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Posts Tagged ‘NC Poetry Society’

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NCPS at Cary Arts Center (2)

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Has this old Cary High School building ever before been filled with such light and creativity? Standing just inside the high windowed doors, I see Joan Barasovska and Kathy Ackerman greeting arrivals. In a moment they will look up at smile at me. To my left Deb Doolittle stands in quiet contemplation of the long table where authors display their books. A few meters behind Joan, beside the large coffee tureen, is the lavish spread of fruit and pastries Chad Knuth has prepared – I wish I hadn’t eaten that protein bar during the 2+ hour drive from Elkin. All around me people are coming together and dispersing only to regroup, old friends and new acquaintances simmering with excitement and joy. It is already a great morning for poetry.
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Each September at its fall meeting the North Carolina Poetry Society features readings by the winners of the following contests:
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Brockman-Campbell Book Award: for the best book of poetry published by a North Carolina author in the preceding year.
Lena Shull Manuscript Award: for a manuscript by a North Carolina author; the winning book is published by NCPS.
Susan Laughter Meyers Poetry Fellowship: an annual residency and honorarium offered to one North or South Carolina poet.
Randall Jarrell Poetry Prize (sponsored by North Carolina Writers’ Network): for an individual poem by a North Carolina author.
Jaki Shelton Green Performance Poetry Award (co-sponsored by North Carolina Literary Review at East Carolina University and NCPS): for an individual poem recited / performed.
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In 2023 the September meeting was held at the NC Museum of Art in Raleigh, in 2024 at the NC Arboretum in Asheville, and this year’s meeting on September 13 was at the Cary Arts Center. Since 1939 the building served as the (former) Cary High School and is now on the national registry of historic places. Today’s and last Friday’s post feature some of the poetry shared by the 2025 winners; see the post from September 26 for more photos and poetry offerings!
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The Way I Love Him in Durham
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Now, when we argue, he yells,
Why don’t you love me the way you did in Rome?
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He means: the way we got lost
in the Gallery of Maps on the way
to the Sistine Chapel, how we’d drink
Aperol at breakfast, filled our days
with too many Caravaggios and Berninis.
The way my mouth was so open
to his at the Vatican. How we explored
the Forum and imagined the games
of the Colosseum: venationes, naumachia.
How we stuffed our bellies
with black ink pasta, ox, and marrow.
The way we escaped a thunderstorm
under an awning and kissed
while lightning lit the Pantheon.
Our joy buying a wool hat
in the Campo de’ Fiori at the stone
feet of the first martyr of science.
How our bodies fit as we descended
into the Capuchin’s crypt of pelvises,
the dark ossuary that left us humble and mortal.
How crossing the Tiber to Trastevere
meant we’d soon make love in our cellar
apartment below young drunk revelers.
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The way I love him in Durham
is washing sheets and dishes,
grocery shopping and cooking,
waiting until dinner to uncork wine.
A slow dance on the patio to The Smiths
under the crisscross of air traffic.
The commutes and kids tiring our libidos,
watching him fall asleep to sci-fi.
I know the pink scars over his heart
as if they were my monogram.
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We wait for the sign, the burning
of our bread, of our ballots,
for which color smoke rises out of us.
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Claudine Moreau
from Demise of Pangaea, Main Street Rag Publishing, Charlotte NC, © 2024; finalist for the Brockman Campbell Book Award of the North Carolina Poetry Society.
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Claudine Moreau teaches physics and astronomy at Elon University and also serves as faculty director of a first-year student neighborhood. Someday she hopes to retire on a mountaintop where the sky is dark enough to see the Milky Way. She has also published the chapbook Dark Machines, Fugitive Poets Press, ©  2012.
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Claudine Moreau

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Our History Revealed
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The foundation of our nation is built on the backs and bones of African Americans
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Our Heart, Hands, Blood, Sweat, Tears and Intellect all serving as fertilizer to a burgeoning country
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Our Ancestors’ Grave Sacrifices and Noble Contributions must be Revealed and Recognized
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Consequently we employ the Power of the Fine Arts
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As palette is to canvass
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Documenting Our Pain
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Commemorating Our Achievements
and Celebrating Our Triumphs
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Because History, like the Arts is a Living, Breathing entity
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Unceasing and Beautiful when the Majesty of all the Shades and Tones of the African Diaspora, are TRULY Represented
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Dionne D. Hunter
Performed at Cary Arts Center on September 13, 2025; Second Place Winner in the 2025 Jaki Shelton Green Performance Poetry Award.
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As a United States Navy Veteran, mother of two, and grandmother of four, Dionne Hunter has gravitated to Spoken Word as an expression of her emotions and ideals. Her work has been included in anthologies published by Writing Knights, The Poet’s Haven, and Crisis Chronicles Press. Contact: http://www.dionnehunter.com
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Dionne Hunter

