War and memory

Volume 1 Number 4, July 2021

The unforgettable performance style of poet Phillip Shabazz

Phillip Shabazz was raised in Louisville, Kentucky. Like the unparalleled fighter, Muhammad Ali, from the same hometown, Shabazz is an unforgettable performer of verse, modulating his voice, leaning in and out of the words, one moment blazing hot, the next chilly as a mountain pool. Shabazz is blistering in his social critique and heart rending in his portraits of the people he has known. We are so fortunate to have his presence at Table Rock for many years now, sharing his wisdom, grace, and fire.

Novelist Michelle Berger and poet Phillip Shabazz at Table Rock

Phillip is the author of three poetry collections, and a novel in verse. His poetry has been included in the anthologies, Literary Trails of the North Carolina Piedmont: A Guidebook, and Home Is Where: African-American Poetry from the Carolinas. Previous publication credits in journals include: Across the Margin, Fine Lines, Galway Review, Hamilton Stone Review, Ham Lit, Obsidian,  and Louisville Review. For this issue of the TR Journal, he shares with us this poem written for his sister.

In Memoriam for Mildred

And I heard you are here, somewhere in the street, 

like the hum that buzzes from the moon at night, 

and in the cocoa eyes picking out shoes at the store, 

and in the light that smiles at people packed at the bus stop,

and in the melting mirror, and hey,what’s up.

You in the swirl of stars dwelling in words, windy 

and wild on the blue echoes of morning.

You in my telephone numbers,

and in the black pair of gloves and pink blouse.

I am happy, Mildred, on account of you.

So I’ll turn up for chocolates and go head over heels 

when I stop at the corner you used to walk to.

Listen to the songs you sang.

Share the burgers and fries you used to eat.

Stand in the rain you prayed for

since I heard you are here, 

somewhere in the hand I still hold,

somewhere in a car crossing the bridge,

somewhere outside of time, but more than a memory,

because when I think of you, I always find a window

that remembers the sun on your face.

—Phillip Shabazz

Barry Swanson launches first novel

Table Rocker and Knox College assistant professor emeritus Barry Swanson proves that it can be done. He has worked on his first novel, Still Points, for several years with instructors at Table Rock and the book is now being released! Barry will bring copies to show and sell at our 2021 gathering. Though he and his wife Gail now live on Lake Norman in North Carolina, Barry is originally from Galesburg, Illinois, Carl Sandburg’s home town. Barry served as president of the Carl Sandburg Historic Site Association and was a founding member of the Galesburg Public Art Commission. He’s published various articles and poetry for regional publications, and coauthored a textbook for a course in educational studies. He writes a column for a local newspaper in Galesburg, and is now working on his second novel. He’ll be studying poetry with Phillip Shabazz on the mountain at Wildacres this year.

Having served in the U.S. Army, Barry was familiar with the material he tackled in Still Points, which is based on the World War II diaries of Philip Zumwalt. The author uses the diarist’s real name in the novel. As the press release describes the book:

Philip Zumwalt is an accomplished musician, poet, and idealist—a dreamer. Fresh out of college in 1940, he takes a job as a music teacher in a small, rural Illinois town. His plan is to teach for a few years to save enough money to finance his dreams: go to Chicago to become a professional musician and get his pilot’s license. These dreams dominate his thoughts until one summer night when he meets Elinor Robinson.

Philip and Elinor’s forbidden romance and the specter of war hanging over the country put Philip’s dream on hold. When he enlists in the Army Air Force, the gifted artist goes on an unpredictable journey of lost innocence. Life and death hang in the balance as he overcomes his fears and spiritual doubts in a desperate effort to survive aerial combat in the maelstrom of the Southwest Pacific Theater. In the end, a single dream remains for Philip: to return home to the woman he loves.

Barry’s book has garnered great comments, including blurbs from Table Rock faculty members Abigail DeWitt and Judy Goldman. Join us in celebrating Barry’s fabulous accomplishment this August. Table Rockers will surely have plenty of questions about Barry’s experience in writing and publishing material from an actual diary and the process of combining imagination with factual events to create a powerful story.

This year, you could be a winner!

Greetings, beautiful people of Table Rock and Solatido! The scholarship committee -– Greg Screws, Tony Tallent, and I—can’t wait to see you, after a whole year without our mountain writing sojourn. (How many days till August 30, Greg?)

The Table Rock/Solatido scholarship program, started in 2015, has been going strong thanks to your generosity. So far we have welcomed a dozen writers and songwriters under its auspices. This year our fundraising will take a fun new form: a raffle! With prizes donated by faculty and past participants (thank you!) as well as by a few businesses, there’s sure to be something you’d love to take home! 

Tickets will be sold all week – $5 per, or $15 for four (cash or check)—and the list of prizes will be displayed on site. Drawings will be held at whole-group assemblies starting on Tuesday for those who jump on tickets early. Of course your donations are always deeply appreciated at any time, but we hope you’ll have fun with the raffle! 

—Laurel Ferejohn

RESPONSES TO THE PROMPT

Describe a barn as seen by a man whose son has just been killed in a war. DO NOT mention the man, the son, war, or death.

Burley Barn

On David’s hill the empty barn 
glows in the low sunlight 
of this autumn afternoon.
Its once-black sides 
and rows of long ventilation windows
explain its purpose:
a house for tobacco hung to dry
on tiers from ground to peak. 

