The Louisiana University Press recently debuted Kathryn Stripling Byer’s book of poetry titled, Descent. 
Byer frequently contributes her work to Shenandoah. David Huddle reviewed the book and wrote that,
“Byer’s work is to be cherished for its beauty, its courage, and the gift of its revelation. Her poems shine a light that we yearn for here in the darkness of the first century.”
The following poem from Descent, titled “Gone Again,” first appeared in Shenandoah.
“Gone Again”
I used to believe Scarlett would forever be
standing atop that small rise of Georgia clay
staring at Tara, intoning Tomorrow, Tomorrow,
that sad pace of syllables, the Old South
newly colorized, ready to hoodwink another generation
of belles. But I won’t be among them,
no doddering old lady still telling of how
I remember my mother reciting her tales
of the premiere of Loew’s Grand theater,
all Atlanta agape at the glitterati. No ma’am.
I have sat through that gorgeous monstrosity
five times in English and once in dubbed
Spanish. Miss Scarlett does not anymore stir
me into a passion of Southernness.
Once I imagined myself limping home
with a worthless mule, nothing but rags
in a wagon, waiting for the moon to reveal
the house still standing , me weeping
into my muddy hands, having survived
such a journey and all for a lost cause.
I didn’t much like Scarlett after the war.
Standing there in the moonlight
was our shining moment, unfazed by
the real sounds of hound dogs
and katydids, down on the road
a horn playing “Dixie,” it’s drunk driver heading
back home to his fraternity house.
So frankly, my dear.
I don’t give a damn whether or not Scarlett’s
barbecue ball gown looks brand new
after sixty-two years. Scarlett makes me feel
tired – all those hours I waster, enraptured
by someone whose skin was sheer
celluloid, whose voice, when the reel came
loose, gibbered like mine when I tried
to pretend I lived down the road
from that movie set, cotton fields painted
on canvas, the loyal slaves hoisting
up sacks full of nothing
but chaff for the wind, that old
Hollywood hack, to keep blowing away.