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Other winners of this year’s JSG awards are JeanMarie Olivieri, Marcial CL Harper, and (not pictured) Asthma Olajuwon. (Contest guidelines here.)
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JeanMarie Olivieri

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Marcial CL Harper

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Core
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Papa, you tailor your trousers with spider silk.
So many bottled nectars on bronze carts
flank your marble table, pour down
the slender throats of your petal-gowned women.
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Papa, I am a stemless apple.
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Papa, no ice and alcohol
could help me drizzle a glass.
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Papa, you open my skull with an Alaskan blade.
So many blossoms crammed there,
Papa, and they will fly out in the perfumed,
string-quartet wind and I will be
a dark bowl of bone.
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Papa, there is pollen on your hand.
That hum is not your pale-haired companion.
Papa, the bees are coming.
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Becky Nicole James – finalist for the Lena Shull Manuscript Award
Core first appeared in Gingerbread House, (June 2022)
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Becky Nicole James holds an MFA from Queens University. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in many publications including MARGIE, Echo Ink Review, Illumen, and Moon City Review. Contact: https://beckynicolejames.com/
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Becky Nicole James

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Toolbox
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Tan leather scraps
cover brass grommets,
rusted finishing nails,
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a small bag of thumbtacks
bound by sea-green rubber
band,
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single-edge Gem blades,
a boxed emery stone:
Use only light machine oil.
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Deeper –
bristly twine,
household cord,
looped and neatly bound
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like his favorite
sky-blue tie,
knotted four-in-hand.
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Charles Wheeler – finalist for the Lena Shull Manuscript Award
Toolbox is from his unpublished manuscript East of Candor, and was first published in Pinesong 2016, the annual anthology of North Carolina Poetry Society contest winners.
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Charles Wheeler

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Thicket
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– Guilford Courthouse National Military Park, NC, 2021
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Cutting crosswise through the battlefield
on narrow trails I realize I’m lost, not lost
but can’t tell where I am, the smooth
dotted and dashed lines on my folded map
untranslatable to this hill, this stream, this woods.
The bright moment, a leaf twirling down, a lurch
of tiny fear and I think then, on this very ground,
they couldn’t see the line that was coming,
only they knew it was. I’ve gone to ground
in my new world, as if I hoped to glimpse myself
in the quiet face of some particular earth,
or as if the trace of those distant lives
might slide wide like a curtain. . . . But I get lost
every time, until I wonder if disorientation
is my true condition. I think disoriented:
unable to find the east. Still I found my way here,
homed but unfamiliar, a southern campaign
of red dirt and magnolia. Meeting my own mind
again in the vital thicket. What did those men
watch and listen for, to steady them? What call
do I wait for now, what drumbeat, what rising?
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Anne Myles – finalist for the Susan Laughter Meyers Poetry Fellowship
Thicket first appeared in Pinesong 2022, the annual anthology of NC Poetry Society contest winners, and in Anne’s book Late Epistle, Sappho’s Prize, Headmistress Press, 2023.
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Anne Myles is Professor Emeritus of English at the University of Northern Iowa and holds an MFA from the Vermont College of Fine Arts. Originally from New York, she lives in Greensboro with her greyhound and cats. She has also published What Woman That Was: Poems for Mary Dyer, Final Thursday Press, 2022. Contact: http://annemyles.com.
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Anne Myles