This hill is where its story ends,
but not where it began. 
One hundred fifty years ago, 
this barn was masterfully constructed 
down the hill in a field, 
right at the spot where railroad tracks 
would later bisect the farm.
When the tracks were still miles away,
Amish men came with sturdy chestnut rolling logs, 
hooks, chains, poles, mules, muscles, 
and know-how for the task.
They rolled that barn right up this hill.

Now the fall gusts
tease the narrow side windows 
open and shut,
their rusted hinges shrieking over the heads 
of the holler folks 
like off-season fireworks
with no apology. 

And Halloween is soon.

The barn shudders and exhales
memories of men, teenagers, and ten-year-old boys
who clambered up to place 
each leaf-laden tobacco stick 
the proper distance from its neighbor.

There’s too much unnecessary space now. 
Too much room for joy and pain
to mingle with these burley scented memories.

Enough!

The door rolls shut, the padlock clicks.

—Jan Potts, Lexington, KY

Barn

First light comes every day, and me awake
Thank god the barn and work await
Or I might stop and roar at fate
These mornings when sleep is hard to come by

Built on the pattern of a Norman Church
Rendered in white oak and river birch
I lean against its solid beams; I perch
Riding the tide of grief that carries my broken boat.

Then to the work, horse and sheep and fowl are fed
Like a priest I christen newborns here and tend the dead
It’s the honest loving tending that leads me to my bed
Where I can heal and feel all that I feel.

—gary phillips, Pittsboro, NC

The Sad News Came This Morning

The horse looks up, expecting

busy whistle of barn chores.

Like all dawns before this day,

light slats patterns on his stall.

To find rhythm in breathing,

muck out, feed, brush, then nuzzle

wounds that gape wider for rhyme.

—Roberta Schultz, Wilder, KY

Her childhood trunk is crushed against the stone wall. She pulls it out. The multi-colored ribbons attached to the lid ruffle through her fingers as she opens it. She will never forget.

Next to the trunk a black widow has been disturbed. Its sleek beauty houses the most masculine of desires - to destroy, to consume.

The spider’s prey is a struggling butterfly – a Monarch butterfly that had strayed off course, lost to its tribe, alone in a violent world. The butterfly’s delicate femininity masked a strong desire - the migratory need to travel to a foreign and potentially hostile land. The spider had sneaked up to its prey and plunged its fangs into the back of the butterfly. The spider and the butterfly are similar but they are not the same. The butterfly is friendly innocence - the spider hides its fire.

The butterfly's beauty destroyed, her lifeless body is left where it lay. The spider will devour her at its leisure. The spider does not know guilt or shame.

She pushed the trunk back. Its metal closures screech the stone floor – a shriek of pain and fear and aloneness. Only the fading orange iridescence of the butterfly remained.

—D. Minish, Salt Lake City, UT

That morning, the red barn had cheered many who passed it on Highway 24 where you’d turn off for the cotton gin. Bright and efficient as a new fire engine, it stood guard over the intersection as though it could protect the neighbors from the outside world. But in the fading light of the cheerless afternoon the Postmaster delivered the telegram, the old red barn appeared to sag and fade to the color of dried blood. 

—Jeanette Stokes, Durham, NC

Memorial

The kudzu-choked ruin of their last tobacco barn testifies to Nature’s way.  She takes back what we have no use for. Her advance has made a Lincoln Log mess of the place where gummy, green leaves withered into stick-strung, fragrant bunches that got food on the table, clothes on backs, coal in the stove. Like so much else, what puts money in one body’s pocket kills another.

Near the barn’s sagging corner, a splash of color. Hearts-a-Bustin’s red, warty fruit shows ruby seeds. Bullets through a chest.  A flag draped coffin.

—Duncan Smith, Chapel Hill, NC

Of Flesh and Purpose

At a sharp turn in the road, 
the barn, grayed, abandoned, 
its face pale and battered, 
eyes closed against the light.
A lonely reminder of what once
stood so proud and sturdy here. 
No misty breaths on milking cold December air 
will come to warm this splintered place again, 
or hold the scent of new mown hay aloft, 
feeding mothers and their young, sweet-scented
reminders of a verdant past. No. No children here. 
Not now, not ever.  This stone foundation promised 
it would last for generations. It didn’t. Now it no longer 
serves the living or any thing. What is it then without its 
flesh and purpose? Nothing? And yet it’s standing still, 
empty, dry as dust, with only echoes of life and laughter. 
Why is that? How can that be? Soon, this year or the next, 
it too will cave in to mold and rust, although 
as barns go it is still well-loved, but 
even that could not save it. Who will 
remember, after we are gone, to mourn 
the loss of withered things like barns?

—C.F. Stice, Nashville, TN

July Prompt

This month’s prompt comes from the teacher and actor Maria Piskor whose performance we recently enjoyed at a table reading of playwright Paul Green’s World War I play, “Johnny Johnson.” Maria has taught creative writing through Duke University Continuing Studies and is a versatile member of the Odyssey Stage group in Carrboro.

For July, we request three verses of a poem or three paragraphs of prose. Find a classic painting or photograph that intrigues you.

In the first paragraph or verse, describe the painting/photo in the moment before the one actually depicted in the image. In the second paragraph or verse, describe the image you are looking at. Then, in the third paragraph or verse, describe the moment that follows the one depicted in the image. (Hint: Something has to happen.)

Use the title of the image and the artist as your title and send a copy of the image if possible along with your writing to georganneubanks9 (at) gmail.com no later than July 25th!