April J. Asbury, Writer

Tag: poetry (Page 2 of 2)

How Dead Is a Doornail, Anyway?

July 12, 2021 / / 0 Comments

I don’t mean to say that, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a doornail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country’s done for.

Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

Dad was fond of the saying “dead as a doornail.” Dad was fond of a lot of colorful expressions, some of which can be attributed to his West Virginia upbringing: “sure as God made little green apples,” “ain’t got the sense God gave a turkey,” and, my personal favorite, “cute as a speckled pup on a little red wagon.”

Two copies of Inklings with a sealed bag of rough-looking iron nails. The bag reads, "Coffin Nails."
Two high school lit mags, topped with the deadest nails of all

At some point in high school, I wondered why “dead as a doornail” became the ultimate measure of annihilation. Dickens wryly suggests the phrase is “the wisdom of our ancestors.” Sure enough, it was already old hat when a guy named Shakespeare used it in Henry IV Part 2.

“Look on me well,” snarls the hangry Jack Cade. “I have eat no meat these five days; yet, come thou and thy five men, and if I do not leave you all as dead as a doornail, I pray God I may never eat grass more.”

Spoiler alert: somebody dies, but it’s not the other six guys.

So this poem is high-school me wrestling with the question. I blame my father. And possibly Marley. And I should probably apologize profusely to anyone who makes it to the end.

Just How Dead is a Doornail?

Just how dead is a doornail,
and how came this doornail to die?
Hung, shot, stabbed, crushed by a whale,
fallen fifty stories in an effort to fly?
Then, perhaps, by the end of this tale,
you won’t care how, or when, or why.

When it gets itself got I have paid for a plot
inside a Kroger parking lot. Flowers, lilies, have I bought,
morbid now are all my thoughts, but the doornail sickens not.
Though we two have never fought, Doornail’s deathwatch is my lot.
            And the doornail does not die.

The villains are foiled, the waters are oiled,
the pure have been soiled and the workers have toiled.
The snakes are uncoiled and the lobsters are boiled,
the sun-bathers broiled and great treasures despoiled.
            But the doornail . . . does not die.

Time crawls by and shall ne’er again fly
as I wait for nail nigh to finally die,
and I ask why, O Great God on High,
why, O God, why have I this curiosity?
            For this doornail does not die!

While my plants have died and my chicken’s fried,
the brave heroes hide and the honest have lied.
They succumb to the tide no one can abide;
we’re fit to be tied, and the whole world has cried.
            Yet the doornail will not die!

            Gnats live days and flies just weeks,
            and everyone dies and begins to reek . . .

But the doornail never ages, nor war on illness wages,
and my heart inwardly rages as I live out life’s last stages.
We all find our coffin cages as we flutter through the ages,
and the poets pin their pages from the heroes’ hemorrhages—

            BUT THE DOORNAIL . . . DOES NOT . . . DIE!

Originally published in Inklings, the literary arts magazine of PCHS, 1991. Additional blame and/or credit to Monica Hoel, for keeping the existential angst of domestic ironmongery in her desk and in her heart.  

Spotlight: B. Chelsea Adams

June 24, 2021 / / 1 Comment

This is my first “Spotlight”: a series (I hope) of posts about favorite regional writers, their works, and their favorite “getting started” exercises. Today I’d like to turn a spotlight on an excellent writer, teacher, and mentor, B. Chelsea Adams.

Portrait of B. Chelsea Adams in front of trees.
B. Chelsea Adams

Chelsea was born in Fairfield, Connecticut, and she has spent much of her life in southwest Virginia. She earned an M.A. in English and Creative Writing from Hollins College (Hollins University today), working with writers such as R.H.W. Dillard.

For many years she taught at Radford University; I met her through my mother, Jo Ann Aust Asbury, as they taught in the English department. Chelsea’s friendship and her generosity with her gifts has left an expansive legacy within the creative community. Writers have blossomed in her writing groups, flourishing in a rich creative company.

Chelsea’s work runs from the elegiac to the playful, the contemplative to the sensual. Consider some of the titles from her Sow’s Ear Press collection, Looking for a Landing: “Chaos Theory,” “Aesthetics of Dying” . . . And, in contrast, the simply-titled “Bike Ride” and “Cows.”

It’s hard not to love her slender chapbook, Java Poems. This elegant book is a paean to the writer’s elixir of life: Coffee! The truly fortunate have been lucky enough to see Chelsea perform her “java poems” live, beatnik style, complete with beret and the jazz accompaniment of her husband, Bill.

