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[with 3 poems by Frank X Walker]
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Grove
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This was the first time
we really look at each other
and not be able to tell
who master the cruelest
who sorrow the deepest
who ground been the hardest to hoe.
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We was lined up like oaks in the yard
standing with our chins up,
proud chests out, shoulders back,
and already nervous stomachs in.
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We was a grove wanting to be a forest,
ready to see what kind of wood we made from.
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The only thing taller or straighter
than us be the boards
holding up the barracks at our backs,
 . 
though most our feets feel pigeon-toed
and powerful sore
from marching back and forth, every day,
for what seem like more miles
than we walked to get here.
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It take more than pride to stand still
‘neath these lil’ hats not made for shade.
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Soldiering ain’t easy, but it sure beats
the bloody leaves off a bondage.
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Frank X Walker
from Load in Nine Times, Liveright Publishing Corporation (W. W.Norton), New York, NY; © 2024
[based on a photo taken at Camp Nelson, Kentucky, of troops standing at attention outside the Colored Soldiers Barrack]
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1861      One month after Confederate forces fire on Fort Sumter, South Carolina, Kentucky’s Governor issues a formal proclamation of neutrality, but he retreats from any denunciation of slavery, which he believes is not a “moral, social, or political evil.” Four months later Kentucky decides to end neutrality and enters the Civil War on the side of the Union; 200 delegates vote to secede from the rest of the state and form a separate Confederate Kentucky with Bowling Green as capital.
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1862      Abraham Lincoln’s EMANCIPATION PROCLAMATION declares freedom for all enslaved persons in states which are in rebellion against the United States. This leaves slaves in Union-aligned Kentucky still the property of their masters, however.
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1864      The U.S. government’s progress towards making universal emancipation a war aim has caused support for the war and the government among White Kentuckians to dwindle. Military recruitment ebbs. On June 13, U.S. SPECIAL ORDER NO. 20 allows enslaved persons to enlist in the U.S. Army without their owner’s consent and be granted their freedom, the first pathway to legal emancipation in Kentucky. That summer and fall, 14,000 Black men enlist.
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Only Black men who are fit for military duty are emancipated, however. If they are ineligible, they are returned to enslavement, and there is no offer of freedom for their families. Camp Nelson, Kentucky’s largest recruitment and training base, becomes a haven for refugees from slavery, whether escaping from Tennessee, Virginia, and North Carolina or arriving with their newly enlisted Kentucky husbands or fathers. Freedom seekers from the South are considered “contraband of war” and granted freedom, but slaves of White Kentuckians remain legal property of their masters with no formal protections.
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On November 22, 1864, in the midst of a winter storm, Brigadier General Speed S. Frye orders all refugees surrounding Camp Nelson expelled and their shacks destroyed. Of 400 people immediately displaced without shelter or recourse, at least 102 die of exposure and starvation. Frye’s order is quickly rescinded by his superiors in Kentucky but headlines cause an outcry across the States. On December 15, Adjutant General L. Thomas issues ORDERS NO. 29 to require that “all camps enlisting Negroes provide suitable housing and provisions for their families.”
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Within months, the War Department creates the Home for Refugees at Camp Nelson. On March 3, 1865, the US Congress passes laws to emancipate the wives and children of United States Colored Troops soldiers.
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Camp Nelson, Kentucky, is now a National Monument, and includes a memorial obelisk to honor the 102 African Americans who perished in The Expulsion.
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We Will Prove Ourselves Men
++ Sewn on the regimental flag
++ of the 127th U.S. Colored Troops
 . 
I don’t look the stars and stripes
nor the eagle for mustard
 . 
like the white officers
and some of my free brothers do.
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I think on the slender fingers
that stitched our proud colors
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snapping in the wind,
the same steady hands
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that last held me close,
and pray they hold me again.
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That’s why I’m willing
to trade bullets in a cloud.
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Some confuse our bravery and courage
with our love for our women,
 . 
but many of us just eyeing that flag
and trying our best to get back home.
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Frank X Walker
from Load in Nine Times, Liveright Publishing Corporation (W. W.Norton), New York, NY; © 2024
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My Grandpop died when he was 67 and I was 5. Our families lived hundreds of miles apart – we in New York, then Tennessee, he and Nana in North Carolina – so we visited only two or three times a year. I can’t recall the sound of his voice, I’m not sure if he ever hugged me, but I know a story about him and me that I have retold myself so many times that it is tangibly real. Totally, unquestioningly, personally real:
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We are in the dining room of his house that overlooks Bogue Sound. He, a surgeon, is holding my fingers in his. In the pressure of his fingers I am aware of the bones beneath my skin, and he is teaching me: Carpals, Metacarpals, Phalanges.
