The New Writer: Volume 3.1
Ray Zimmerman is happy to resume publication as a project of the Chattanooga Writers Guild. Volume 1 and 2 were published as a personal project.
The official web page of the Guild is located at http://www.chattanoogawritersguild.org Parable Finn Bille June 6, 2012 Eye level on the path a twig grows downward swollen, knotted, barked. Has a walker snapped it finding it was in his way? Or was it ice that burdened it until it broke, then healed askew to let this spring’s sap fall through knitted wound to leaf? Orbits Wes Rehberg Floating uncertain sleepless the rain left yesterday Now big moon wanes orbiting as I spin solar pulses in my reckoning heart A plane in the cosmos a system moored yet pulled where in what coordinates I ask in my span of seventy six orbits Spinning speeding to what obituary does this ride around the sun end time and space vanish black hole or worm hole remixing An owl calls reveille clouds glow lunar edges I gravitate to coffee feet on a floor So clever I think Fidel's Gift – Short Nonfiction Wes Rehberg We were ushered into Cuba’s Hall of Revolution, where, after a meticulous security review, we were able to shake hands with Fidel Castro and offer a greeting. He had just completed a long address to us in the National Assembly’s auditorium about Cuba’s difficulties in what then was known as the “Special Period” after the fall of the Soviet Union and the halt of the Caribbean nation’s dependent ties with Russia. The year was 1993. His invitation to meet with us was a surprise. We were in his country through an organization known as Global Exchange as demonstrators aligned against the United States economic embargo of Cuba and the law forbidding U.S. citizens to visit the country without a license granted by the Treasury Department. Essentially, we were in violation of U.S. law. We had circumvented the license requirement. Many of us, on return to the U.S., were in fact detained by treasury agents waiting in major airports and our passports confiscated by customs officials. Mine was eventually given back though I already had been granted new one even after mentioning the old one was confiscated. No charges were filed against any of the detained travelers, though the maximum penalty the law assigned was 10 years in prison and a $250,000 fine. Fidel joined us mingling in the hall, smiling and engaging in brief conversations, as we gathered around a large buffet of Cuban dishes. Amid one cluster of our group, he interrupted the gathering and said aloud to us that he had a question. Most all turned to listen. “Does anyone have a dollar?,” he asked. Many laughed. Time and time again we had been reminded that the United States’ embargo against Cuba exacerbated an already difficult period for Cuban people. “Someone please. All I’m asking for is a little bit of your money,” he said. One of our delegation handed him a bill. Fidel looked at it and held it up as if to check its authenticity. He gestured that he was satisfied it was real. “May I borrow a pen please.” A pen was offered. Fidel bent over the buffet table and wrote his name on the bill. He then raised it up, smiling. “I understand you’re having a monetary crisis, that your dollar has been eroded.” He handed the bill back to the person who gave it to him. “There. I’ve increased its value.” # Short Bio: Wes Rehberg is a long-time social justice activist, writer and journalist, and also recently produced video art and documentaries. He has a Ph.D. in philosophy, interpretation and culture from Binghamton University in NY. He has begun fiction and poetry writing as well, publishing in these areas. He is married to Eileen Rehberg, who has collaborated with him on several projects. Their home page is http://www.wildclearing.com The Unfortunate Mrs. Dupper Excerpt from a novel Becky Wooley The unfortunate Mrs. Farrington Duper was again with child. It was not the “with child” situation that made Priscilla Duper unfortunate; it was the “Mrs.” part. But it was being with child that got her into the Mrs. part to begin with. Back in Indiana, twelve years and three kids ago, she was Priscilla Harrow, the beautiful, well-guarded, only daughter of Harold and Caroline Harrow. Every year Harold and his seven sons planted corn, soybeans, and sixteen acres of tomatoes. Every summer, Priscilla and her mother cleaned tomatoes, scalded tomatoes, peeled tomatoes, sieved tomatoes, chopped, seasoned and cooked tomatoes for Harrow’s Famous tomato ketchup, tomato spread and tomato relish, “the best in the Midwest.” At seventeen, Priscilla developed a severe allergy to tomatoes, and began looking for escape. She found Farrington at the public library. He was short, pale, studious and religious—virtually invisible to the Harrow boys who were none of the above. He was three years older than Priscilla but equally naive—maybe more so, since he had never seen a heifer in heat. He attended seminary at nearby DePew University. Priscilla offered to help him with his research, and he accepted her offer: in the stacks, in the reference section, in the archives and in the periodicals. None of the Harrow boys had a library card. Farrington took her to church. She had attended a small country church with her mom, but this was the mighty brick fortress in downtown Claridge. Priscilla could see herself marching down its impressive aisle, dragging a long satin train. She wore a cotton print to the courthouse in June; little Farrington Duper, Jr. was born in December. In the summers, Farrington, Sr. worked at odd jobs, and Priscilla went back to help her mom with the tomatoes. The Dupers wisely did not resume multiplication until after Farrington was awarded his PhD. and had a full-time teaching position at Bennettville State. It was a new start. Farrington could begin paying off his school loans, and Priscilla could leave off the salve. Priscilla loved their modest house with a fenced-in back yard and large shade trees, and she settled into domesticity like the farm girl she was—even put in a few rows of tomatoes. But Farrington was lost. His higher education had not spurred him to investigate the theological and doctrinal problems his teachers had raised. It only muddled his thinking and caused him to believe he had the answers. His answers put him above the faithful who, Farrington was led to believe, wandered through life in ignorance. He was above emotion, above commitment, above participation in organized religion. Professor Brenda Bleckard plucked him like an over-ripe peach—not for his looks or his brains. She plucked him because he was vulnerable and easy to play with. |
