V E R S E and I M A G E

Forever Mountain

October 23, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

[I originally posted this essay, including Fred Chappell’s poem Forever Mountain, on October 28, 2012. Today, October 23, 2026, I am attending the Tremont Writers’ Conference in Great Smoky Mountains National Park. Enjoy these musings from the archives and check in next Friday for a new post. — Bill]

❀ ❀ ❀

Keep close to Nature’s heart, yourself;
and break clear away once in a while,
and climb a mountain or spend a week in the woods.
Wash your spirit clean.
John Muir

. . . . .

Why have they come? Why have they driven hundreds of miles of highway and another twenty of Forest Service gravel to this Deep Gap? Why have they tracked down my friend Mike Barnett and persuaded him to share with them everything they will need to know to spend a few nights on the trail? Why forsake comfort for mist, rain, steep switchbacks, cold nights, hard ground? Why have they come here?

Now they huddle at the trail head – Judy, Nora, Cathy, Gloria, Joan, Nancy – median age 65 (just a wild guess, Ladies!). They pull on fleece and rain gear because we’re already above 3,000 feet and it’s mid-October. Mist condenses on the leaves and drips like rain. The plan is to hike the AT for three days with everything we need to survive on our backs: food, stove, water & filter, tent, mummy bags, and lots of layers for nights just above freezing. We’ll reward ourselves the third night with a short side hike to Albert Mountain and hope to catch the sunset and sunrise from the 5,280 foot summit and fire tower.

That sunrise seems a long way off as we hunker down for the first night half-way up Standing Indian Mountain. It’s pitch dark , a “hunter moon,” first new moon after equinox, but what does absent moon matter when we are engulfed in cloud with thunder echoing ridge to ridge as lightning strikes the summit? Kids, I just want to let you know that your grandmothers are some tough-ass mountain women – they wake up the next morning joking that the howl of wind and rain had caused them to miss George Clooney’s surprise midnight visit. And the only complaint I hear is when Joan comes back from digging a cat hole just as the mist lifts to reveal a nice rainproof privy not twenty yards from our camp site.

Our second night we stop at Beech Gap, a saddle between peaks with a good spring and level tent sites. The stars burn cold as diamond just above our shoulders; we are wearing every layer of clothing we’ve carried. I ask, “Why? Why did you go to so much trouble to put this trek together?”

Judy was the instigator. She told Nora she wanted to hike at least one stretch of the Appalachian Trail before she died. Nora replied, “Gee, I know someone who’s been taking kids on high adventure hikes in the mountains for twenty years, and his sister-in-law Carol is my good friend.” Nora called Carol, Carol called Mike, and Mike said, “OK.” (I still haven’t asked him why he said yes!) Wheels began to turn. It began to look like Judy’s promise to herself that she’d have something big to to tell her grandchildren would be fulfilled.

Nora invited others, and Mike’s wife Nancy makes six. One had hiked with her family as a child and wanted to recapture that feeling. One walked miles every day and wondered if she could handle the challenge of doing it uphill with a pack. Another had become concerned about her stamina and embarked on a course to improve her fitness; now she wanted to kick it up a notch. One had never experienced mountain wilderness. All of the women had come with a frank openness to experiencing something new. Something challenging.

There are plenty of obvious physical challenges to spending a night on a mountain. Just deciding what you’re willing to carry vs. what you’re willing to live without can become a metaphysical exercise. Then there’s the trail itself. Where will I find water? Will the spring be dry? How many uphill miles before my buns turn to steel? How much huffing and puffing before I have a heart attack?

Physical challenges are obvious, but they are illusory. I may be thirsty now, but I will drink later. When the trail is steep, I walk more slowly. I stop and rest. Tired and sore? Leaves are falling that I may scrape together for a bower. Strange noises in the night? My companions are close by.

I’m guessing there are still more reasons we’ve come to these mountains that none of us have yet spoken. I’m certain there are reasons we couldn’t even have named until after we took this walk together. There are reasons we’ll discover only with days and weeks of contemplation to come. A taste of wildness – remote, unforgiving, pristine, elemental. An assurance of self – I made it, I persevered. Connection, unvarnished and unabashed – each one of us making our small offering to the survival, and the joy, of the group. And a much larger connection – wind, trees, slopes, stars . . . we are part of this living realm and can’t exist without it.

Why have we come here? That’s exactly what we’re still discovering.

. . . . .

Final question: Why did Mike ask me if I’d like to come and lend a hand as general schlepper, filter pumper, water boiler, story teller? Because he knew as soon as the word “mountains” left his lips I would be saying, “YES!”

. . . . .

Forever Mountain
Fred Chappell

for J.T.Chappell, 1912-1978

Now a lofty smoke has cleansed my vision.