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I have many photos of Grandpop, his enigmatic smile. I have copies of articles he published, things he crafted with his hands, an oil painting. I have photos he took of me, even an old 35 mm. silent movie. But the most real, the most present, is this story I keep and hold. Perhaps the artifacts helped me create the story. Perhaps hearing the story as it was told to me by Nana and Mom. However the story comes into being, into life, it brings reality with it.
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So it is with Frank X Walker and his poems in Load in Nine Times. Frank was already deeply involved in resurrecting and creating the stories of Black Civil War soldiers in Kentucky and their families, using scant artifacts to create short biographies and allow these men and women to live (for a project at Reckoning.com). Then he thought to ask the archivist to research a possible relative of his own. And the sky opened.
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Frank’s dedication for the collection of some 100 poems reads thus: For my ancestors, Mary and Randal Edelen, 125th U.S. Colored Infantry and Elvira and Henry Clay Walker, 12th U.S. Colored Troops Heavy Artillery. These folks speak and are joined by dozens of others who lived and suffered and sometimes triumphed. Through poetry they have all come to life, along with the middle decades of 19th century Kentucky. Slave and slave owner, soldier and widow, parent of despair and parent of hope – Frank has honored them and exposed them, judged them and sometimes forgiven them, given them sharp tongues and sharp features and brought their years into sharp, sharp focus.
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And our years as well. What did I know about Civil War Kentucky, USA? As soon as I laid down the book I had to know more. More! Frank educates with timelines and resources but his greatest gift is to enlighten me, in the sense of casting light into dark corners where I had never thought to look. When I discover online some of the photographs he must have used for his own inspiration, those slightly blurred faces now suddenly stand out to me – real men, real women. We each owe it to ourselves to continue to tell our stories and to listen to new ones. Somehow, in this harsh and enervating world, perhaps this is the way we will become more real to each other.
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Read the excellent interview with Frank X Walker by Jacqueline Allen Trimble as she explores with him the creation of Load in Nine Times, in the Oct 19, 2024 edition of Salvation South.
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A Black Father Dreams a Son
++ Brig. Gen. Charles Young,
++ 9th U.S. Cavalry Regiment
 . 
It was twelve miles to Maysville and the Ohio River and another
ten to Ripley. A runaway could escape from Mays Lick,
at night, head north, follow the smell of the river and make
the entire distance and crossing by sunrise. A determine one,
on horseback, like Gabriel Young, could make it in half the time.
 . 
Ignoring racism at West Point was easier knowing
my father survived slavery. He joined the 5th and risked his life
so our people would know freedom. I risk mine to protect it.
 . 
If his sacrifice and commitment freed my body, my mother’s books
free my mind. Her skirt was my first classroom.
Every big and small thing I’ve done began at their feet.
 . 
Though born into slavery in Kentucky, I learned to play piano
and violin, speak French and german, before becoming a teacher,
before graduating from West Point, before a career in the military,
and public service.
 . 
Growing up in Ripley showed me what this country could be.
What my parents instilled in me, and Wilberforce proved it.
 . 
I am America’s promise, my mother’s song,
and the reason my father had every right to dream.
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Frank X Walker
from Load in Nine Times, Liveright Publishing Corporation (W. W.Norton), New York, NY; © 2024
[Charles young, born in 1864 into slavery to Gabriel Young and Armenta Bruen in Mays Lick, Kentucy, was the first Black man to achieve the rank of colonel in the Unites States Army, and the highest ranking Black officer in the regular army until his death in 1922. In 2022, in recognition of his exemplary service and barriers he faced due to racism, he was posthumously promoted to brigadier general.]
[these addenda are taken from the Author’s notes]
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[with poems by the 2023 Tremont Poetry Cohort]
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Awaken
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You came because the river quiets your soul,
the sassafras soothes and sweetgum settles.
Have you gotten your breath? Do you remember who you are?
Leave us, now; it’s our time to sleep. You go, awake.
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Sarah Small / Alcoa, Tennessee
postcard – Mother bear & cubs
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The Little River is singing ‘October Blues’ and I can listen if I’ll just roll down my window. Leaving the Smokies on a Sunday morning, who would have imagined such a glut of traffic, but I can make the choice to gentle my right foot and blend with the flow. And here on the right comes another choice: I pull off at Chimneys and flush the press of schedule and itinerary from my mind.
