quilt pages. I'm longing for petunias on this gray day.

GLORIFIED


Whenever I praise what she’s brought forth,
whether biscuits or chicken stewed all day
with sweet corn and gumbo, my grandmama says, "To God
Be the Glory." But I tell her I don’t mess around
with an old man who’s so far away he can’t hear me.
I’d rather be talking to petunias that bloom on her porch,
or the bathrobe she wears when she’s making
the coffee, her toes while she’s sleeping in front
of the t.v., her big mouth that’s snoring.
To you be the Glory, I say, feeling
so brazen this morning, I dare God
to give me the finger. “Go scrub out
your mouth,”she scolds, but I see her smiling.

(first appeared in the NC Literary Review)

A bit feisty, but I don't think God minds a little feistiness now and then, do you?

6 comments:

Nancy Simpson said...

Kay, I can't tell you how much I love this poem and all of your grandmother poems. You loved your grandmother the way Glenda Barrett loved hers and you both write about those woman with such praise and honor. I was not given the opportunity to be close to my grandmother, being that I was raised in exile. Only now when I write about her - Saphrionia - do I find myself literally in awe of her, in worship of her. Thanks for this poem. Hurry. I can't wait for the new book.

::PuraPoetica:: said...

This is the first time I have had the pleasure to read your work. I must say this poem was certainly enriching, casting wonderful imagery of your grandmother. A beautiful piece.

Kathryn Stripling Byer said...

Nancy, yes, we do a "grandmother" thing, don't we? And Pura Poetica, thank you for visiting. I enjoyed writing this poem. I'm glad you found it enriching. I've thought I might write a few more in this somewhat feisty but loving "voice."

Vicki Lane said...

Love it, including the feistiness!

I still miss my grandmother -- still have some of her old aprons and kitchenware. And when I make her pound cake, it cools on the same ancient wire racks that she used.

Glenda C. Beall said...

This must be Grandmother week! I love this poem, Kay, since I never knew my grandmothers.
I received two grandmother stories from former students this week and another from a friend. How lucky you are to remember your grandmother. I'm named for my grandmother, but never knew her.

Anonymous said...

Kay, add me to the list of those who love the poem, especially the feistiness! I remember both grandmothers but don't have such fond memories. As you know, I'm stuck with mother/father/friend/small town memories. We had snow today--in Eastern NC. It is beautiful. My dogs are having such fun. Little Scout, a wannabe dalmatian, is hardly visible in the snow. If it weren't a few spots, he would be invisible. I want a workshop led by you!!! Teresa M. Blackmon