I see my father has gone to climb
Lightly the Pisgah slope, taking the time
He’s got a world of, making spry headway
In the fresh green mornings, stretching out
Noontimes in the groves of beech and maple.
He has cut a walking stick of second-growth hickory
And through the amber afternoon he measures
Its shadow and his own shadow on a sunny rock.
Not marking the hour, but observing
The quality of light come over him.
He is alone, except what voices out of time
Swarm to his head like bees to the bee-tree crown,
The voices of former life as indistinct as heat.

By the clear trout pool he builds his fire at twilight,
And in the night a granary of stars
Rises in the water and spreads from edge to edge.
He sleeps, to dream the tossing dream
Of the horses of pine trees, their shoulders
Twisting like silk ribbon in the breeze.

He rises glad and early and goes his way,
Taking by plateaus the mountain that possesses him.

My vision blurs blue with distance,
I see no more.
Forever Mountain has become a cloud
That light turns gold, that wind dislimns.

This is continually a prayer.

. . . . .

A brief postscript: Mike has told me several times of his instructions to Nancy that his ashes are to be strewn from the top of Standing Indian Mountain. By noon on our second day the mist had lifted, and we ate lunch at that summit with glorious views of the autumn-hued ridges extending to an infinite horizon. Mike, I hope it’s years in our future, but I can’t think of a better spot to lend the flora a little potash and calcium for all eternity.

. . . . .

Our true home lies outside, deep in the wilderness of forest and mountain, river and desert and sea, the source of our being and the destiny of our great meandering blundering dreaming journey through time. Like Odysseus in his wanderings, we are homeward bound whether we know it or not.
Edward Abbey

. . . . .

Posted in Imagery | Tagged Appalachian Trail, Bill Griffin, Forever Mountain, Fred Chappell, imagery, love, Nantaha Wilderness, nature poetry, Ohio, poetry | Leave a Comment »

This Is Where I Came In — Jonathan K. Rice

October 16, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

3 poems by Jonathan K. Rice

all selections from This Is Where I Came In

with a postscript added October 18, 2026

Anchored

You’re anchored

lightly to the earth

it slowly turns

as you dance

upon its meadows

through forests and valleys

as dervishes in deserts

and mosques

as dolphins and whales

leap, breach, do figure eights

through cresting waves,

dive gracefully to depths

where ancient anchors

lay and rust amid coral,

barnacles, crustaceans,

otherworldly creatures.

that gently move

in rhythm with currents,

the moon and tides,

salt and sand,

the sun that warms your face,

your hands that reach for mine.

❀ ❀ ❀

Finding

There we were

in a bamboo

labyrinth

near a river

bending time

and desire,

holding hands,

finding our way

as the afternoon

leaned into dusk,

an undercurrent

of uncertainty

yet nothing abides

like nightfall

and how earth

embraces it,

how the sun rises

each morning,

how we find

ourselves.

❀ ❀ ❀

papaya

. . . isn’t every moment the last moment?

There is no moment other than this

— Charlotte Joko Beck

dislodged

from the green-yellow

fruit sliced

lengthwise

small shiny

black seeds

scatter across

my plate

as if to be read

like stones

thrown by a

shaman.

my fingertip

searches

the cool moist

here

and now

the last moment

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

[to the supplicant . . . ]

Waiting is one of those things I do best.

I miss Iodine Poetry Journal. I miss the poems, various and eclectic but also always solid and grounded. Human. Personal. I miss those slim perfect-bound volumes, and since each journal was as far as I know a one-person editorial effort, I miss imagining Jonathan Rice opening every submission, selecting his faves, arranging them in perfect order for the next issue. I especially miss the little logo on the back cover.

But what I miss most of all is waiting. It was never a long wait, usually only a month or so. I would visit the mailbox, spot the return address, wait to open the envelope until I was seated at my desk (magical thinking, always). Even if I pulled out a form letter, it would have a scrawl at the bottom: Hey Bill, Try another batch on me later. Thanks, Jonathan. Or even more encouragement: Hi Bill, I like the ‘Horizon’ poem the best, but at the end it shifts to 2nd person, which throws it off. If you revise that, try again and I’ll read it over. Thanks, Jonathan.

So worth waiting for. And between my first submission on June 14, 2002 and Jonathan’s last letter in my mailbox on October 12, 2015, he published ten of my poems in Iodine. Such an honor. You are my favorite editor, Jonathan. A little god of poetry, so like the deity speaking in the last poem of your new book – . . . I’m not as omniscient as you think . . . really not all that powerful . . . when no one else seems to care, you know I’m here waiting.

