I Thought I Heard a Cardinal Sing

 

Photo by Peggy Rowan 

Saturday, October 15, 2022 was a very special day for me. As program coordinator at the Johnson-Humrickhouse Museum, I got to host the finale of the 8 month long book launch tour of I Thought I Heard a Cardinal Sing: Ohio's Appalachian Voices. And as one of the poets included in the anthology, I got to share the mic with about 15 other Ohio poets. 

Kari Gunter-Seymour 

The anthology was edited by Kari Gunter-Seymour, Ohio's Poet Laureate 2020-2024. It was published by Sheila-Na-Gig Editions. It was made possible by the Academy of American Poets with funds from the Andrew W. Mellon Foundation. A special feature of this project is that copies of the anthology were donated to each public library in Ohio, so it's available to everyone. You can also purchase a copy here.

From Kari's introduction: 

I Thought I Heard A Cardinal Sing, Ohio's Appalachian Voices is a collection of poetry focused specifically on the unique cultural experiences of poets located in or connected to Ohio (Central) Appalachia. Within these pages you will find a lavish mix—Affrilachian, Indigenous, non-binary and LGBTQ; from teens to those creatively aging; poets in recovery, some differently-abled or with developmental differences; emerging and well established; some living in the state, others from assorted locations throughout the country-all with a deep connection to Appalachian Ohio.

People often forget and many do not even know that nearly 1/4 of the state of Ohio rests inside Appalachia proper, and pockets of Appalachian families who migrated generations ago prominently exist throughout the state, still firmly attached to their Appalachian roots.

In my case, I am a 9th generation Appalachian. My parents both grew up in West Virginia and I was born there, but my growing up years were spent in the suburbs of piedmont North Carolina. My husband (who also has Appalachian roots, his in the mountains of North Carolina) and I wanted our children to grow up in a place where they could roam in the woods, play in the creek, and eat apples right off the tree. This desire led us in a round-about way to Coshocton County where we settled in 1994. 

But I'm not the first in my family tree to live in Appalachian Ohio. My 3rd great grandfather, Patrick McCan graduated from Starling Medical College (now The Ohio State University) in about 1851. He and his wife, Isabella (Geary), lived in Meigs County Ohio for a time, where five of their fifteen children were born, including my great-great-grandmother, Martha Ellen. Patrick served as a doctor in the Civil War and family legend has it that he and Isabella had something to do with the Underground Railroad. There's no way to prove this definitively, but it is written up in a local history book, and their proximity to the Ohio River would certainly have made this possible. It always meant a lot to me and had an impact on my life. In honor of this family heritage, we gave our third son, Michael, the name McCann as a middle name. (Patrick and Isabella's children changed the spelling by adding the extra n to McCann.) And it was a great privilege to share this gig with Michael McCann, who grew up to be a poet! 

Michael, photographed by his father who likes owls. 

The gallery where the reading was held contained an exhibit of art created by the Coshocton Art Guild, so it truly was an afternoon to celebrate Appalachian Ohio art!

Michael and me

A list of the poets who participated 

A packed house for poetry! We had to bring in extra chairs!

Robin Mullet, fellow Coshocton Countian and my co-author of The Curve of Her Arm. Such fun to read with her again in this room.

Kari snapped this picture of me during my welcome. It looks like I'm praying but I'm just inviting everyone to take a deep breath, which is often the same thing. 

Welcome and Gratitude

to all who are here

To Mother Earth in all her Autumn Splendor

To the Ancestors who are Still

and Always with us

To the Poets—see what your

  Scribblings have wrought!?

To Those Who Support the Arts

  by attending poetry readings and plays 

  and concerts and exhibits

  and by reading books—

  especially the Banned Ones 

  The world wouldn't be the same without you!

To Kari Gunter-Seymour, Maker and Midwife of Poetry without whom none of us would be here

And to Red Bird who is "the music of our hearts

  that we wanted and needed"

Welcome and Gratitude

  to All who are here!

My friend and Michael's "other mother," Nancy, surprised us by showing up and then staying after to help wash dishes. 

A delightful repast 

Not pictured is my colleague, Chyanne Foster, who helped set up, tear down, serve refreshments, and take pictures. Thanks, Chyanne! Also not pictured is Kevin, my darling person, who counted heads, set up extra chairs, and also took pictures. Thanks, Hon!

