When the forest caught fire, the horses
obeyed a fear greater
than what had been bred into them,
broke down the stable, and stampeded
for the opening in the trees,
which was the lake, which was water.

Of course they headed towards
the alternative, liquid,
unlike the material that made
or was burning up the rest of the hard
world they had to escape.

It was the bombardment
of Central Forces that started the fire,
in Finland. This is Malaparte’s story.

By his account, hundreds of horses
sped through flames, splashed in,
and, the second they entered, the lake
froze solid.

Which makes no sense. But never mind
science. The idea stays with us.

Snap—they were suspended,
coated and sealed, suddenly. And singly,
though the herd had entered as a whole.

It could be called tragic because
they were entombed, heads up,
so all winter, soldiers could see
the last shapes failed struggles take.

It could be asserted that the animal face—
flared nostrils, flung mane,
all frozen—is a simplified expression
of human experience.

Something might be said about that war,
what we fight now.

But to merit retelling
there need not be double meaning.
It’s hard enough that a horse
had to seek escape and was denied it,
even in decay.

Divisions are hard, how one side does not
see itself in the other, or crystallized,
cast in that clear ice.

The horror of each is its own,
alone. Beyond comparison,

and compassion. The soldiers are said
to have walked among the horses
like a sculpture garden on their smoke breaks.
Casually, to be by themselves,
between the bodies, they went
to light their little fires.

The individual man’s flame was too small
to make anything melt.
And not even summer could turn
the sharp edge of this back to water.

Poem selected and commented on by William Wright

I first read “Winter Hard” about three months ago, and the central image still canters through my mind occasionally. On several occasions, particularly at night when entering the hypnagogic phase of sleep, the stark and beautiful horses of this poem have reared up in my consciousness so vividly that I feel like I am walking among them. Indeed, “Winter Hard” features the best of Rose McLarney’s textured writing: a keen attention to archetype, to imagistic detail, to landscape, and to a narration that vacillates between a sonically lush lyricism, as in the poem’s opening: “When the forest caught fire, / the horses obeyed a fear greater / than what had been bred into them. . .” and an almost suppositional, speculative rhetoric:

It could be asserted that the animal face—

flared nostrils, flung mane,

all frozen—is a simplified expression

of human experience.

Such a vision eludes mere anthropomorphism, but reflects a curious writer, a probing and meticulous thinker. And that instills this poem with a thrumming heart, a warmness (despite its literally freezing motifs) and specialness that precludes the poem from becoming a strict narrative. The narrator interjects—but never abruptly: indeed, the speaker prevents me from snapping my suspension of disbelief by snapping it for me. The speaker admits a story “[w]hich makes no sense. But never mind science. The idea stays with us.” Paradoxically, it is this narrative intercession that enriches the images for me, that give them half-lives, that makes me believe wholly in the recounting of the poem’s events: The poem’s dynamism never ceases, even as the central figures—the horses—remain shackled by time.

posted by R. T. Smith

Rose McLarney has published two collections of poems, Its Day Being Gone (Penguin Books, 2014)—winner of the National Poetry Series–and The Always Broken Plates of Mountains (Four Way Books, 2012).  Rose has been awarded fellowships by the MacDowell Colony, Bread Loaf and Sewanee Writers’ Conferences, and Warren Wilson College; is the 2016 Dartmouth Poet in Residence at the Frost Place and 2016 winner of the Chaffin Award at Morehead State; and has received other prizes such as Fellowship of Southern Writers’ New Writing Award for Poetry.

 

Shenandoah Announces: the Graybeal-Gowen Prize for Virginia Poets is now closed.  The winner will be announced in May.

This annual prize awards $500 to a writer born in Virginia, with current residence in Virginia or one who lived in Virginia. Current employees of the Washington and Lee community are not eligible, but students are encouraged to participate.

The winning poem will be published in the fall issue of Shenandoah.

Jess Quinlan, from Staunton, Virginia, won the 2016 contest with her poem “Wahunsenacawh.” Her work can be viewed in the poetry section of the current issue of Shenandoah.

Previous year’s winners include: Nancy Schoenberger of Williamsburg, Virginia, with her poem “London Foundling Hospital”; Judith McCombs, currently of Bethesda, Maryland, with her poem “The Minister’s Wife Seeks Patrick McKommie’s Advice”; and Margaret Mackinnon of Falls Church, Virginia, with her poem “Writing On the Window.”

Contestants should send one word file for each poem with contact information in the upper right-hand corner and a brief biographical note confirming eligibility as a Virginian, to the Submittable link on Shenandoah’s website (shenandoah.submittable.com/submit). No entry fee is required.

The Graybeal-Gowen Prize is dedicated to Howerton Gowen (W&L ’30), a lifelong lover of poetry. The prize is donated by Priscilla Gowen-Graybeal and her husband, James (W&L ’49).