❀ ❀ ❀

This Is Where I Came In – so worth waiting for. It’s been a bit over ten years since Jonathan K. Rice’s last book of poetry and this new collection is fully and completely himself. Various and eclectic, solid and grounded, human and personal. Every poem sets me smiling, and every poem also sets me off on a journey of recollection and reflection. How is it that all these moments, so off-handedly random, coalesce to make a person. Capture one as if flies by. Ask it to bless you, then let it go. Anchored so lightly, how can we do other than dance?

❀

This Is Where I Came In, by Jonathan K. Rice, is available from Main Street Rag.

[A personal note to Jonathan – I’ve always wondered why I save all these old rejections and acceptance letters. I guess each one carries a little blessing.]

POSTSCRIPT

Thank you so very much for your kind words. I just need to correct you a little. For years Leslie M. Rupracht was my associate editor, then my senior associate editor, when I needed some extra help. Leanna N. Stead and Karen Thornton came on board as IPJ became deluged with submissions. I farmed out much the reading to them, then I made the final decision from their selections. They pretty much knew the flavor of the magazine and what I was shooting for, so we were mostly on the same page. (no pun intended) Early on though, it was just me reading submissions, and I always read everything even after all my associate editors had their say. I should add, for years Leslie was my right hand in all of this.

There’s more to the story though. Billy Collins was guest editor for The Best of America Poetry 2006. Somehow he ran across an issue of Iodine Poetry Journal and selected a poem by Ron Koertge titled, “Found,” which I’d accepted for publication. After that edition was released, we began receiving way more submissions so I needed the extra help. Karen, Leanna & Leslie were essential in making it work. I miss it sometimes. But we went out with a bang when I retired the mag in 2016.

Jonathan

❀ ❀ ❀ ❀ ❀

Thank you for visiting Verse and Image:

. . . . . every Friday I present one or more poems I’ve read this week that particularly speak to me;

. . . . . some Saturdays I present one or two poems submitted by YOU, my readers.

If you would like to offer a poem for consideration, either by a favorite author or your own work, please view these GUIDELINES for Saturday Readers Share:

https://griffinpoetry.com/about/

If you would like to receive an email each time a post appears, please SUBSCRIBE to Verse and Image using the button on the Home Page.

If you have a hard time finding the SUBSCRIBE button on this WordPress site, you can send me your email address and I will add you to the subscriber list. Send your request to

COMMENTS@GRIFFINPOETRY.COM

Thanks again for joining the conversation.

– Bill

PawPaw, not Papaya

Posted in Imagery | 4 Comments »

Communities – Spruce-Fir and Kathryn Stripling Byer

October 12, 2026 by GriffinPoetry

[I originally posted this essay, including two poems by Katherine Stripling Byer, on October 24, 2020. Now I’m packing for another trip to the Smokies, the Tremont Writers’ Conference. Enjoy this trip through the archives as we journey through Autumn. — Bill]
.

❀ ❀ ❀
.

Appalachian Trail near Clingman’s Dome, 2003

[with two poems by Kathryn Stripling Byer]

. . . . . . .

Summer has skimmed the high ridge like a chimney swift, rarely perching for long. Now on September mornings you can see your breath. First frost certainly won’t dally. Above 6,000 feet you wonder, Where is the South in Southern Appalachians?

And what about these bleached spines and gnarled knucklebones? This phalanx of snags that palisades the highest elevations against the green upon green below? The balsam wooly adelgid arrived on Clingman’s Dome in 1957. By the 1980’s the tiny insect invader from Europe, order Hemiptera, had destroyed more than 90% of the Fraser Fir in Great Smoky Mountains National Park.

This year, though, the Park Service has declared a tenuous truce. Some of those dead snags are forty years old but younger trees spared by the adelgid have matured and are making fertile cones. The very oldest trees, with thicker bark, also seem less susceptible. The insects are still around but you have to hunt for them, whereas during the earliest infestations biologists described the branches covered in wooly bugs as if they had been “whitewashed.”

What is the fulcrum of this new equilibrium? Perhaps the adelgid found easy pickings among whole communities weakened for decades by acid deposition, bad air. Coal-burning power plants up the Appalachian ridge to Canada have added scrubbers. The red spruce that had stopped growing in the ‘80’s are laying on new rings of cambrium. Leave a patch of ground alone long enough and it will grow into what it is meant to be.

Or will it? Depends on what you mean by leave alone. The fir that survive are a little more resistant to the insect, a little more acid tolerant. But what happens as their subalpine microclimate becomes less like Canada and more like Atlanta? Scrubbers remove the nitrogen and sulfur that oxidize to form acids but when you burn carbon you get carbon dioxide. Can’t scrub that out. How many degrees of warming can Fraser fir tolerate? Go higher, it gets cooler. Here in the Park you can’t go any higher than Clingman’s Dome.