Chelsea’s poetry collection At Last Light is available from Finishing Line Press. Both her fiction and poetry regularly appears in Floyd County Moonshine, including their most recent issue. Her 2020 novel, Organic Matter, promises “romance and roadkill” and is currently available on Amazon.

The Sure-Fire Poetry Exercise

Below is a “sure-fire” exercise from B. Chelsea Adams. Answering its deceptively-simple questions will put you “in place,” giving you a quick path to concrete imagery and creative experssion.

Answer these four questions.  (The answers can be real or made-up.)

  1. Where are you?  (But you can’t say, “I am . . .”)
  2. What are you doing?  (You can’t say, “I am . . .”)
  3. What are you thinking or feeling?  (Don’t say, “I am . . .” or “I think/feel . . .”)
  4. What do you see?  (But don’t say, “I see . . .”)

And that’s it! Have fun, and see if it’s “sure-fire” for you, too!

Snowdrop in the Supermarket

June 21, 2021 / / 0 Comments
Red and yellow supermarket apples
Not a winesap. Not even close.

Some folks requested the rest of “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight,” the poem mentioned in “Publishing Tales 2: Mistakes Were Made.” Below is the full version, which also appears in my chapbook, Woman with Crows.

The work previously appeared in The Anthology of Appalachian Writers. It also won first place in the in the Wytheville Chautauqua Festival creative writing contest.

Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight

Glass doors slide closed, sealing
me in the chilled air; everything dying
is perfectly preserved. Metal bins
gleam, and a gloss of water
glistens on green plastic turf.

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter’s glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

I heft the fleshy gold of oranges,
bright tangerines, bastard tangelos,
baroque and burnished pomegranates,
the jumbled purple plums. There is no red
more red than cherries studded
with crystal, no yellow brighter
than the panes of pineapple,
no blue more other-worldly
than frosted globes of grapes.

And in that moment, I would trade
the whole waxy rainbow
for one crisp winesap,
dappled with sun, sugared
with September, its white flesh
sweeter than honey in the mouth.

Small apple ripening on a leafy branch.
Much more tempting. Photo credit Pexels.com.

All rights belong to April J. Asbury. Do not reprint, alter, or redistribute without express permission.

Publishing 2: Mistakes Are Made

June 17, 2021 / / 1 Comment

Before publishing anything, we always want to make sure the piece is as “clean” as possible. Sometimes, no matter how hard we try, our work escapes us in less-than-perfect form.

19th-century portrait of a Puritan woman writing at her desk while rolling eyes heavenward
Kids, man.

Some issues are due to our own errors, editing, or computer glitches. Whatever the cause, we suddenly we feel deep kinship to Anne Bradstreet in “The Author to Her Book.”

Anne Bradstreet wrote her poems almost 400 years ago, but writers today can empathize. We can use spell check, run our work through writing groups, hire editors . . . Stuff happens. While we want to send our best work out into the world, sometimes we need to let go of it, blemishes and all.

Almost 20 years ago, I did a prewriting exercise that turned into “Snowdrop in the Supermarket at Midnight.” This tribute to late-night grocery store produce departments is meant to be an abundance of color and texture.

I wanted to play with words and give the reader unexpected, chewy combinations. Here’s a stanza:

Fruit is piled like promises: pale orbs
of honeydew, mesh bags of limes. The curve
of a cantaloupe cracks like a potter's glaze,
and persimmons burn dim crimson
beside the dignified lumber of plantains.

“Persimmons burn dim crimson”–isn’t that fun to say? And I wanted to describe the pile of brown-streaked plantains beside them . . . But I didn’t know I had a problem.

I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

A bunch of ripe organic bananas
Bananas. Not plantains.

I put the prewriting away. Over the years I’d take it out again, rewrite it, show it to people . . . By my count, the poem went through at least three writing groups. Multiple people proofread this poem. At one point, it even won first place in the Chautauqua Festival Writing Contest, sponsored by the Wythe Arts Council.

Finally I submitted the work to The Anthology of Appalachian Writers published by Shepherd University. They selected the poem, and I was thrilled. Before publication, they sent me the poem to review one last time. That’s when I finally noticed the tiny red wiggle under “plaintains.”

All these years, all those readers, and nobody noticed I couldn’t spell “plantains.”

I added it to the edits, sent it back to the editor, and “Snowdrop” is in the book in all her word-chewing, apple-loving glory. But I learned an important lesson that day: do your best, send out your work when it’s ready, and remember that mistakes will still happen.

So . . . Don’t go bananas.

Store selection of slightly-bruised apples with stickers
Also not plantains, but easier to spell.
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