Shenandoah has announced that Annie Woodford, a community college teacher in Roanoke, Virginia, is the winner of this year’s $500 Graybeal-Gowen Poetry Prize for Virginia Writers.  Her poem “Arena Chapel Stringband Ballad” was selected by judge Joseph Bathanti, who read the poems printed out anonymously, says that the winning poem is “a rollicking, unabashedly passionate lyric invocation of Charlie Poole, an old-time banjo picker who led the North Carolina Ramblers.”  He continues, “It’s a ballad of yearning and recollection. an inventory of hand-to-mouth: what the fields bring forth, what they ultimately take back — and the sweet, ephemeral in-between of men and women — one mysterious woman in particular — who ‘walked the sharecroppers’ shacks — making music and love upon it.”

Other work by Woodford, a Bassett native, has been published previously in The Chattahochee Review, Word Riot, Prairie Schooner, Appalachian Journal and others.  Her first collection, Bootleg, is forthcoming from Groundhog Press later this year, and the contest-wining poem will appear in the fall issue of Shenandoah.

Bathanti also selected as runner-up “I Kept Some Keys as if the Teeth” by Darren Morris of Richmond.  Morris has published poems in American Poetry Review, New England Review, Southern Review, and Missouri Review, as well as the Best New Poets anthology from U VA.

Joseph Bathanti is former poet laureate of North Carolina (2012-2014) and recipient of the 2016 North Carolina Award for Literature.  He teaches at Appalachian State University in Boone, N.C.  He is also a frequent contributor to Shenandoah.

Details concerning next year’s contest are as yet unannounced, but they will appear this fall on Shenandoah’s website (shenandoahliterary.org).

 

 

I saw in Louisiana a live-oak growing,
All alone stood it and the moss hung down from the branches,
Without any companion it grew there uttering joyous leaves of dark green,
And its look, rude, unbending, lusty, made me think of myself,
But I wonder’d how it could utter joyous leaves standing alone there without its
friend near, for I knew I could not,
And I broke off a twig with a certain number of leaves upon it, and twined around it a little moss,
And brought it away, and I have placed it in sight in my room,
It is not needed to remind me as of my own dear friends,
(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,)
Yet it remains to me a curious token, it makes me think of manly love;
For all that, and though the live-oak glistens there in Louisiana solitary in a wide flat
space,
Uttering joyous leaves all its life without a friend, a lover near,
I know very well I could not.

by Maddie Schaffer

A retrospective voice leads the reader into a memory the narrator has of witnessing the growth of a tree that reminds him of himself. The voice in the first line of the poem sets up a tone of reflectiveness that is carried throughout the piece. Whitman’s use of the descriptor “live-oak,” in addition to enhancing the southern roots, emphasizes the tree’s vigorous and flourishing growth, which is also described later, by reiterating that the oak is, in fact, living… a fact that could be assumed since it’s continuing to grow.

He proceeds to paint the tree that’s supposed to be lively and growing in this very sad and solitary light. There is contrast between the negative portrayal of the moss that is just hanging versus the leaves that are uttered “joyous.” The oak is given a solemn persona, with its aloneness and lack of friends, yet it is able to produce these happy leaves, which the narrator appears in confusion and awe of. The tree’s persona is further made glum with the description of “rude, unbending, lusty” which continue to differentiate the “joyous leaves.” His use of “lusty” ties into the love and companionship brought up later in an interesting way, hinting that the narrator sees himself as lustful, as well as the “manly love” he is later reminded of. When the narrator brings up this “manly love,” it is unclear whether it is meant as a romantic love, platonic love, or if manly is describing human love. Why manly love? Why not just love? Maybe Whitman is using it to clarify that he is being reminded of his love for his friends, and not the love that the tree is lacking.

The narrator is able to see himself in the undesirable characteristics of the tree, the loneliness and lack of companions, yet fails to relate to how the tree, in its sad position, is able to produce happy things. The narrator is failing to understand how, when in a less than ideal position, one is able to still provide something of joy and happiness. Perhaps this is an insight into the differences between man and nature and how it is possible for trees and other plants to grow and live alone, but that man needs companionship in order to thrive.

The narrator then proceeds to take a piece of the tree back with him; a piece that contains all the aspects of the tree; the branch, leaves, and moss. This representative piece acts for the narrator as a symbol and reminder of how his life is, and how he wants it to be. Whitman’s use of a parenthetical statement is bold and adds a more personal and less formal tone to the piece. The statement is clearly weighing heavy on his mind if he felt the need to interrupt himself and ensure he put it in the open that “(For I believe lately I think of little else than of them,). It really gives the reader a glimpse into the narrator’s mind and his emotions, and helps ground the piece. It is at this point there has been a realization of how important his friends are to him, which the solitary life of the tree has helped him to see.

The last several lines serve as a reflection for the narrator, and contain several parallels to lines earlier in the piece. The last line mirrors the line earlier when the narrator first understands the need for companions, yet the ending line contains “very well,” adding a more intense and urgent tone, letting the reader know that the narrator has come to a definite resolution.

Walt Whitman (1819-1892) is regarded as one of America’s most influential poets. Some of his better-known pieces include the poems “O Captain! My Captain!” and “Song of Myself,” as well as his book Leaves of Grass.  “I Saw in Louisiana. . . ” appears in Walt Whitman: The Collected Poems (Penguin, 2004), edited by Francis Murphy.

 

posted by R. T. Smith