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A grieving of a tree
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When the chainsaw begins,
I sit at our small round kitchen table
over a bowl of oatmeal, alone
with only the whir of fridge, view
of backyard grass, bushes, pine straw.
At the buzzing, I know they’ve come
for the Bradford pear tree next door.
Invasive species, spreads in forests,
these trees aren’t helping anything.
But, this tree is glorious today,
its death day. White flowering branches
drape over the sidewalk, cascade
over the street. The neighbor told me
twice, that our tree, the one eight feet away
from this one to be taken out, will be
happier. Trees who grew up together,
who must have known each other
for a couple of decades, at least.
Two days ago, I pat the tree to be downed,
thanked it, and yesterday too, but today,
I walked right by it without saying
anything at all, thinking about how
I woke up crying about all that the dark
does and does not hold. I didn’t pat the tree
this third day, the very day the saw sound began
and I wished I had. I knew the sound
was coming and I wonder if the tree
knew its fate as we sometimes know things.
In the height of its flower, each branch falls
with an odd grace, like the most beautiful dance,
by a dancer whose arms are being cut off
one after another until petals litter the asphalt
as if it were a wedding not a funeral.
A buzzing. A buzz. Until the tree
becomes wood stacked just feet
from its cut trunk. Branches full of light, gone,
as if they had never been there, as if their glory
had been a prayer taken with the breeze.
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Liza Wolff-Francis – finalist for the Susan Laughter Meyers Poetry Fellowship
First published online at Braided Way on October 21, 2024, this poem is part of the collection submitted in application for the fellowship.
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Liza Wolff-Francis, the 8th Poet Laureate of Carrboro, North Carolina, holds an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from Goddard College. She is a feminist ecopoet and has taught creative writing workshops for over a decade. Her most recent book is 48 hours down the shore, Kelsay Press, 2024. Contact: https://www.lizawolff.com
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Liza Wolff-Francis

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This year’s NC Writers’ Network Randall Jarrell Poetry Prize is awarded to Molly Bolton for her poem Still Deer Ballad, with runner-up Janis Harrington for Ode to Our Last Prepubescent Summer and Ross White as Honorable Mention for Ship of Theseus. Bolton’s poem will be published in poetrySouth.
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More information about the winners and the contest at NC WRITERS’ NETWORK 
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Molly Bolton

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Jan Harrington

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Chad Knuth, NCPS VP of Programs

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NCPS Program VP Chad Knuth

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NC Poetry Society at the Cary Arts Center
[poetry by award winners Mark Cox, Michael Hettich, and more]
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All Right
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The boy doesn’t know what to do. He’s only twelve. And he’s never seen adults weep, not like this at least, so distraught, disconsolate. He can see his grandmother from the kitchen, through her bedroom doorway. Prisoner of her dementia, the old woman lies fully clothed atop the chenille bedspread, her floral house dress faded, her shoes scuffed and worn, light from one window cutting her in two. Her good dishes have disappeared, the piano is still in the old farmhouse, the cows need to be milked, her young sons are still in France at war. The boy sits at the breakfast table, adrift in a sunlit swirl of dust motes. He understands none of this is true, but how is he to help? What can anyone say? To live is to leave, the boy thinks; we make our way, but lose something always and wherever we go. Our shoe soles wear down, our hair thins, our bodies diminish and so we travel always through galaxies of our own shed lint and skin, the leavings of once known things. Finally, at a loss, he just lies down next to her, his sneakers alongside her purpled ankles. He knows nothing ever is going to be all right, but he says it anyway.
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Mark Cox
from Knowing, winner of the 2025 Brockman-Campbell Book Award of the North Carolina Poetry Society
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Mark Cox is chair of the Department of Creative Writing at University of North Carolina, Wilmington. He also teaches in the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA Program. His six previous books include Sorrow Bread: Poems 1984-2015 (2017) and Readiness (2018). Read more about Knowing and purchase your copy at Press 53 HERE.
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Claudine Moreau is second place finalist for the 2025 Brockman-Campbell Award, for her book Demise of Pangaea. Visit this site on October 3 for more about her book and a sample poem.
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Mark Cox

