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.




Monday, April 26, 2010

POET OF THE DAY: JULIA NUNNALLY DUNCAN


Julia Nunnally Duncan has been a friend for many years. Her work came to my attention when I was on the reading committee for the Appalachian Consortium Press and found her story collection Blue Ridge Shadows in my hands. I liked it so much that I contacted her after the selection process. We've been in touch ever since. Julia was born and raised in WNC. Her credits include five books: two short story collections (The Stone Carver; Blue Ridge Shadows); two novels: (When Day Is Done; Drops of the Night) and a poetry collection (An Endless Tapestry).

She has completed a second poetry collection At Dusk and continues to write and publish poems, stories, and personal essays. Her works often explore the lives of the unemployed, the socially outcast, the lonely. She lives in Marion, NC, with her husband Steve, a woodcarver, and their eleven-year-old daughter Annie. She studied creative writing at Warren Wilson College's MFA Program for Writers and teaches English at McDowell Technical Community College in Marion, NC.


English Leather Lime



The rectangular box was stored


in my parents’ dresser drawer,


kept perhaps to hold loose change


or sales receipts,


too small to be very useful


but well enough made


of light soft wood


to make my mother think


it too important to throw away.


I pulled it from the drawer


while looking for some high school memento


from my cheerleading days,


and opening the box and holding it


to my nose,


I thought I caught the smell:


a citrus scent evoked


by the illustration of a lime


on the green label:


English Leather Lime.


The cologne the box once housed


had belonged to my brother


forty years ago.


I recognized that scent


in 1969


when the handsome


seventeen-year-old boy—


star of a rival basketball team—


passed through my parents’ front door


on a November evening.


It was my first date,


and I was afraid


to sit alone in the living room with him,


so my mother stayed close by


in the kitchen


while he courted me.



On our second date, though,


I savored our closeness


as we sat in his car


at our town’s drive-in theater


and awaited the film Thunder Road.


The speakers crackled B.J. Thomas’s


Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head,


and when rain suddenly began to fall outside,


we looked at each other and smiled.



When the movie started,


he scooted closer and


coyly rested his dark head


on my shoulder,


his lime cologne mingling with the remnants of my


Love’s Fresh Lemon Cleanser.


He might have kissed me in a moment,


but when he reached to turn the ignition key


for heat and windshield wipers,


the engine would not start.



After that, he rushed around,


some tool in hand,


tinkering for a minute under the hood


and then trying the ignition again.


His efforts were useless, though,


and as if to admit defeat


he finally called his father


and then mine—


a courageous move indeed


since he was supposed to have taken me


to our warm downtown theater


to see Kurt Russell starring in


The Computer Wore Tennis Shoes.


When my father did drive up


in our red Mustang


to rescue me,


I never heard goodbye


from the boy


who huddled beside his father,


their heads bowed under the car hood,


both of them soaked and shivering


in the December rain.





Lady in the Truck



Lady in the Chevrolet truck,


parked beside me at Wal-Mart,


I can tell by the way


your blonde head leans against your window pane


and your side presses into the passenger door


that you cannot get far enough away


from the driver.


I know by the angle of his head,


the way his dark tangle of hair


shakes when he shouts at you,


that his anger couldn’t wait


until he took you home.



What are you thinking


when you peer out of the grimy window?


Do you take to heart


this man’s hard words?


Do you hurt when his fingers squeeze your arm


to make you listen?



I can see by the way he looks straight ahead now,


tight lipped,


leaning to start the ignition,


that though his rage is not over,


he has spoken his mind.


I see by the way your head is lowered,


your hand covering your face,


that you do not want him


to spy your pain.



You are a young woman still,


and though I can’t discern your face,


I know it is a face


that another person could love.


Your mouth could smile at a lover’s whisper;


your eyes close at a caress.



Yet more so I know that


tonight when this man


pushes his body


close to yours


in your sweltering bed,


his voice calm,


cajoling you back,


you will look at him


and hope that his words


won’t be so cruel again,


that his love might be


worth your faith.










2 comments:

Vicki Lane said...

Two lovely heartbreaking poems. I love the story spun from a quick glimpse into someone else's life.

Julia Nunnally Duncan said...

Thank you, Vicki. I find myself observing people maybe more than they want to be observed. I guess it's the writer's habit. I have not forgotten that lady in the truck, and I hope she's well today.