Now accepting a limited number of participants for the 2024 Highland Summer Conference! This writing workshop has more than 40+ years of history with Radford University, bringing together writers, students, musicians, and community members from the Appalachian region in celebration of creativity.
Original Highland Summer Conference logo by Dell Siler, 1986.
Work with Our Guest Author
The 2024 conference features guest Annie Woodford, winner of the 2022 Weatherford Award in Poetry for her collection, Where You Come from Is Gone. Annie Woodford will lead our daily workshops.
July 8-12, Monday-Friday, at Selu Conservancy
The conference begins on Monday, July 8, at Selu Nature Conservancy. This beautiful jewel of southwest Virginia features magnificent views of the mountains and river. Enjoy the conservancy’s walking trails, and find that perfect, private place to bring your creative dreams to life.
After a beautiful day of workshops and free time, you’ll be able to enjoy our evening programs, which are free and open to the public:
Tuesday, 7 p.m.: Reading by guest author Annie Woodford, McConnell Library at Radford University (Note: new location!)
Wednesday, 7 p.m.: Jam session at Selu Conservancy
Thursday, 7 p.m.: Participant Readings at Selu Conservancy
Yes, I want to create amazing work this summer!
To register, check out our page here or use the QR below. Registration is only $150 for the entire event, July 8-12, which includes the option to camp at Selu or stay onsite free. Discounts are available for seniors and Radford University students. For more information, write us at hwc@radford.edu.
Before October 2022 gets away from us, let’s talk about new poetry by three of my favorite women writers, all of whom share ties with my home state of Virginia.
Poetry and Music in Auburn on an October Friday Night
New Releases from Annie Woodford . . .
Annie Woodford, author of Where You Come from Is Gone
Imagine my surprise when, my first week in Alabama, I’m lucky enough to hear a friend from “back home” read from her new poetry collection!
Where You Come from Is Gone, titled from a Flannery O’Connor quotation, explores different understandings of Kitezh, the legendary Russian city hidden underground to escape invasion: the four parts evoke Kitezh as Family, Country, Body, and even Henry County, Virginia.
Poet Maurice Manning writes, “The sacred act of remembering in this haunted and heart-breaking book is finely harnessed to artistic precision, articulating the history of the rural South. The result cloaks anguish with beauty, suffering with grace, ignominy with a dignity whose desire to redeem is wholly human.”
My own review is less eloquent: these poems hit me deep in the gut. Over and over, I found myself murmuring, “Damn . . . Damn . . . Oh, Annie, damn!”
. . . and Kim Ports Parsons!
Cover for The Mayapple Forest from Terrapin Books
October 31st marks the official release date for the The Mayapple Forestby Kim Ports Parsons. This collection from Terrapin Books has an appropriately gorgeous cover, mayapples painted by Frances Coates.
Parsons’ collection explores memory, sensuality, grief, and family relationships. Images from nature, including the wonderfully scientific, weave through these poems, which show a mastery of style and variety.
One of my favorite poems in The Mayapple Forest is “This is Not a Sestina about Quarks,” a playful exercise about the “charmed” language of quarks; others are haunting in their vulnerability and sensuality. In “Cool Glass of Water,” Parsons writes, “. . . if I could, I would drink that memory like a cool glass of water every day of my life.” Parsons gives us poem after poem, one cool glass of water after another, that leave the reader refreshed, reawakened, and inspired.
One last treat this Hallowe’en weekend . . .
Cathy Hailey Up for Preorder
Cover and photo from Finishing Line Press
Another Virginian poet, Cathy Hailey, has a new book on the way from Finishing Line Press. Her chapbook, I’d Rather Be a Hyacinth,is available for preorder now.
According to Finishing Line Press, Hailey’s work “features ekphrastic poems inspired by an episodic performance of the Moscow Festival Ballet interwoven with poems of refuge from grief, the comfort and healing found in nature, memory, and family.”
Remember that preorders boost the author’s royalty percentage from FLP, so your preorder will help the writer directly, both today and in the future.
The autumn leaves turned late this year, and some of them are still hanging on in their red and gold glory. Before they’re entirely gone, I wanted to share a favorite exuberant poem and a new writing exercise.
“I say” is a love letter to autumn and color and jazz, from B. Chelsea Adams, the author celebrated in this page’s first “Spotlight.” The poem, used with her permission, is from her Finishing Line chapbook, At Last Light.
I say
. . . yes to autumn its intense colors deep bronzes, oranges, and golds.
An adult season, which has known clouds, been blinded by sun, frozen ice solid, caressed by a tender wind.