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Each September at its fall meeting the North Carolina Poetry Society features readings by the winners of the following contests:
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Brockman-Campbell Book Award (NCPS): best book of poetry published by a North Carolina author in the preceding year
Lena Shull Manuscript Award (NCPS): for a manuscript by a North Carolina author; the winning book is published by NCPS
Susan Laughter Meyers Fellowship (NCPS): a one week residential fellowship at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities for one North or South Carolina poet
Randall Jarrell Poetry Prize (sponsored by North Carolina Writers’ Network): for an individual poem by a North Carolina author
Jaki Shelton Green Performance Poetry Award (co-sponsored by North Carolina Literary Review at East Carolina University and NCPS): for an individual poem recited / performed
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For information about North Carolina Poetry Society contests VISIT HERE:
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In 2023 the September NCPS meeting was held at the NC Museum of Art in Raleigh, in 2024 at the NC Arboretum in Asheville, and this year’s meeting on September 13 celebrated the Cary Arts Center, formerly the Cary High School (1939), listed on the national registry of historic places. Today’s and next Friday’s posts feature some of the poetry shared at the meeting by the 2025 contest winners; return to this site on October 3 for more offerings!
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❦ ❦ ❦
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The Meadow
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++++ I woke in a tall-grass field at first light,
and listened to the birds, and hummed with a dream
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++++ ++++ I made up from wisps
++++ that ran through my body
++++ ++++ shivering marrow, making me notice
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++++ the dew that dampened
my face and the spider webs
++++ starting to shimmer the trees.
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Everything was breathing; the long night echoed
++++ in the dawn-light: stars
++++ ++++ and vast migrations
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++++ as the breeze stuttered a moment, then stilled.
++++ Across the field, my companion was singing
++++ ++++ her own perfect song, which was silence. Still
++++ ++++ ++++ I could hear her somehow, so I got up and set off
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++++ ++++ ++++ ++++ to thank her for sharing this beautiful place
++++ ++++ ++++ she’d known all her life, this place where she’d always
++++ ++++ ++++ ++++ felt happy, the place she yearned to stay
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++++ ++++ as long as she breathed. And then, she’d told me,
++++ she’d turn into something more perfect: the vast
sky, so blue it hurt the eyes,
++++ or a meadow like this one, that stretched to the horizon.
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Michael Hettich
from Waking Up Alone, winner of the 2025 Lena Shull Manuscript Award of the North Carolina Poetry Society, to be published later this year by Redhawk Publications.
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Michael Hettich

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After years in New York, Colorado, Florida, and Vermont, Michael Hettich now lives in Black Mountain, North Carolina. He holds a Ph.D. from the University of Miami and taught for many years at Miami Dade College where he was awarded an Endowed Teaching Chair. Over five decades he has published more than two dozen books of poetry and received numerous honors, including several Individual Artist Fellowships from the Florida Division of Cultural Affairs, The Tampa Review Prize in Poetry, the David Martinson/Meadowhawk Prize, and a Florida Book Award.
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Additional Finalists for this year’s Lena Shull Award are Becky Nicole James and Charles Wheeler.
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Michael Hettich

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Feathers
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When September slips in the window like a forgotten lover,
Reaching for me from my burrow
+++++++++++++++++++++ With its hands of feathers
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In the early morning croak of crows, and I can smell
That someone has lit a fire,
+++++++++++++++++++++ An utterance of feathers,
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Such that I can’t remember if I’m seven, in a log house my father built,
And he’s kindled the first autumn fire,
+++++++++++++++++++++ Fanned the feathers,
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Or I’m twenty-five in the wooded hollow alone
But for the cats, dogs, and calls of coyotes, having lit the fire myself
+++++++++++++++++++++ That spanned feathers,
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But no, when you roll over
In a twist of sheets,
+++++++++++++++++++++ In a band of feathers,
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And I hear a young tail thump softly on the floor, a brief whine-
When someone else’s woodsmoke slips through the window
+++++++++++++++++++++ Like sanded feathers,
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And I am here with you, and we’ve struck our own match-
When you reach across and slip your arm around my waist,
+++++++++++++++++++++ With the sustenance of feathers-
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Narya Rose Deckard
from her debut poetry collection Wolfcraft (Broken Tribe, © 2025), available from Bookshop.org
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Narya Rose Deckard

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Narya Rose Deckard teaches writing at Lenoir-Rhyne University, where she earned her MFA in poetry at the Thomas Wolfe Center for Narrative. Originally from the mountains of Maryland, she currently lives in Valdese, NC with her husband, dog, five cats, and a few chickens, but she also spent ten years in Asheville studying literature and philosophy at UNCA. As winner of the 2025 Susan Laugher Meyers Fellowship, she receives an honorarium and one week writing residency in Southern Pines at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities.
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Susan Laughter Meyers was a widely published Carolina poet who mentored many rising poets and promoted literature across the South for decades. She served at different times as president of both the South Carolina and North Carolina Poetry Societies. Her family, friends, students, and other admirers of her life’s work have endowed this Fellowship in her name for the North Carolina Poetry Society. Many thanks to Weymouth Center, as well, for donating space and support for the poet residency.
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Begin With Me
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I got up
off the ground
near some graves—I share
the last name with.
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I begin,
with what I was handed,
a mama, a daddy I saw a few times,
because he hid
in the hues he knew.
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My little brother full of love
like the corner store in heaven. I knew
his lying like I knew our daddy’s lying,
same song, but a higher key.
My mama taught me to
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ask my dead plenty of questions—
to let the moon touch me on the mouth,
to ring my black bell.
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Tyree Daye
from a little bump in the earth, Copper Canyon Press, © 2025
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Tyree Daye