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A ten minute climb into old growth hardwood cove and road noise no longer penetrates. Every few steps another chipmunk whistles its alarm. Fecund – whoever coined that word was smelling this place. The carpet is bright green hepatica saving up to flower in just a few months, the understory is summer seedhead bounty and autumn wood asters blooming like crazy, and the overstory is way up there, crooked and knobbed, reaching and mingling and only allowing an occasional glimpse of Balsam Point.
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I’ve been waiting since breakfast and now I pull out the small slip of lined paper Renée gave me, a personal parting note; she prepared one for each of us in the cohort. “Read it later,” she had said. I’m going to trust she won’t mind if I share one line: “I came to this conference with some heaviness and I’m leaving with light and a sense of belonging.” A mystery, a wonder, an inexplicable blessing that in just a few days eight strangers can so deeply connect.
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[untitled]
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You’re not a flightless bird,
+++++ your wings held tight
against your breast;
+++++ unfurl your plumage,
Go from here with boldness,
+++++ revel in your glory.
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Jeannine Jordan / Lima, Ohio
postcard – Wild Turkey
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Community
(the Park speaks)
 . 
Inspire, breath in, be filled with spirit –
think I’d tip you like a funnel and pour
right in? Look around this circle and take
a lesson from the Queen of Connection.
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Bill Griffin / Elkin, North Carolina
postcard – entrance to GSMNP
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Frank fans the deck and asks us each to select one. They’re postcards, of Great Smoky Mountains National Park, face down so we can’t see what we’ve picked. “The card has picked you,” Frank suggests. “What is it telling you about why you are here and what you’ll take with you when you leave?”
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This is our last exercise during our last session of this inaugural Tremont Writers’ Conference. Can it be only three days ago that Frank X Walker introduced himself to us as an artist who speaks Poet? Besides the language of linebreak and word choice, what Frank so incisively speaks is creativity, challenge, connection, community. Oh yes, we learn to critique each other’s poems through his quiet observations. Yes, we engage in color studies and sound studies and we write to prompts. But Frank is not teaching us to be writers – he is teaching us to be human. His carefully considered comments touch our gifts and expose our needs, and even more than that he weaves us seven into a whole whose true commitment is to bring out the best in each other.
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After ten or fifteen minutes of writing – channeling the voice we are hearing in our card’s image – Frank stops us and presents his next to last prompt: now break that all down into four lines. We probably should have seen this coming. We really aren’t ready, though, for his final instruction. He has us each pass our card two people to the left, write our home address on the fresh card we’re holding, then pass it back right to its original owner. Each of us will write our four-line poem on our card and mail it, and in a few days we will each receive a poem from one other member of the cohort.
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We won’t be driving home from this gathering to resume our scribbling in isolation. We will be watching the mailbox (and text messages) with a tingle. We are now a creative family. We are connected.
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The Experience
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Like me, a yearling bear,
caged and carried away.
You came for the experience.
Imagine me gone. Write it.
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Kim Hayes / Weaverville, North Carolina
postcard – Ursus americanus, Black Bear
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Somewhere, Sometime
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Sunlight  in this open field
Safely wander, graze
Trust the treeline
Grow. (I am growing, too.)
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Suzanne Bell / Pisgah Forest, North Carolina
postcard – deer graze in Cades Cove
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Connecting People with Nature is the motto of Great Smoky Mountains Institute at Tremont. Amen! In completing the Southern Appalachian Naturalist Certification Program at Tremont, I have felt the web of connections forged there welling up in me and changing me. One begins with the name of a thing, then comes to recognize how it makes its living and gets along with its neighbors, until at last there dawns an appreciation of the deep interdependence and kinship of all life, place, and planet. One living community.
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But if ecology is the study of living communities, poetry also has its ecology. How does the poem bring together all these living bits that make it come alive? Its images, its allusions, its music? How does the poem make its world equally real to or perhaps even more real than the world speeding by outside my window?
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It seems to me that the technique we learn at Tremont, the Naturalist Method, is entirely congruent with the Poetic Method – Pay Attention; Ask Questions; Make Connections; Share. All of this we try to do when we “speak Poet.” And Frank X Walker has certainly enabled every bit of this in us during our few days of communion with mountains, rivers, bears, each other. It is a language of laughter and surprise. It is a language of change and growth. It is a language of discovery, insight, and awe. We are leaving Tremont bubbling with its voice and overflowing with its joy. Poetry, and Nature, are how we connect.
