Back in 1996, the Academy of American Poets led the initiative to establish April as a monthlong celebration of poets and poetry — to increase the presence and accessibility of poetry in our culture by enlisting the help of educators, the media and even government agencies. 

This issue marks the eighth time that Birmingham Weekly has celebrated National Poetry Month by publishing the work of Alabama poets. The men and women whose work appears on these pages are but a few among dozens of practicing poets from around the state. Of particular note are two poems by Jeanie Thompson, founding director of the Alabama Writers’ Forum. “Cornbread” and “Picking Blackberries on the Walk to Colonnata” are reprinted with permission from Thompson’s fourth collection The Seasons Bear Us, just out from River City Publishing (rivercitypublishing.com). 

We are proud to publish this work in keeping with the wise and vital mission of National Poetry Month, to support the efforts of American poets and to advance the art of poetry. 

All of the artwork that appears alongside these poems will be on display at Space One Eleven starting on Friday, April 24, in an exhibit called “Double Wides: Photographs by Bradford Daly.” Running concurrent with “Mostly Metal: Art from Sloss Furnaces,” the show begins with a reception at 6 p.m. on Friday and continues through May 8. Complete details are online at www.spaceoneeleven.org

Pushkar, Rajasthan. Photo by Bradford Daly.

LENTEN POEM

I look at water now

its silvery spill in sunlight

I can turn it on at any time

as if some of Earth were mine

wholly mine for just this instant

of the fingers’ turning and I think

of waters everywhere over Earth

roiling and spinning looming in deeps

and the little trickle in an African veldt

the saved-up cups and containers for a week

that barely equal one turn of my faucet

and the miracle lessens because of me

Lord, and how little I know to do

And how your abundance dances so before me

– Ted Haddin

ANOTHER ONE DONE GONE

For Odetta

Her voice stopped time.

It tore through 

the disconnected din, shocked the air

like lightning before the clap

of thunder,

that sweet moment when all is

silent, warm, bright,

hairs bristling under collars. 

– Madison Underwood

Gardendale, Alabama. Photo by Bradford Daly.

PICKING BLACKBERRIES ON THE WALK TO COLONNATA

For Daniele Spina 

After the quarries, as we troop up the winding mountain road

      on our way to Colonnata, Daniele spots a treat

he wants to share with us.  He climbs the rock wall like a

      knowledgeable bear after fruit sweet as any summer.

Later we will see the crucifix from 1584,

      school  of Michelangelo.

Part of me had remained in the marble tomb of the cave

      at Carrara, where we learned how the blocks were cut,

and children splashed in puddles at the center of a mountain.

      Those cool floors and soaring walls had invited us to stay.

We felt their spirit, forgot the world outside.

      The sun glinted on marble toys and the world was still

crazy with war and death

                        – but here at this moment of our walk

      to Colonnata, there were blackberries, sweet, staining

the fingers of our friend’s hand as he said, “Here, is a big one!”

      and offered the fruit to me.

– Jeanie Thompson

DESIGNATE HOW MOTION MAKES

 courage. If stillness is swallowed like vitamins

from a drugstore down the street or if something

unfed follows me home, there are no apologies.

There are bolts to latch, yes, and admonitions,

unwrappings and praise. The invisible

things are quitting. Such a sputter,

all agape with un-matched clutching and motive.

Carry everything home. I say your arms, 

but I am picturing your hands. It is punishment

(or something dressed up to favor). 

Movement was the sign, an apology

and a fault. No one gets the sea for life.

When you find the archway, sure-smoothed

with unclaimed pacing, there will

be a litany. 

 I reach for brick to mean careless, for wait

to mean balance.

 – Britney Blalock

Jaipur, Rajasthan. Photo by Bradford Daly.

FALLEN BEECH

One hand-clasp thick

still springy, a young

beech fell in the forest.

Other trees heard

the sound. Fallen upon

by a rotted trunk,

and old habit maybe

or a creaking love, 

something it couldn’t

escape, being rooted.

The sapling arches,

green leaves against the dirt.

I try to lift

the weight of death

and can’t. Kiss

a leaf, wish

that the twig’s last

winter will be

in the way of trees

not demise but return.

Or that it might bend

back to the sun

as beeches sometimes can.

I walk on, grateful

for once to be rootless.

–Suzanne Coker 

Amritsar, Punjab. Photo by Bradford Daly.

YOU’RE NEVER WITH WHO YOU WANT TO BE

You’re never with who you want to be

so stand up and take your pill.

While Jill Hathaway was making hay,

her sister was making Will.

And Josephine loved a financier

while Bonaparte loved a Pole

You’re never with who you want to be

you’ve got to play a role.

When Plato came home to Mrs. Plato

she smiled at him so coy.