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Tyree Daye led the writing workshop for the afternoon session of this NCPS meeting, He focused on breath: within and around a poem; what it might reveal and what it might hide. The writer can strive to become more conscious of their own breath as they splice syllables and thump out the poem’s rhythm. The reader can strive to slow down and feel their own breath as they silently speak the words. Breath can hold the meaning and feeling that the poem wants to birth into the world. Hold it, and let it out.
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Tyree Daye grew up in Youngsville, North Carolina. He is the author of three poetry collections, including River Hymns (winner of the APR/Honickman First Book Prize), Cardinal, and most recently a little bump in the earth. He has been a 2017 Ruth Lilly Finalist and Cave Canem fellow. He serves as Assistant Professor at the University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill. Tyree Daye teaches. Not just reading and writing, not just poetry – he teaches what it means to be human, a human with a past and with a future. One reaction to his new book: Poem by poem, Daye is honoring the people of Youngsville and “bringing back the dead.”
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Tune in next week, folks . . . in our October 3 post we will continue to celebrate the riches of this September 13 meeting in Cary with poetry by Claudine Moreau, Becky Nicole James, Charles Wheeler, and more.
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Tyree Daye

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Joan Barasovska and Kathy Ackerman, Membership VP and NCPS Secretary

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BRANDYWINE CREEK — C. Griffin, ’91