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[untitled]
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Born on the top, nestled through the sides, tumbled to the bottom.
Again and again.
Those mountains captured and created.
Then they carried.

Renée Whitmore / Vass, North Carolina
postcard – sunrise through mountains in Cades Cove

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Clouds in my Skin

You are here
Not to burn through the mist
To roll around in the slick slopes
Of your soft hope—this knowing, this peace

Sophia Fortunato / Bozeman, Montana
postcard – mountain ridges fading into blue mist

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The Poetry Cohort of the First Tremont Writers’ Conference, October 15-29, 2023, is Jeannine Jordan, Bill Griffin, Sophia Fortunato, Sarah Small, Renée Whitmore, Kim Hayes, and Suzanne Bell. Our teacher, mentor, guide, and brother is Frank X Walker from Lexington, Kentucky, speaker of poetry, professor at University of Kentucky, and former state Poet Laureate.
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Other instructors at this inaugural conference are Janet McCue (Non-Fiction) and Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle (Fiction) and the featured speaker is Richard Powers, Pulitzer Prize-winning author of The Overstory. Jeremy Lloyd, Tremont Manager of Field and College Programs, has been the primary organizer, assisted by Tremont staff Elizabeth Davis, Erin Cantor, Lyndsey Kessler, education director John DiDiego, and many others.
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This conference was also made possible through the integral participation and partnership of Great Smoky Mountains Association and Creative Services Director Frances Figart. Thank you!
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[with poems by Frank X Walker]
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Statues of Liberty
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mamma scrubbed
rich white porcelain
and hard wood floors
on her hands and knees
hid her pretty face and body
in sack dresses
and aunt jemima scarves
from predators
who assumed
for a few extra dollars
before christmas
in dark kitchen pantries
they could unwrap her
present
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aunt helen, her sister
took in miss emereen’s laundry
every Saturday morning
sent it back
had washed, air dried,
starched
ironed, folded
and cleaner
than any professional service
 . 
she waited patiently
for her good white woman
to die
and make good on her promise
to leave her
a little something
only to leave her first
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aunt bertha, the eldest
exported her maternal skills
to suburbia
to provide surrogate attention
to children of money and privilege
and spent every other moment
preaching about
the richness of the afterlife
before the undertaker
took her
to see for herself
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housekeepers
washer women
maids
a whole generation
of portable day care centers
traded their days for dimes
allowing other women
the freedom to shop
and sunbathe
the opportunity to school
or work
 . 
this curse-swallowing sorority
dodged dicks
and bosses
before postwar women
punched clocks
they birthed civil and human rights
gave the women’s movement
legs
sacrificed their then
to pave the way for a NOW
their hard-earned pennies
sent us off to college
and into the world
our success is their reward
we are their monuments
but they
are our statues of liberty
 . 
Frank X Walker
from Affrilachia, Old Cove Press, Lexington KY. © 2000
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She and I squat beside the mudgreen puddle and discover a universe. I can’t quit watching the inch-long worms grubbing through the muck, their muscular tubular bodies, how they poke their siphon up to the break the surface tension. Is that the head-end or the butt-end? Lily points out the cadres of dusky tadpoles, some sprouting new legs, and she suspects they’re connected to the vibrato croaks we’ll soon hear from overhanging branches at dusk. Lily’s mom, Jodi, and I play Dueling Nature Apps to see who can broadcast Cope’s Grey Treefrog first.
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In a couple of weeks, Lily will return to Kentucky for her senior year at Berea. I don’t know her major but her field of study is the earth and all that’s in it. When she was seven (and eight, and nine . . .) and came down from West Virginia to North Carolina to spend a summer week at Camp Auntie Lin & Uncle Bill, she was the little girl picking up every bug we encountered and calling out the name of every bird that sang. This afternoon she has showed me her newest drawings: wildflowers, amphibians, a howling wolf. Her big plush firefly is already packed with her other critters for college. If your home is a cabin in the woods and your mother is a Park Service Ranger, how could you become other than a lily of the mountains?
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Now the shadows are stretching out across the Crownbeard and Yarrow and the last breeze of July has knocked off several degrees. Jodi’s birthday gathering with sisters draws to an end; Linda, Saul, and I have to head back south. Tomorrow at first light the roofers will arrive with slate-gray tin for Jodi and Lily’s new cabin, and the two women ask me for one last favor. I lug three stout logs from the woodpile and stand them on end to half ring the tadpole puddle. Jodi will flag it so the drivers don’t squash their trucks through the little persistent pool of new life. For the next two weeks, Lily will visit every day to mark the tree frogs’ and peepers’ metamorphosis. When she completes her classes in the spring and drives east again on Rte. 60, the Midland Trail, back to this little hilltop of trees and creatures, no doubt a new chorus will greet her.