She might have saved herself the trouble

he much preferred a boy.

While Romeo waited for Juliet

she’s engaged to anoterh man.

You’re never with who you want to be,

it’s part of nature’s plan

When Antony died, he called for Cleo

while making his dying gasp,

but she’s up in a tower taking her ease

and lying down with an asp.

While Caesar was up in Gaul with his army,

dividing it with his life,

three men in Rome were drawing straws

dividing up Caesar’s wife.

The time will come when you’ve left your Frankie

and run off with Nellie Bly, but while you’re embracing

her eye will light on someone passing by.

So as you lead the parade of life

the band plays just one tune.

You’re going to be with the one you want

when Christmas comes in June.

– Andrew Glaze

Jacksonville, Alabama. Photo by Bradford Daly.

CORNBREAD        

No one here

but you and me and perfect

cornbread, steaming 

in its iron skillet.

On the stove beside it, turnip

greens bubble, essential  

to such union.

No other human,

just dog and woman 

on Sunday night, alone.

I’ve proven the theorem

again, equation of 

salt, baking soda, and powder

into one cup of meal, one

egg, and the buttermilk 

I sniff, still okay five days past,

it’s tangier, just right.

Here’s the tricky part: heat 

shortening in the skillet

as the oven temperature rises.                                         

Be patient – work slowly – 

and when the grease is hot, it will

bind the mixture, make the crisp

coat firm. Sixteen minutes 

and it’s turned out like a dancer

on the green ceramic plate.

You get the first bite. 

I kneel and pull apart the thin

wedge I’ve cut for you.

Just a dog. 

Eye to eye,

remember when someone

told the puppies to hush? 

Did you catch

a steaming ball of corn dough

in your dream? 

Lick my fingers – it’s that good.

When he returns –

his hand, too.

– Jeanie Thompson

FIRST GRADE

I am invincible, armed

with modern plastic pencils instead

of the freshly-sharpened weapons

wielded by my predecessors. But I am sick

of slipping fingers and lead that shatters

at the point of no return. I want to unhinge

secrets of meaning and madness, rhythm

and rhyme. I want to describe just-so

the pinkish tinge of my backpack, the texture

of three bunnies who boogie

above the zipper but these moments drown

in a sea of tinny voices:

A for apple

B for ball

C for cat

perched on the wall where my

Abstract Brain Crashes

ma, me, mi, mo, mu ooze

everywhere. Magical

mermaids might motivate

musicians.To do what? Funny

how phonics fails to flood

the mind. Vowel and consonant should slip away

for coffee and stolen kisses

not a pre-printed, cartoon on cardboard

arranged marriage. C-A-T. Cat. A sound born

of meow and sly eyes. Sharp angular edges. Soft

center, like Alli’s kitty whose razor claws

conceal a purr. Today I chew

my plastic dagger and try to capture

the feline’s arched spine

in a linguistic snapshot. I play hide

and seek with that perfect word, crouching

just out of reach, but lead snaps

mid-sentence.

– Sarah Wilkening

Dothan, Alabama. Photo by Bradford Daly.

SONNET 22

 The last time I saw her at the river

It flowed beneath us in an unseen stream

That passed me by with a wintry shiver

I saw no water moving but a dream

I thought yes I heard a nightingale cry

When the moon projected hours so golden

Set against the blackest pines and curtained sky

Its unseen wind came to ground so cold then

The rivery moon drew across my eye

In such a cold dark light encoded I

Hated to see the current carry her by

Longed for the high fern banks the river eroded

When we meet on that moonlight river

Tell me who’s the given, who’s the giver?

– Stephen Humphreys

Birmingham, Alabama. Photo by Bradford Daly.

HOMAGE TO THE LANGUAGE OF BASEBALL

 If three-fingers Brown throws a yakker to Sweetbreads Bailey 


 Will Captain Hook plead for a Lawrence Welk 


Jumping Joe and Shufflin’ Phil ride the pine pony
 

And Boom Boom Beck sits in the hole 
 

While Jittery Joe prays for dying quails 
 

Because there is no room at the inn 
 

Half Pint Rye has the best stank eye in 


 The Show 
 

Motormouth Blair yells at Blind Tom who calls
 

Balls and cement mixers which

Oil Can throws for Baltimore chops 
 

Can Pig Pen Dwyer dial eight and can Mother Watson make a 
 

Good leading lady 
 

Only if Uncle Charlie flies by Gettysburg Eddie 


 While Steamboat Williams and his skillet are hoping 
 

for a 
 

Can of corn 
 

And no one makes a Merkle boner 
 

The Dead Milkman is listening to chin music 
 

And it is time for Preacher Rowe to convert 
 

Kickapoo Ed 
 

Who is out of 
 

Gas.

 – Philip R. Theibert