An adult season, where the shameless red maple, alluring and vibrant, shatters the late afternoon.
I want it to keep on— its deep color a warm thrust in my belly, a sensual brush across my lips,
like jazz, the drum thumping in my chest, the pulsating strings of the bass, the truth told by the alto sax,
a truth that disturbs the sleep of dried leaves.
B. Chelsea Adams, 2012
Saying Yes: A Writing Prompt
When I heard Chelsea read “I say” aloud, I was struck by the love in her poem and the warmth in her voice. It hit me that I had been inundated with messages of rage, sorrow, grief . . .
There is a time for all of those things. But there’s also a time to say “yes.” To celebrate what we love, what thrills us, what we find so beautiful it hurts the heart. That week I went into my Poetry Writing class with a new exercise, one both simple and open-ended.
Ready? Write the words, “I say yes to . . .”
Now finish the sentence.
Go for the specific and the sensory. Try to dig deeper than just a list. (But I love lists myself!) Dig deep into all the rich, wonderful details about what you love. As you write, relish that love. Make it as real and vivid as you can, Just live in that exuberance for a while.
In July, the Highland Summer Conference at Radford University hosted two powerhouse poets: Diane Gilliam and Leatha Kendrick. While this visit was Kendrick’s first to the HSC, she has a prolific creative career as a writer, teacher, presenter, and workshop leader.
Recently Kendrick released her fifth book of poetry, And Luckier, through Accents Publishing, which praises it as “her bravest, most mature work.” Additional praise from Molly Peacock, Kathleen Driskell, Pauletta Hansel, and Sherry Chandler follows, but perhaps George Ella Lyon describes And Luckier most aptly: this is “a mature poet’s reckoning.”
Below is one of Kendrick’s favorite writing exercises, a prompt that brings together writing, drawing, and memory for potent results. (Note for teachers: this exercise works for poetry as well as essays; if you need a “starter” for a personal experience narrative, “Map the House” is gold!)
Here’s “Map the House,” as used by Leatha Kendrick, in her own words. Used with permission.
Writing Exercise: Map the House
In The Poetics of Space, Gaston Bachelard asserts “the houses that are lost forever continue to live on in us: . . . they insist in us in order to live again.”
I first did this exercise at the Appalachian Writers Workshop sometime in the late 1980’s. It may have been Jo Carson who gave us the assignment. Other writers of my acquaintance (George Ella Lyon, in particular) have used their own variations on this prompt to generate powerful and surprising writing.
Here it is: an exercise to help you write more vividly about the “housed” memories of your life.
Sketch a floorplan of a house or room that is important to you.
In each area of the map, place the objects that come to mind.
Label each object or piece of furniture with sensory memories or events they bring to mind. “The kitchen smelled of bacon grease (or cardamom or coffee) . . .
Note any actions or voices or phrases that come up.
When you are ready, start writing. Try to write quickly, without too much thought. Don’t second-guess, even if you think you are going “off topic.” Trust whatever comes. If you don’t remember something, say, “I don’t remember . . .” or “I wonder why . . .” and keep writing.
Remember: Writing is an act of discovery.
We are likely to vividly remember moments, single instances, and often in a more sensory than verbal way. In other words, our most vivid memories are likely to be ones we have not yet narrated for ourselves, rather than the stories we’ve been told or the “facts” about our lives. Our bodies store memories in our skin, our noses, our nerves, our bones – and not only in our brains.
We know more than we think we remember.
The things we have forgotten are housed. Our soul is an abode and by remembering houses and rooms, we learn to abide within ourselves.
On July 29, 2021, regional literature lost a powerful and eloquent poet, teacher, mentor, editor, printer, and friend. Jeff Daniel Marion was a prolific author, publishing Letters to the Dead,Ebbing and Flowing Springs–in total, according to Still Journal, nine poetry collections, four poetry chapbooks, and a children’s book.
The children’s book, Hello Crow, is one of my favorite illustrated books. This story celebrates the wonder of nature, which lasts a lifetime, accompanied by Leslie Bowman’s vibrant artwork.
A celebration of Marion
Another illustrated jewel is Miracles of Air, a 12-page chapbook illustrated by George Chavatel, a beloved artist and professor at Emory & Henry College for many years. Marion hand-set 226 copies, including 26 lettered “A-Z,” signed by author and artist.
Marion shared a vision of the book as a whole piece of art, not just free-floating poems. (Those poems, floating now across digital pages, still shine with their own grace and integrity.) Marion’s vision gave us a cohesive creation of poetry, visual art, and printed design.