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I am thankful for names that anchor their meaning into my sieve-like memory – Tetraptera; Erythrophthalmus; Frank X Walker. I noticed poems by Frank X popping up in my favorite anthologies, like Black Nature and The Ecopoetry Anthology. The universe kept inviting me to read more, to add this new species to my lexicon, and then I discovered that Frank X Walker will be the instructor at the inaugural Tremont Writer’s Workshop in the Smokies. The universe led me to his books.
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Affrilachia is deep as the Ohio River Valley and broad as the Cumberland Mountains; it is angry and also healing, somber and laugh-out-loud. Most of all, Affrilachia is unique. Frank X Walker’s voice is true and sure from page to page to page but what a voice, rural and hip, local and universal, Southern and Black. I could not put this collection down. Then twenty years later, with many other books in between, comes Last Will, Last Testament. This is an extremely focused book, the first months of his son’s birth and the last month’s of his father’s death, but within these transecting interconnected events the man tells his entire life’s story. He concludes In Another Universe with these lines: Forgiveness is our new last name, / Loving is our first. But he is not describing some distant unattainable universe; these lines are the universe of Frank X Walker’s now. From isolation, loss, and pain come revelation and joy. I have been richly blessed by these poems.
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Tetraptera means ‘four wings’ and is the species name of Carolina Silverbell. Erythrophthalmus means ‘red eye’ and is the species name for Eastern Towhee. Frank X Walker means ‘multidisciplinary artist’ and first African American poet laureate of Kentucky and he has been voted one of the most creative professors in the South. Frank X is founding editor of pluck! The Journal of Affrilachian Arts & Culture and is Professor of English and African American and Africana Studies at the University of Kentucky in Lexington.
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Harvest Time
 . 
Cancer came
on quiet possum feet
disguised as pneumonia,
until the steady hack and cough
just wouldn’t go away.
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Everybody but him had forgotten
that he smoked
two packs a day for fifty years.
 . 
When he added up the cost,
realized he could buy that tiller
he wanted +++ in a month,
he took his last puff
and quit +++ without blinking.
 . 
If only he could use it
on the tension in this room
and plow up the nastiness,
mistrust, and division
rooted in the dirt
from a past he can no longer
turn under the ground.
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Frank X Walker
from Last Will, Last Testament, Accents Publishing, Lexington KY. © 2019
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Afrofuturistic Messaging
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When I hear him laughing
until he runs out of breath,
gulping more air and giggling again
at something unseen in the ether,
or catch him staring intently
over my shoulder
in the direction
of our Dogon masks
at something invisible
and possibly vibrating
in a spectrum of light only accessible
to the newly-arrived
or those about to depart,
I assume it is you +++ or mama
continuing one of the last and best
conversations you had on this side,
or exchanging coordinates.
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He, barely a haiku, had just met you
and began jabbering and cooing
in couplets, like an old friend
from some other space and time.
 . 
You were even happier
to stare into familiar eyes,
to be comforted
about all that was ahead,
to catch up
with the old and the knew,
the breath between you
transforming into something
interdimensional,
the twinkle in your eye
starlight
from another galaxy.
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Frank X Walker
from Last Will, Last Testament, Accents Publishing, Lexington KY. © 2019
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Affrilachia
(for gurney & anne)
 . 
thoroughbred racing
and hee haw
are burdensome images
for kentucky sons
venturing beyond the mason-dixon
 . 
anywhere in appalachia
is about as far
as you could get
from our house
in the projects
yet
a mutual appreciation
for fresh greens
and cornbread
an almost heroic notion
of family
and porches
makes us kinfolk
somehow
but having never ridden
bareback
or sidesaddle
and being inexperienced
at cutting
hanging
or chewing tobacco
yet still feeling
complete and proud to say
that some of the bluegrass
is black
enough to know
that being ‘colored’ and all
is generally lost
somewhere between
the dukes of hazzard
and the beverly hillbillies
but if you think
makin’ ‘shine from corn
is as hard as kentucky coal
imagine being
an Affrilachian
poet
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Frank X Walker
from Affrilachia, Old Cove Press, Lexington KY. © 2000
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2020-03-07 Doughton Park Tree

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