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[with 3 poems by Gail Peck]
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Still Life with Birds’ Nests
++ after van Gogh, 1885
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the possibility
++ of life, those eggs
blue and cream – one
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so dark it’s almost invisible,
++ two nests close together,
another propped
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on a branch –
++ no wings, nothing
fluttering in or out
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with straw
++ in beak
determined to make
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what will hold –
++ see how
the light is braided
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in straw, debris –
++ to pluck a strand
from the whole
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seemingly easy
++ at least from
the outer edge, but
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not the center
++ where eggs lie
until
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the first
++ fissure, then
the struggle,
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who will survive,
++ breaking silence
into refrain
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Gail Peck
from The Braided Light, Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Charlotte NC; © 2015. Winner of the 2014 Lena Shull Book Contest of the North Carolina Poetry Society
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I find it in the back bedroom against the back wall of the closet, other cartons piled against it. The cardboard of two boxes has been sliced apart and refolded to fit, about 26 inches by 32 inches by 4, still taped solidly together from their final move, Delaware back to Winston-Salem in 2012. Across the narrow top in black marker, “Brandywine Creek.” My mother’s printing.
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In 1949, Clara Jean “Cookie” Cooke carried her bachelor’s degree in art from Women’s College of the University of North Carolina back home to Winston-Salem to take a job in medical illustration at Bowman Gray Hospital. A year later she married Wilson, alias Dad, and moved to Atlanta, to live in student housing at Georgia Tech. About three years after that my parents moved to Niagara Falls, New York, just in time for me to be born. In the decades that followed Mom never entirely laid aside the brush – the oil she painted of my little brother at age two is a great likeness. But how often does art get stacked in a back closet behind being housekeeper, Mom, chauffeur, even later Kindergarten teacher?
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When we three kids were fully fledged and Dad finally retired, Mom re-committed herself to linseed oil and pigment. Her home and then ours as well gradually filled with landscapes and still lifes from her workshops and classes. Then began her magnum opus: portraits. She painted from life (I posed as Jesus) and she’d sort through to pick out her favorite photos to transform into paintings. Year by year the five grandkids were memorialized at all ages and activities. In her 80’s, Mom pivoted again. Now she was capturing on canvas every dog and cat of every friend and neighbor and giving them all away. Hoping for ice cream when we visited, we would more likely open the freezer to discover a palette wrapped in wax paper awaiting her next project.
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The last year of her life, Mom required more nudging to pick up a pen or pastels. If I placed a photo in front of her of something she loved, dogs especially, along with paper and a few colored pencils, she would make art. For what would be Mom’s last birthday, my sister arranged a family afternoon with an art instructor who had us all paint the same scene, two of the great-granddogs. We never laughed or enjoyed ourselves so much.
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Six month’s after Mom’s memorial service, I’m cleaning out the townhouse when I unearth the carton. I peel off the old tape, tearing some of the packing paper as I lift out its contents. The large framed canvas is not one I remember seeing before, but I remember Mom’s brainstorm when we visited them in Delaware that we should all go tubing together down the Brandywine. There’s no water in this painting, though, only rolling hills of wind-blown grass in every color and tall lithe trees whose branches catch the breeze. Brandywine Creek chuckles and rills outside my line of sight.
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So much has passed, now, beyond my vision. I wonder if I am losing, have lost, those many images I took for granted all those years. Her teasing and laughter, her quickness at crosswords and puzzles, her patient smile. Her gratitude. Especially her hand, poised, its skill, the slender fingers that wafted the magic of color so lightly across this surface I am now holding to the light. Look, just look at those brush strokes.
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Bowl with Potatoes
++ after Van Gogh, 1888
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A yellow bowl filled
with potatoes, hues
of pink and blue making
them not so ordinary.
Waiting to be sautéed
to accompany the fricassee
of rabbit simmering with white
wine, herbs, pearl onions.
I peel potatoes, cut around
each eye with a sharp knife.
Olive oil, first pressing, and local
wine to drink. A task to make
us happy, to cheer
from the lingering fog,
where we can’t even see the deck.
I seem to be braiding worries,
and have carried this day
like a heavy stone. The best
cloth and napkins, and a centerpiece
of yellow roses, smell that bring some memory
from childhood, but what? Running
near the house, getting snagged
by thorns. I try to push sadness away,
yet the candle flickers
each loss, and I worry that
one day my husband won’t
recognize my face, mistake
the pattern on the china for food,
the way his father did, fork
scrapping against the plate,
and only my chair with a view.
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Gail Peck
from The Braided Light, Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Charlotte NC; © 2015. Winner of the 2014 Lena Shull Book Contest of the North Carolina Poetry Society
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Art conjures its mysteries and we don’t spy the hand moving in shadow. A piano chord major to minor and the sun passes behind a cloud. Tangles of color on canvas blend into a fond memory of childhood. Our senses know more than we do. The smell of old perfume upon opening a closet. There we are, transported.
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And what about the art of words? Isn’t each meaning distinct, circumscribed, listed for us in the lexicon? And yet the words’ unspoken histories conjure mystery when we read in them a new tangle, a new melody, a new canvas. Nevertheless, the poet has set herself a difficult and arcane magic when she undertakes to recreate the vision of color on canvas in print. Gail Peck accomplishes this in The Braided Light, an entire volume that captures, line upon line and page upon page, the impressionistic imagery of Van Gogh and Monet.
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Perhaps the impressionist painters imagined they would not make us see but allow us to see. The light is ever changing; the colors in our minds arise from emotion and perception, not lines on a spectrograph. In the same way Gail’s poetry shows rather than tells. Her heart is tangled in the brush strokes and colors, but she opens space for my heart fall into the imagery as well. One might think there are only a finite number of meanings for a word and only a finite number of words for a color. Our senses, however, know more than we do. Look, just look at those brush strokes.
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The Braided Light by Gail Peck was the winner of the 2014 Lena Shull Poetry Manuscript Contest of the North Carolina Poetry Society, and is available online from Main Street Rag Bookstore.
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NEXT WEEK: Gail Peck’s new book from Finishing Line Press, In the Shadow of Beauty
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Weeping Willow
++ after Monet, 1918-1919
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Whatever your sorrow is
++ is yours alone.
++ ++ Tall lithe figure
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swaying darkness, what
++ have the years
++ ++ brought except
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silver among green leaves
++ trailing the bank.
++ ++ You can’t turn away.
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You stand rooted
++ in faith that rain
++ ++ will come, wash
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away debris, that the sun
++ will glint through
++ ++ what wind hasn’t
 . 
severed. Part of me
++ longs to enter
++ ++ your canopy,
 . 
lie beneath your shade,
++ but the ground
++ ++ is damp and grass
 . 
won’t grow there.
++ View from my window –
++ ++ my black-shuttered house.
 . 
Gail Peck
from The Braided Light, Main Street Rag Publishing Company, Charlotte NC; © 2015. Winner of the 2014 Lena Shull Book Contest of the North Carolina Poetry Society
 . 
❦ ❦ ❦
 . 
 . 
 . 
 . 
Doughton Park Tree 4/30/2022
 . 

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