When I began this post, I almost typed the cliched words, “A voice in poetry has fallen silent.” But that isn’t true at all. Through his carefully-crafted work, his numerous students and readers, we can still hear his voice, and it will echo for generations.
In addition to his writing and teaching, Jeff Daniel Marion was a printer. He spent long hours hand-setting type, an experience he described to classes and workshops.
Writers often say each word matters. (The legendary William Strunk Jr., of Strunk & White fame, commanded us: “Omit needless words.”) As a printer, Jeff Daniel Marion said he learned a much deeper appreciation for cutting excess words.
Marion would laugh as he described long hours setting a poem word by word, letter by letter. Once each word meant extra work, he was acutely aware of the words a poem needed and the words to let go.
Few of us have access to vintage printing presses, but his story is a reminder to slow down, read closely, and then read even closer. Take a poem or paragraph you need to revise and copy it by hand in your most careful print. Have patience, give your full attention–have mercy on the printer!–and savor every word.
What we leave behind is memory,
those little seeds drying on the sill,
the hope of harvest
to return again and again.
Jeff Daniel Marion, from The Chinese Poet Awakens
This spotlight celebrates a long-time friend of writers, teachers, and students throughout the region. The work of Marilou Awiakta, an author of rich Cherokee and Appalachian heritage, remains relevant. Her messages of respect–for the environment, for others, and for oneself–are vital, necessary, and hopeful.
Awiakta’s 1978 book, Abiding Appalachia: Where Mountain and Atom Meet, includes themes she will explore throughout her life. As a child, Awiakta truly lived on “the atomic frontier”: Oak Ridge, Tennessee, a town dedicated to developing the atomic bomb.
Copies of Selu and Abiding Appalachia
Abiding Appalachia illuminates a childhood full of science and secrets. These wonders are braided with reflections on heritage, Cherokee belief and history . . . From “Cemetery Folks” to “Star Vision,” from lucid prose to rhythmic poetry, Awiakta braids these elements into a cohesive whole.
This hybrid form appears again in Selu: Seeking the Corn Mother’s Wisdom. Little Deer, the “small white chief of the deer,” fills Abiding Appalachia with his luminous energy. (He’s the deer leaping through the whirling atom on the cover,) In Selu appears the powerful figure of the Corn Mother, guide and provider. Both Little Deer and Selu teach, in their own ways, the importance of respect: respect for the providers, for the natural world, for family, and for the stories that teach and unite.
Awiakta frequently visits Virginia, presenting and reading at the Highlander Literary Festival and leading workshops for the Highland Summer Conference.
“Shawl sisters”: Jo Ann Aust Asbury with Marilou Awiakta in Radford
Her interviews and readings are online in the Radford University Digital Collection. (Hearing her–and reciting and even dancing with her–makes a special experience!)
Today Awiakta’s work is being introduced to new audiences. Her alma mater, the University of Tennessee, celebrated her work in a virtual event now accessible online. She donated her papers to the Betsey B. Creekmore Special Collections and University Archives, ensuring that future students and writers will experience her work in new ways.
Recently USA Today selected Awiakta for their Women of the Century list. Joining other Tennesseeans such as Maxine Smith and Dolly Parton, Awiakta is celebrated as an “award-winning writer” who draws “the curtain back on this turning point in U.S. and world history.”
Awiakta’s life is intimately connected with the birth of the atomic age, her recovery of her Cherokee heritage, and the immediate need for protecting the environment. She truly is a woman of the century, and her work points our way to the future.
Marilou Awiakta’s “Three-Times Vision”
Understanding rarely comes with the first quick glance. For deeper understanding, Awiakta says some Cherokee believe in looking at something three times:
Look once with the left eye,
then once with the right eye,
then once from the corner of your eye to discern the spirit.
The first glance and the second glance get “the actual, the tangible clearly in mind,” while the third look involves both sense and spirit. The deeper understanding, Awiakta says, requires patience and stillness, a readiness to see from multiple perspectives.
The writing exercise below is one version of a favorite prompt Awiakta used at Radford University. Try filling in the blanks, and you will have three different perspectives of a vivid memory. Put yourself in that special memory, and then answer the following.
I hear . . .
I feel . . .
I remember . . .
Bonus: A Little Advice from Awiakta
Below are just a few notes from Awiakta’s writing workshops. While this advice was originally intended for poets, all writers can benefit, especially from #4. The theme of “respect” runs through all of Awiakta’s work, so respect your work, respect yourself, and respect your readers, too.
Cut adverbs. Words that end with “-ly” can destroy the rhythm of a poem.
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.
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.
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.”
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 Writerspublished 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.
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