Prairie Fire

Photo by Leigh of www.larrapin.us

On Nov 16, 2010, at 9:00 AM, Kamala Parker wrote:

Mendy,

I wrote a poem today. It is inspired by a cherry/crab apple tree at the front of The Fire studio:

When winter comes

Bitter apples not for eating

Still nurture the eye

Clustered in the light

along sleeping leaves

Red, gold, earthen

Like a mother bird

Sheltering fledglings

In a gentle rain

We complain about

Raking, and petroleum

Leaf blowing, fruit falling

To stain the paint of our

Shiny cars. Forgetting

It wasn’t like this once.

We use to pray in the

Colors of harvest

Give thanks, laugh with

Our lover. Now, the

Alarm rings and we

Are late for something

When we would rather

rest. Simple in our sleep.

Sincerely,

Kam

———

From: Mendy Knott

Sent: Friday, November 19, 2010 2:39 PM

To: Kamala Parker

Subject: Re: rough draft, winter poem

Dear Kam,

This is such a lovely poem. Would you mind if I read it at HOWL this Sunday? It will bring a little bit of you into my open mic, which I really miss--having you there and hearing your work. Can I call it Prairie Fire? That's the name of our crab apple tree in the yard which we love and took pictures of this fall, with their bright little apples against a fall blue sky. Thanks for sharing this.

My young niece (20) came through on her way home for Thanksgiving. I adore her. She is really growing up--and beautiful. It was lovely to hear how she admires the way Leigh and I work and live at home.

Take care my friend. Have a good Thanksgiving, whatever you do. Have been busting my butt on this family cookbook, but it is at the designer as of today. And we are on the short end of a long stick now. Thank goodness. I love you, buddy. Keep the pen moving.

Even a moment to write a short poem is so much better than not writing.

Love, Mendy

———

On Nov 20, 2010, at 8:24 AM, Kamala Parker wrote:

Mendy, I thought about you when I wrote it. About the first time on the farm in Celo when you taught me about abstract versus something solid, something someone could imagine in their mind’s eye.

Have a wonderful holiday ! I’ll be in touch soon with a longer note and an update on my wonderful life! Please give Leigh a hug for me.

I love you too,

Kam :^)

———

Within this exchange of emails and a poem are a handful of hints to good writing:

#1 When we don't seem to have a lot of time for personal creativity, we tend to quit trying. What I told Kam, and what I'm telling you, is that some time is always better than no time. Take what you can find. Be prepared with your tools (pen, paper, pencil) at any given moment. Stop for 10 or 15 minutes and write what you observe. That is what Kam did here and it's a beautiful reminder of what we find important when we pause for breath.

#2 Use all the senses when writing. Paint a mental image that shows the reader what can't be said in the all-too-common abstract words we use daily. Doesn't the picture of this crab apple tree in poetry and picture say more about how little time we take to observe and appreciate life than the words I just wrote do? No preaching; only painting.

#3 Find someone with whom you can share your art. It doesn't matter if it's a "rough draft" sent in an email or read aloud to your spouse or best friend. Two great events are occurring when we share our work: we are speaking our intention to create out loud AND we are becoming better listeners. Both parties benefit.

So thanks, Kam, for allowing me to share this beautiful piece with my open mic group, and now with all my blog readers. It was so meaningful to me to receive it, and it made me feel good that I had been able to help another writer. You see, her poem touched more lives than she ever knew it would when Kam took that 15 minutes to observe a "prairie fire."

These Are My People: Leaving a Legacy

Leaving a legacy seems like such a weighted phrase. But really, it's a part of you, created by you, that you leave behind for those you love. It's acknowledging your past and saving something for the future. In my case, my legacy to my family happens to be a cookbook.

I don't have a lot to leave my family, my relations near and far. I have no children, no money, no real estate or jewels. And I have quite a lot of relatives. Dozens and dozens of them. They go back a long way; as many as five or six generations right here in Arkansas. I realize without them, I would not be here. The person I am with my characteristics, personality and abilities, would not exist if Francis Marion Cross had not married Francis Evangeline Fincher (Frank and Fannie) and raised a family in a tiny dot on the map called Rosston, AR. If they had not had a son (among 10 children) named Jethro Cross who married Jewel Moore in the tiny town of Kervin, TX in a barbershop because that's where they found the preacher getting a haircut–then I would not exist. And if Madelyn Cross (eldest among 10 children) hadn't been talked into a blind date with a sailor boy named Richard Knott, then there would be no Mendy Knott to tell this tale. I felt I owed something to that history, to the miracles that made my life happen. I don't want it to be forgotten.

So two years ago, I started working on a family cookbook. In some families, people pass down musical ability, art, or carpentry skills. In my family, the women pass down recipes. The men enjoy the results of the recipes. From great grandmother to grandmother, to mother to daughter, to sister, to cousin, to best friends or neighbors, recipes travel hand to hand, by telephone, and now through the internet. They are shared, tried, and tasted. Once hand written on note cards or legal pads, now they are emailed, tweeted and twittered. The ones I got from my mother through the mail always said, "Love, Mom" at the end; like a letter. Only better. Because I would think of her every time I cooked from those cards. The dishes from those recipes were so good they became famous among my friends as the "Love, Mom" recipes.