Natasha Trethewey appointed Poet Laureate
Press Release from the Library of Congress Librarian of Congress James H. Billington today announced the appointment of Natasha Trethewey as the Library’s Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry for 2012-2013. Trethewey, the 19th Poet Laureate, will take up her duties in the fall, opening the Library’s annual literary season with a reading of her work on Thursday, September 13 in the Coolidge Auditorium. Her term will coincide with the 75th anniversary of the Library’s Poetry and Literature Center and the 1937 establishment of the Consultant-in-Poetry position, which was changed by a federal law in 1986 to Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry. "Natasha Trethewey is an outstanding poet/historian in the mold of Robert Penn Warren, our first Poet Laureate Consultant in Poetry," Billington said. "Her poems dig beneath the surface of history—personal or communal, from childhood or from a century ago—to explore the human struggles that we all face." She is the author of three poetry collections, including "Native Guard," (2006), winner of the 2007 Pulitzer Prize in Poetry; "Bellocq’s Ophelia" (2002); and "Domestic Work" (2000). Her newest collection of poems, "Thrall," is forthcoming from Houghton Mifflin Harcourt in 2012. Trethewey is the author of a nonfiction book, "Beyond Katrina: A Meditation on the Mississippi Gulf Coast" (2010). In 2001, Trethewey researched "Native Guard" in the Library’s Manuscript Division and later spent time writing the book in the Library’s Main Reading Room. She has also been featured in two Library of Congress National Book Festivals, in 2004 and 2010. Billington said of her readings, "I heard in her voice a classical quality that can speak to the widest possible audience." An English and creative writing professor at Emory University in Atlanta, Trethewey will reside in the Washington, D.C., area from January through May of 2013 and work in the Poets Room of the Poetry and Literature Center, the first time the Poet Laureate has done so since the inception of the position in 1986. The full text of the release, followed by a description of the duties and history of the office of Poet Laureate appears at http://www.loc.gov/today/pr/2012/12-114.html A Webcast of Natasha Trewethey is available at http://www.loc.gov/today/ cyberlc/feature_wdesc.php?rec=3642 Messengers Wednesday, September 10, 2008 1:14 PM Jake Hiram Unicorns You hardly ever see, They're beyond your eyes, But well within your dreams. They can take you places That will never be. If your dreams Hold a unicorn, They don't show themselves To just anyone, And you alone, May know its name. Be careful if you catch its eye, Both of you have gazes That can hypnotize, Unicorns are never free, Can cost you everything You'll ever be. War Finn Bille [Our house burned on March 18, 2003; The U.S. and the “coalition of the willing” invaded Iraq on March 20, 2003.] I feel for you, Iraqi brothers and sisters, your houses bombed and burned, as lost as mine. I feel your grief and loss, I envy your rage. I have no screaming jets to curse, no arrogant invasion to resist, only the impersonal whim of chemistry when oxygen meets mating molecules of pine tree sap and cotton seed. But we are all collaterals walking wounded prey of chaos. From his book, Fire Poems, published by Maecenas Press in 2011. Available at Winder-Binder Gallery and Bookstore on Frazier Avenue in Chattanooga. Two dollars of the purchase price will go to the Red Cross for aid to fire victims. Chattanooga: My Father's House, Now Mine Nancy L. Webster Diwan I lie on an eighty year old sofa Autumn's light slips through the lace Warmth falls upon me Floats Descends Enclosed in my century old house Wrapped And then I realize I am part of the past As well as the now I close my eyes And like the house I am one with the landscape The universe I hear his faint whistling And I doze with childhood peace Trace Evidence Nancy L. Webster Diwan A glance at the evening sky What makes a phenomenal sunset? Some say it is the dust An apogee of all our dust Our dust! Elders long turned to dust DNA of my genes Fruit of their loins Peel away the rind There lay exposed Sordid tales of history Our family genealogy Pinion and ink of centuries past Shelved and preserved Libraries, court houses, family Bibles Yes, ink still visible Registers from sailing ships Who rode the waves to where? Cull through the lists to find the names Titles, surnames, given names Spellings, misspellings And luck to find Hidden in debris and silt Gorget in Mississippian style And imprints of moccasin feet Such a mystery the family has And all the footprints count Tennessee Genealogy Nancy L. Webster Diwan I traipse all over East Tennessee Exploring old cemeteries and new Alert for names, dates, some distant kin I look at names engraved in cold, cold stone Methinks my shadow falls upon my DNA nother ancestor lies in repose Is it true or is the kinship feigned? For the more I look, the more of me I find In a man on that mountain top In a child in those valleys below What am I doing? Am I looking for myself? What if I find me out there in some cattle field? How much more of me will there be? An enigmatic conundrum rests inside me Like a mongrel chases his tail I, too, have taken up the chase In vain, 'tis all in vain! Genealogy, prerequisite for insanity I chase ghosts ‘til nighttime falls Then race home to hide facts They accumulate in filling cabinets Research sweeps up more dust Dust to dust! I was born in Chattanooga, decended from the First Families of Tenn.; taught in the Georgia school systems, Dalton, 4th grade, and Rossville 6th, 7th, & 8th grade Foreign Language Exploratory; 30 years of tennis, done genealogy, taught t'ai chi in a group and am now working in art, sketching and painting. In addition to enjoying poetry, my favorite hobby is babysitting my grandson. I have travelled to India eight times, also, Italy and England. |