. . . . . . .

Last week I shared two poems from Kathryn Stripling Byer’s first book (1986). The two poems that follow here are from her final book, Trawling the Silences, published in 2019 two years after her death.

Kay Byer takes me into wild places and she brings me home. She names the earth, just naming a thing is a prayer, and she leaves nameless the mysteries that mist from her verses into my soul. She has left this earth, and she has left this earth to me to hold close for the days I will remain. Notice. Learn. Cherish. Tell it.

. . . . . . .

Three for My Trail Guide
for Jim

Ascent

Before I can catch
my breath you right away
start to identify

Wild Ginger,
Mayapple,
Bloodroot.

I’m dizzy with switchbacks
I see rising into
the hardwoods you hail

Sarvis,
Sycamore,
Tulip Tree.

Trillium sweeps down
the hillside like angel wings
come to rest creekside.

You chanting hepatica,
stonecrop, anemone,
we climb until

we reach the summit,
where underfoot
some stubborn lichen

you can’t name
has already claimed
the best view.

Star Grass

You name it
and there it is
at the edge
of the outcropping
over the Gorge.

Not to worry,
I placate the ravens
that harry us,
we won’t be lingering
long in your aerie.

See? Even now we are
striding away
into star grass,
its small spikes of clear
recognizable light.

Galax

Squatting behind bushes,
I smell it nearby, neither bear scat

nor carrion vine, to which naturalists
liken its scent, but the breath

of an old woman lowering herself
to her chamber pot, sighing

as I heard her sigh while I tried
not to listen. Hoisting my backpack

I leave her behind in the underbrush,
glad to be back on the trail

with you, sidestepping tree stump
and blowdown, splashing through

creek bed, striding from switch back
to switch back toward sky we see,

step by step, open its window,
when, almost to summit, I stop.

Breathing hard. The scent
of her following me.

Kathryn Stripling Byer, from Trawling the Silences (Jacar Press, 2019)

. . . . . . .

Trawling the Silences

This end-of-March day, I’d rather watch hawks surf the
thermals than contemplate what lies ahead.
Or behind in its wake. In the few hours left, let me keep
my doubts shut, my windows wide open, their sheer curtains
billowing. It’s March, after all, having come in
a lamb and departing a lioness, stalking my back yard,

leaving her paw prints alongside the patient ephemerals
rising again out of leaf litter. Squirrel corn. Spring beauty.
The first rue anemone. Today I would rather
read field guides, repeating the whimsical names
of our nice-dwelling mussels about to be wiped out by backhoes
and bulldozers. Pimpleback, Snuffbucket. Monkeyface
Pearlymussel. Don’t let their names be forgotten,
I’d pray if I prayed, though just naming a thing is a prayer,

wrote Simone Weil, turning her face to the almighty
silences. The silences. Where would we be
without them, what were we, what will we be, oh to be,
and again be, that damn linking verb. I’d rather be tracking
my lioness up to the rim of that mountain top,
I’d rather let be and let go. Let the anemone
cling, the hawks soar, the lioness squander another day
trying to find what she’s looking for. Give her another day,
I ask the Almighty. Give the birds one more day
scolding the rapscallion squirrels stealing birdseed.
I rest my case, carapace, my own little voice trawling
the silences, the bully wind boasting its presence in present-tense,
no linking verb to shut down the show. Let
my lioness lounge in the sally grass. Licking her paws.

Kathryn Stripling Byer, from Trawling the Silences (Jacar Press, 2019)

. . . . . . .

Spruce-Fir forests covered vast areas of the Southeast when glaciers reached their southernmost extent 18,000 years ago. As the glaciers retreated north the Spruce-Fir communities also retreated to higher elevations and now remain only along the highest peaks and ridges above 4,000 feet elevation, mostly higher. Clingman’s Dome at 6643 feet is the highest point in Great Smoky Mountains National Park and indeed along the entire Appalachian Trail. Its impressive swath of Spruce-Fir is also home to the rare Jordan’s Red-Cheeked salamander (Plethodon jordani) found only in the Park. The naturally acid soil and severe climate limit biodiversity compared to lower elevations, but other distinctive high elevation species include mountain ash (Rose family), mountain wood sorrel, mountain asters, glade fern. After sixty years the Fraser Fir seem to be surviving the balsam wooly adelgid invasion, air pollution, acid rain; it remains to be seen how long they will remain in the face of advancing climate change.

from SNAKE DEN RIDGE, A BESTIARY, illustration by Linda French Griffin

. . . . . . .

Photos by Bill Griffin from Southern Appalachian Naturalist Certification Program; Southern Appalachian Ecology, September 2020, Great Smokies Institute at Tremont; instructors Jeremy Lloyd and Elizabeth Davis.