A Cartoon by Vicki Brumback
LITERARY LIVES
A Shadow Nobel
by Robin Hemley, guest faculty at Table Rock Writers Workshop 2021
My father was one of the co-founders of the Noonday Press, which published some of the best world literature of the 1950s. It was sort of the Graywolf of its era. They published Susan Sontag, Sartre, and most auspiciously, Nobel Laureate, Isaac Singer. My dad discovered Singer and worked tirelessly to promote him as an editor, translator, and friend. When FSG bought Noonday, my father was the only Noonday person they brought over as an editor, partly because he brought Singer with him and partly because he was a great editor with wonderful taste. Without my father, Singer would not have been the powerhouse he became. One of the novels my father translated, The Slave, was especially cited by the Nobel Committee as justification for Singer's Nobel. I have always thought my dad won a shadow Nobel. The Nobel Committee didn't read Yiddish.
They read my father's translation. Singer was often around in my childhood and he dedicated one of his books to my father. I remember Singer largely positively. Singer always spoke well of my father whenever we met, a number of times after my father's early death when I was seven. So, I was dismayed and somewhat hurt when, doing an internet search on Noonday Press (which revealed precious little), I came across an article on FSG from 1978, in which Singer gratuitously savaged Noonday. It seemed so mean-spirited and unnecessary, and it just made me think how awful people can be to the people and publishers to whom they owe their success. It seems to me that some writers don't acknowledge the goodwill and support of others who helped bring them to success. I'll get over it, of course. Noonday was great in its day, and my dad did a lot to bring a lot of wonderful writers to the general public's attention, Singer included. I just wanted to take a moment to acknowledge his efforts and kvetch a little about Singer's lack of gratitude. (Used by permission, first published on facebook.)
SEEKING SUBMISSIONS
Our friend Denton Loving is from Speedwell, Tennessee, and is a graduate of the Writing Seminars MFA Program at Bennington College. His fiction, poetry, essays and reviews have recently appeared or are forthcoming in The Kenyon Review, The Chattahoochee Review, The Threepenny Review and Iron Horse Literary Review. Denton is the editor of Seeking Its Own Level: An Anthology of Writings About Water, published by MotesBooks, and he is the author of a collection of poetry, Crimes Against Birds, published by Main Street Rag. Denton, who worked closely with Darnell Arnoult at Lincoln Memorial University, is now the editor of Cutleaf journal.
Denton writes:
EastOver Press is an independent literary press with an online journal named Cutleaf. EastOver Press looks for collections of the best new short fiction, essays, and poetry from emerging and established writers.
EastOver Press is currently hosting two contests, the EastOver Prize for Fiction and the EastOver Prize for Nonfiction. The winner of each contest will be awarded $2,500 and will be published by EastOver Press. The deadline to submit manuscripts is May 1, 2021. Learn more about the contests at eastoverpress.com/prizes.
For Cutleaf, we seek the best contemporary writing in prose and verse from emerging and established writers. We are currently accepting submissions in fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. We pay writers for all published work. Full submission guidelines are available at cutleafjournal.com/submission-guidelines.
RESPONSES TO THE PROMPT
And now, what you’ve been waiting for…great response to our first prompt, Table Rockers! Thanks to all who submitted. There is no limit on submissions to Table Rock Journal, though we may give preference next round to folks who have not sent in something yet.
For now, sit back and savor each passage. In good Table Rock fashion, you are welcome to comment on these selections at the end of this issue, just keep it constructive.
Hide and Seek
When I was eight,
the neighborhood kids played
Hide And Seek.
I was so good at hiding,
they often forgot I was in the game.
I forgot too,
relishing the isolation back in my house
until I could hear them, through my open window, singing,
“Ollie, Ollie, in come free.”
I’m still good at hiding.
But after a year, I am weary
of the solitude, the
viral loneliness.
I hope no one has forgotten
I am still in the game.
I am watching from my open window,
waiting to hear the call,
“Ollie, Ollie, in come free.”—Teri Foltz, Fort Thomas, KY
“Lost?,” you ask.
I’ve lost some hair, but new growth sprouting in my left ear makes me question if I should feel deprived.
I’ve lost my ability to put on a button-front collared shirt. Something that easily slides over your head is far less exhausting. I acknowledge that I am not in a pageant and do not have to answer a question after the talent competition.
I’ve lost concern about the bunion on my left foot. My mother lived with hers until the end, and every time I glance down and see that extrusion that now extends half a mile, I think of her.
--Stephen Barefoot, Durham, NC
What’s Been Lost?
Not much. Some things. I lost a year of hugs. I’ve missed those. Not eating out was no hardship, but not being with people I love and like was hard. I lost my exercise classes, but a crowd in an enclosed space all breathing hard with their mouths open has lost its appeal. I have survivor’s guilt. I’ve lost my general sense of wellbeing, but that was declining before the pandemic. Still, no one I love got sick or died. But watching unmasked people scream about their rights has eroded my faith in the fundamental goodness and sanity of others.
--Carole Stice, Nashville, TN
I lost over a year without seeing my son. We live on opposite sides of the North American continent. I gained knowing one doesn’t have to see someone to be connected. I turned 65 and lost the illusion that I won’t age. I gained admiration for my body’s strength and my hard-won wisdom. I lost the busy holiday season and gained a quiet, holier time. I lost my need to achieve, and gained the joy from completing a puzzle, reading a mystery series, watching Masterpiece Theatre. I lost time and gained time. I forgot to be in a rush and learned to slow down, to listen to birdsong, watch a butterfly, listen to rain. Bears have it right, hibernate each winter. Learn to do without the stimuli and see what happens without making something happen.
