Episode 21: Alabama Field Holla
b'In reaction to the events of November 8, this week\\u2019s episode begins with local Philly poet Cynthia Dewi Oka reading \\u201cPost-Election Song of Myself.\\u201d We first heard it at our Reading at the Black Sheep Pub on Monday, November 12, and we were so moved we had to ask her to share it with you.\\n\\xa0\\nIn reaction to the events of November 8, this week\\u2019s episode begins with local Philly poet Cynthia Dewi Oka reading \\u201cPost-Election Song of Myself.\\u201d We first heard it at our Reading at the Black Sheep Pub on Monday, November 12, and we were so moved we had to ask her to share it with you.\\nIn Episode 21 of Slush Pile, we discuss two poems by Harold Whit Williams.\\n\\nHarold Whit Williams goes by the name Whit to family, friends, and acquaintances, but thinks that using his full name for poetry gives him that much-needed literary gravitas to get his \\u201clittle scribblings\\u201d published. He catalogs maps, atlases, and journals for UT Austin Libraries. His guitar heroics have been much lauded around the world. He and his wife enjoy birdwatching, wine tastings, modern art exhibits, monster truck rallies (mostly for the cuisine), and trying to find a place to park.\\xa0 Once he dreamt a poem in its entirety, then awakened and wrote it down verbatim. That poem, "The Best of Intentions," was published in The Great American Wise Ass Poetry Anthology 2016. The poem is not very good, but it is most definitely wise-ass.\\nOur small group of three begin the episode with \\u201cHawk Pride Mountain Nocturne,\\u201d a piece that Marion feels, \\u201cbreaks [her] heart from line one.\\u201d With an incantatory and rhythmic tone, we are swept back in time to a liminal spot of dreams and melodrama. Our vote was unanimous, but we are requesting a few \\u201cgentle\\u201d edits.\\nWe were not as quick to love the next poem, \\u201cAlabama Field Holler.\\u201d However, after discussing the historical significance of the field holler and the musicality of phrases, we started to change our minds\\u2026\\nOf course, let us know what you think about these poems, and Cotton Mather\\u2019s \\u201cLily Dreams On\\u201d with the hashtag #lampshadesofdesire!\\nFollow us on Twitter, like us on Facebook, and, most importantly, read on!\\n\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nPresent at the Editorial Table:\\nKathleen Volk Miller\\nSara Aykit\\nMarion Wrenn\\n\\xa0\\nProduction Engineer:\\nJoe Zang\\n\\xa0\\nPBQ Box Score: 2=0\\n-------------------------\\xa0\\n\\xa0\\nHarold Whit Williams\\nHawk Pride Mountain Nocturne\\nThe deceased leave behind their voices.\\nSome in shoeboxes\\nStacked in the back closet of the mind,\\nOthers under creaking steps,\\nIn leafwhisper, water murmur, highway hum.\\nMost, middle of the night, seek us out\\nWith their quick-and-dead singsong.\\nDisembodied, tremulous,\\nGusting down\\nOff the pine-sided hill.\\nAn uncle\'s high tenor; an aunt\'s thick alto.\\nA whole ragtag church choir from beyond the beyond.\\nVoices pure as light, Light as breath.\\nWe breathe in these voices In our sleep,\\nTaste these voices in the bittersweet\\nDraught of dreams. Voices\\nIn the shapes of clouds, voices raining\\nDown the old mudtrodden hymns. Horse-and-buggy us\\nBack to that little white church In the woods.\\nLay roses on those headstones carved with our names.\\nSing out, brethren, in voices\\nLong-silenced, but still heard, harried\\nBy a north wind from the past.\\nLet your praises pillow our slumber\\nAnd greet us like morning mist.\\nHearken us back from our dreams, brethren,\\nAnd forward into the light.\\n\\xa0\\nHarold Whit Williams\\nAlabama Field Holler\\nI have decided to blame no one for my life.\\n\\u2013 Robert Bly\\nWinter morning all hollowed-out,\\nWhistling its one-note ballad.\\nMorning bark-stripped, sanded-down,\\nHeld over a flame. A woodsmoke\\nMorning piping clear across\\nback pastures of my childhood.\\nLet me wake early to cop the riffs\\nOf this bygone morning song.\\nLet me stomp out with snare drum\\nPast granddaddy\'s electric fence. \\xa0\\nI\'ll get in tune with morning, root\\nMyself down into the hard red clay.\\nI\'ll call a blues to myself in 4/4 time,\\nStand back and await the response.'