As I am posting this, it is more than a year since this event happened, so I'm going to go ahead and post my poem. I hope that's cool. Normally I would say, if you want to read my poem, buy the book! But what the hey, maybe you'll buy the book to read all the other fabulous poems. 

My poem, which is technically a haibun (a Japanese literary form combining prose or a prose poem with haiku), is based on a true experience. When I worked at the Coshocton Public Library, I often took a walk on my lunch hour and on this particular day I was thinking about the book we were reading for Monday Book Talk, a book discussion group I had the privilege of leading for 12 years. The book was The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery. I loved that book and still think about it often. Part of what's going on in the poem, which is only evident to someone who has read the book, but is not necessary to appreciate the poem, is the contrast in settings, the novel being set in Paris and the poem in Appalachian Ohio. Home is home, wherever you might land.

Walking Down Main Street after Reading The Elegance of the Hedgehog

"The Journal of the Movement of the World will be devoted, therefore, to the movement of people, bodies, or even... things, and finding whatever is beautiful enough to give life meaning"-Paloma Josse

Walking down Main Street the other day, 

I noticed a barber in his shop 

brushing stray hairs from his customer's neck. He performed the movement with a flourish—like I imagine an artist signing her name to a painting that pleases her.

And he was laughing as he did it, 

as if the end of the haircut was punctuated by the punch line of a good joke.

     

the smell of witch hazel 

when the door opens 

a tinkling bell

His movement and his laughter caused me to stop for a moment, 

to bask in the afterglow of a job well done. 

How many hundreds of necks has he brushed? How many jokes has he heard?
But he seemed so present to this neck and this joke, 

as if he had all the time in the world and could think of no place 

he'd rather be than in his orderly and well-lit shop.

basement apartment 

a sunflower stuck 

in a Sun Drop bottle

As I paused, another movement caught my eye.
The dry leaves at my feet were swirling on the sidewalk 

with the same flourish as the barber's brush. And then the most amazing movement of all. 

My scattered thoughts folded their wings and came to rest.

They had been off in another place, fluttering among pandemics and world peace and what to fix for dinner.

autumn wind

leafing through

a stack of books

The Way of Consonance, Paloma. Just like you said. 

When everything comes together in harmony.

Like when a dancer, after all those hours of rehearsal, is finally in perfect sync with the music but neither she nor the audience is quite aware of it until the movement stops and the music ends and all that's left is silence

and the beating of hearts.

approaching siren

a rose petal drops

to the counter

Later that evening, as I made soup for my family, I practiced holding the wooden spoon with the confidence and presence

of a painter or a barber holding a brush, 

and as I stirred, I paid attention to the smells, colors, and textures—not wishing to be someplace else or to get on to the next thing. 

And I wondered if this would cause leaves to swirl outside my window. 

And I wondered whether my neighbor, who might be walking past at that moment,

would stop and notice the swirling leaves 

and whether she might feel, not quite knowing why, like dancing.

sparrow

here on the sidewalk

where we both landed

—Holli Rainwater

And here is one of Michael's poems. He had two in the anthology, but if you want to read his other one, you'll have to buy a copy or check it out from your local library. I'm including this one because it is also haibunesque and also because it mentions his Mom. 

Going Home Again

That tractor over there—

turtle of the hill—

keeps rumbling rumbling. 

Bring the fields in and hang them up to dry. 

Long rows of deep huskbrown remembering.

Five years removed, 

not every mum will know frost.

I passed down this road many times as a boy. 

The one that winds by my mother's red house. Testing the waters of one journey or another. Always returning to the safe halo of the barn light casting shadows and a warm analog glow upon the gravel driveway.

Crickets in the tall grass 

around the water pump.

Years have passed now without me knowing—my face is bristled, my head shaved. 

Staring down a different road, this one paved and strange, far from my mother's red house. Another passing white line, 

October drawing closer. 

Following the north birds south, dusting 

a winding line back to familiar fires.

I have many friends, but all at home and mostly in cities. 

Alone on a ridge, 

the floating world cackles. 

Mountains sag into valleys.

In the needles of a spruce, 

evening dew.

—Michael Rainwater 

And just as a little coda to this happy day, as I was working on this post all these months later, we were in the midst of a big snowfall. I took a break from working and looked out the window and saw this!  A flock of poets in the snow. 

❤️❄️❤️