—Martha Whitfield, Charlotte, NC
Sprung
Rain plonking on the deck roused me from my nap. Afghan-wrapped, I waddled to the front door sidelight and peered through the gloom. Unexpectedly, spring had arrived in the world I’d been ignoring. Dogwood buds replaced the remnants of winter’s dead leaves and grass sprouted in a green not found in any crayon box. Would flowers emerge from their puddled beds? What else, forgotten, lay just beyond this narrow view? Had the crabapple bloomed? The afghan slipped from my shoulders, I reached for an umbrella and turned the doorknob. Hibernation over, it was my time to emerge.
—Jan Potts, Lexington, KY
Brumation Over
The sun chins itself on the ridge. Tepidness rises. Green leaves, tightly rolled, unfold beside dying spathes of skunk cabbages lifting their heads above the mud. Peepers chorus. Birds squabble. Field mice scurry. Chipmunks skitter. Vibrations thread through roots, stones, and dark loam to his warm burrow. He lifts his coppery head. Black, vertical, elliptical pupils in thimblefuls of yellow, shine. He flicks his forked tongue, smells warm prey. Brumation over, he uncoils himself from his own embrace, abandons his crowded burrow, and slips into the upwelling spring to seek a mate, to sate, to bask in the warm sun.
--Luther Kirk, Richmond, VA
Lost or forgotten? You gotta be kidding. Things accumulate things. I collect dolls. Headcount went up by nine, from 40 to 49. Good thing they just hang out. If anything’s lost, it’s my freedom to add one single more overdressed outdated 21-inch plastic lady to this overburdened family.
I hope people will still buy dolls once doors are open, and many more prospects beckon than keeping little plastic friends. If I don’t succeed in selling them, my heirs will have to cope. It’ll be easier for them, though, like killing someone else’s pig.
--Ro Mason, Chapel Hill, NC
The trees remember how to hope, pushing out new buds, a celadon haze on bare branches against the grey March sky. Daffodil spears of dark green shoot up, eagerly piercing the awakening earth. The bluebirds have returned, unbidden.
This spring, each cell in my body is etched with the terror of the past year. I recoil from a proffered hug, usually so welcome from a dear friend. Will we recall how to turn our faces towards each other, as flowers know to follow the sun? Will I slowly recover that which has been lost?
--Mindy Oshrain, Durham, NC
March 2020, I moved to North Carolina with plans made two years earlier. All changed due to the Pandemic. My dog, Duffy, and I drove solo the 2,000 miles. No friends going with us as planned.
Our new condo community welcomed us by being open-hearted, yet masked, and six feet apart. It was an oasis in a Pandemic which allowed Duffy and me to be a part of them. Tears well in my eyes as I reflect. It was a hard year, with some innocence lost. I can’t thank this community enough in reminding me through their kindness and compassion, what was really important in 2020.
—Jane Austin, Durham, NC
Were it not for forget-me-nots, would I look for Spring’s arrival? With or without me, Spring has stepped out- stiff from sleep and blurry-eyed from dreaming. From her footsteps arise onion grass: the resurrected green of mystery and ordinary time as well as perky low flung flowers. Cheered by their blues and purples, I spy barren forsythia shoots. With shears from the shed, I whack off a few branches, put them in a vase of water in the light to force their blooms. It seems I have not forgotten and am ready to participate and even hurry Spring along.
--Mary Rocap, Cedar Grove, NC
Palm Sunday
Cardinals and Carolina Wrens and Cowbirds sing the loudest this morning at our bird feeders, insistent upon a full bounty of seeds for the day. They wintered here. The Cardinals and Cowbirds will stay, build nests, have several hatchings, and raise their young in the holler. A lone turkey hen emerges early from the woods line, early breakfast as well. The boss tom starts his dance up and down the drive, his mantle of feathers dusting his path, ready for spring. I, too, emerge from winter’s clouds and cold, embrace these vestiges of all things living, singing, feasting, loving.
—Sue Weaver Dunlap, Walland, TN
This Long Sleep
This long sleep,
this tourniqueted-limb numb
will soon be unmasked.
Like bears who lie down
resigned to the grey cold,
we will wake to a bright sun at the cave door.
We will have forgotten the slights,
forgotten our complaints,
and wake knowing only
hunger—ravenous hunger
for company.
The clan will gather, embrace,
and sharing face-to-face will
have never been sweeter.-Will Jones, Aiken, SC
April Prompt
Go in search of the lyrical in everyday messages. Maybe it’s a snippet of instruction, a list of ingredients, a caution. Something in print on a product or tool or pill bottle. Maybe it’s a sign on the side of the road or a short, instructive message elsewhere in print. Arrange the line breaks artfully as a poem. 100 words maximum. Less is usually more. Here’s an example:
Ferry to Ocracoke
Bring distant
points of interest
within close range
with the use of this
machine. For best
results, remove
eyeglasses. To clear
vision, turn red
knob. Quarters only.
--Georgann Eubanks
Submission deadline is April 23, 2021. Send to tablerockwriters@gmail.com. Thanks!
What a wonderful way to feel the love and words and beauty and drawings and art (emphasis on the ands) of our lovely Table Rock family.
Enjoyable to read the new submissions!