I had great fun sketching caricatures of the other participants in the Chikaskia Literary Festival last week, but of course I couldn’t sketch myself while presenting. Thanks to a cellphone video clip by my friend Carol, though, now I can!
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
In a place that’s maybe not
quite in the middle of nowhere
but isn’t exactly near anywhere either,
a shaggy-haired septuagenarian
with a handicapped sticker
on his well used car from the square years,
a cigarette in one hand, and a cell phone
in the other sits holding up traffic
for a long time at the four-way stop,
as if carefully considering which route
to take, though from my perspective
behind him, the three possibilities
look exactly alike.
Finally, not because he succumbs
to pressure (oddly no one even honks),
but just because he is ready, he
turns left, putting down neither
his cigarette nor his phone, so that
it’s not clear how, or whether,
he is steering. Nevertheless,
I turn and follow him because
I think he must know something
I don’t, guided by an intricate
system of smoke signals, or
by an alien voice in his ear.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Just an informational post. If you happen to be in or near Tonkawa, Oklahoma, USA Sept. 24-25, check out Chikaskia Literary Festival at Northern Oklahoma College. I’ll be reading at the 10 a.m. session on the 25th.
Thursday: 12:30 p.m. registration and books for sale
1 p.m. Joey Brown, Heather Levy, Kirk Ashworth
2 p.m. Dorothy Alexander, Leah Chaffin, Mike Rishell, 3 p.m. Jill Hawkins, Britton GIldersleeve, Todd Fuller
4 p.m. Brent Newsome, Tim Bradford
4:45 Student showcase
Friday: 8:30 am registration, books for sale, coffee
9 a.m. Jason Christian, Trey Moody, Rob Roensch
10 a.m. Carol Johnson, James Brubaker, Bayard Godsave, Allen Culpepper,
11 a.m. Jenny Yang Cropp, Paul Austin, Jill Talbot
Noon. Lunch.
1 p.m. Featured reader Rilla Askew
Some days I can soar
like a lead weight in quicksand.
This is one of those days.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
A sick-sweet sadness
pours slowly over evening,
thick as cane syrup.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Scenes from the Thirteenth Night
1.
“Oh, Seb, I thought we’d never be together,”
Antonio whines as they lie in bed entwined,
his dark curls resting on Sebastian’s chest.
And Sebastian strokes that hair and responds,
“I told you, Tony, ‘Livia was just a practical move;
it’s you I’ve always loved, from that first time at sea.”
2.
“’Cesario,’ Olivia says to Viola,” that’s what
I’ll always call you, Love, ‘cause even though
your secret maidenhead’s what I wanted to claim,
I still like you looking all butched up in your boots.
“Call me what you like,” Vi replies, “as long
as I can get you out of that silk gown
and fifty layers of undergarments.”
3.
“Feste, sweet Feste, I’m such a fool for you,”
Orsino admits, “and I love it when you come
round here to fool around with me.”
“But, Orsie, there’s no greater foolishness
than fooling with a fool,” jokes Feste,
“though I concede I want to take advantage
of your folly—and take your ducal scepter.”
4.
“Malvolio, you’re so uptight,” Andrew says;
“what you need’s to relax and have a little fun.”
“But Andy, how’m I supposed to loosen up
when I’ve just been bashed by obnoxious
Toby and that wicked wench Maria?
What I need’s to get my revenge on those assholes!”
“The past is past, Mal, just let them go
and pound my eager ass instead.”
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
Driving past the park on Sunday,
a sudden memory from years ago:
Like a new bride, I wore white,
a bright white sweatshirt. It
was the worst possible choice—
might as well have flashing neon—
for sneaking in well past curfew
to fool around with my not-even-really
boyfriend there in the dark
on a see-saw, except that nothing
really happened, just a kiss
or two and some silliness,
and then a quiet, edgy conversation
when, by the time I finally got
into it, he no longer was.
See-saw.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
September’s still hot,
even in early morning,
but the sun feels good
on muscles sore from yoga
as I drink coffee and grade
papers from last week,
slow and groggy on the porch,
as a dry breeze stirs
crepe-myrtle branches
hung heavy with bloom,
and mark the peaceful stillness
of the napping cat
stretched out in the small shadow
cast by snapdragons
and wonder if she
can simply think of nothing,
for my thoughts run everywhere,
like monkey-children
on a holiday from school,
and as their play escalates,
my work shifts to slow motion
in the Sunday warmth.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
A scrunched scrap of waste paper
wind-rattled along the street
creates a racket louder
than would a poem written
on it at anguished expense,
yet a poet, though unheard,
may fell a forest with words.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
The littlest treacheries
often hurt the most:
A fissured confidence,
a malignant phrase
uttered in haste,
can seep into the cracks
of an angst-worn soul,
expand like water
freezing into ice
to force-widen
its open wounds
and harden to encase
and paralyze
its exposed
extremities.
Copyright 2015
T. Allen Culpepper