It was harder and took longer than I thought it would. There turned out to be more than 200 recipes and 40 contributors. There were pictures to collect and narratives to write. The process involved research, which is not my strong point. But finally, one year past deadline, the manuscript is complete. I am proud of the work that went into making this little legacy. I'm happy to have something that preserves a bit of my family's history, and so are they. I feel I have used my talents in service to both my ancestral past and the future. One day a third, fourth, fifth cousin will pick up this cookbook, look through it and think, "These are my people. This is where I come from. I can make 'Mother's Squash Casserole' from the yellow squash in our garden and eat what my great, great grandmother ate."

Working on a legacy strengthens the ties that bind us to those who came before us. Memories were my constant companions as I worked. I felt my MaMaw standing in the kitchen making the biscuits she made every day and smiling at me, nodding her approval as I wrote, copied, cut and pasted. If we all created our own legacy to leave behind for those who came after us, no matter how small or large, it might help us appreciate and care for what we have now as the treasure we will be handing our children and theirs.

—Mendy Knott is a writer, poet and author of the collection A Little Lazarus (Half Acre Press, 2010). To order your copy of A Little Lazarus directly from the author, please click here.

Support Your Local Poets

(Photo by Leigh from Larrapin Garden.)

"Tis the season," to be gift-shopping for friends and family for whatever holiday you may celebrate. Maybe, like me, you buy the thing that pops out at you with their name on it whenever you see it, then just go ahead and give it to them. In any case, let me plug your local artists and artisans as a good place to begin your gift buying this year. Yes, I am saying this partly because I have a new book published. And yes, it is true that unless you are a Pulitzer Prize winning poet, you most likely won't make a lot of money selling it. Still, if crafting poetry (or anything) is what you love to do, then you really can't help yourself. It's simply a must-do.

When I worked as a bookseller off and on over the past 15 years, I had a little trick I used to play. When I rang someone up who had a book of poetry or two in their pile, I would ask, "Do you write poetry?" Inevitably they would answer with a pleased "Yes." Poets read poetry. At least most of them do. And they buy books full of poems. (This is Mendy logic.) Therefore, if you would like to write poetry or get better at it, you should buy books of poetry, too!

In my household, we are doing our best to buy local--food, crafts, art, books, CD's, gifts--whatever we can find that is made here or near Fayetteville, AR, or has been created by people we know. We want them to live well and prosper. We want them to get famous. Besides, we find the best stuff this way. I went to a little, tiny craft show in Benton, AR with my sister who was visiting from Baltimore last weekend. They had the coolest things made from their own bright ideas. Their items were totally useful and beautiful, as well. Plus they were cheap. I was happy to pay their asking price and tell them I loved what they were doing. This is good business; when everyone walks away happy.

So when you go to a concert, don't just listen to the show. Buy the CD. When you go to the reading of a local author, buy the book (at your independent bookstore, of course). When you're visiting Underground Art, Terra Studios, or the Farmer's Market, buy the crafts and art from the people who created them. I have made so many people happy with the gifts I've given from exactly these places. So, yes, if you can, buy my book. You won't be sorry. And to tempt you further, I will give you a gift in this post. Here is the last poem in my book, and no doubt the most famous. It has been read by thousands of people. No lie. So here it is; a teaser to make you want my book, partly because everyone needs A Little Lazarus in their lives.

Leaving

Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6.28-29

On a hill above Saluda beside Pacolet Falls I lay

gazing though a screen of birch at the remnants of the day.

Not a breath, not a whisper stirred the air when,

like a camera changing focus, my stare shifted

caught the falling leaves that drifted onto clothing

slowly sifted, then gifted me, a weary warrior

with feathers for my hair.

Suddenly, I must know how each leaf fell

and how they felt about their circling descent

from heaven down to hell.

Surely after all that time so close to sky

the ground must seem an alien and far-off place to die.

No breeze shook them from their tenacious holds.

That same thin strength that held them

throughout a summer’s storms seemed gone.

But wait... there goes one on fiery wings of gold!

Why, they’re leaping from their limbs,

they’re not just letting go!

They’re taking turns and laughing,

they seem tickled by the sun,

as if today was a leaf parade and they’re falling just for fun.

Bright red, burnt orange, soft yellow–

all dressed in Sunday finery

as they loose their perches fearlessly

for the first and last time flying

whirling, twirling, spinning ‘round,

singing Hallelujahs until they gently kiss the ground.

I want to learn to leave my life as gracefully as they.

May my certain passing from this place

come to me this way--

Let me leap into forever like a well thought out adventure

leave rejoicing in the splendor of a brilliant autumn day.

—from A Little Lazarus by Mendy Knott. Published by Half Acre Press, 2010. Copyright Mendy Knott. To order your copy with free shipping click here.