Woodsmoke

by Wayne Caldwell

Overview

Woodsmoke is a poetry collection that renders the experience of living out life in a single, exquisite place—“in the shadow of the mountain my father said was mother to us all”—Mount Pisgah in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. Wayne Caldwell, author of the novel Cataloochee, brings us the waning days of Posey Green, who cuts his own firewood, looks after himself, and tends to the land where his wife Birdie and her people are buried. Posey’s colloquial narrative poetry is presented as found verse, conjured from Posey’s internal musings—and these poems alternate with those of a new neighbor, a sympathetic female poet who observes Posey and his surroundings and creates a more formal poetic record of his days.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781949467406
Publisher:	Blair
Publication date:	02/23/2021
Sold by:	Barnes & Noble
Format:	eBook
File size:	2 MB

About the Author

Wayne Caldwell is the author of the novels Cataloochee (2007) and Requiem by Fire (2010). He has won the Thomas Wolfe Memorial Literary Award from the Western North Carolina Historical Association and the James Still Award from the Fellowship of Southern Writers. Woodsmoke is his first collection of poetry. He lives with his wife, Mary, just west of Asheville, on land that has been in her family since 1831. In his spare time, he works up firewood.

Read an Excerpt

“This House”

My father built this stout old place in 1914.
We lived in a tarpaper shack while he worked
On it. Movin day was like comin to a castle.
I was eight. I’m comfortable here yet.
Next move? Carry me out in a casket.
Papa was a scrounger—windows came from
A church they razed down at Luther, and its front step
Became the granite mantel over our fireplace.
Always was a comfortable house,
It sighs and creaks like it has opinions.
Me and Birdie remodeled in the fifties, put in
Pine panelin, central heat I’m too tight to use,
A new bathroom. Only thing I regret is coverin
White clapboard with green asbestos shingles.
Birdie wanted it to look modern. I’d take em off,
But asbestos lung ain’t a thing I’d care to die of.
I love watchin Birdie’s flowers bloom,
Tulips and yellowbells, japonica and lilacs,
Clematis and iris, snowballs and peony roses.
I keep ‘em up because of her, and, besides,
I’d almost as soon raise tulips as taters.
You can’t eat flowers, but they sure dress up a table.
The masterest thing about this fine old place?
From the front porch you spy Mount Pisgah,
And don’t see a neighbor in any direction.
Knock on wood, Lord willin, it’ll stay that way.

"Olen Mills"

There’s a faded picture in the front room
Of me and Birdie back when I went to church
All posed up for that squirrely travelin man
A-tryin to catch her pretty and me peart.
She always took a good picture
But he had a job of work to do on me.
Mr and Mrs Olen Mills, at your service.

“Burying Ground”

It’s mighty quiet on the side of the hill.
A pretty place, too, to lay down facin east
Against that trumpet blast they talk about
In the Revelations. I get up here ever now and again,
To tidy up, tend to plants, say howdy to Birdie.
Sometimes, like today, I just set a spell and think.
People don’t hardly have family buryin grounds anymore.
It’s a shame, for there you see where you come from—
As well as where you’re bound. Dust to dust, the Book says.
Birdie’s people started plantin here when her great-grandpa died.
That’s him yonder with the gates of heaven openin up
Atop his marble column. What I hear, he likely busted other gates
Wide open, but that’s not mine to judge. There’s all kind of tomb rocks,
From store-bought stones with Gone but not Forgotten,
To square rectangles with hand-chiseled names and dates
But no room (or maybe patience) for words of remembrance,
To moss- and lichen-covered fieldstones
Under which lie stillbirths and babies lived a day or two.
Birdie and me had one of them, she called her Sarah,
But the young’un never even cried.
She’s buried way over yonder where it’s as quiet as she was
So she can listen to the birds in peace,
And she’s got the best view of Pisgah a gal could want.
I planted that butterfly bush next to Birdie cause she loved ‘em,
And I put in that lilac close to Sarah. Birdie, bless her,
Planted March flowers on our girl’s grave
So early spring I come up here for yellow comfort.
I thin and replant ever few years—Birdie’s circled by
The children of Sarah’s first flowers. She’d like that.
One of these days they’ll lay me down beside her
Forever to sleep. By then, I’m sure, I’ll need the rest.

Table of Contents

Pisgah 1

This House 5

Olan Mills 6

Birdie 7

Burying Ground 8

Long Tom 10

Neighbor 11

Woodstove 14

Work 15

Old Man Gravity 16

Woodstack 17

Knock on Wood 18

Mama 19

Bittersweet 20

Tree Wood 21

Dogwood 22

Black Ants 23

Peeper Frogs 24

May Fourteenth 25

Peckerwood Hope 26

Dog Days 28

Hard Titty 29

Maud 31

Snuffy Smith 32

Wood Hens 33

Snake Skin 34

Bird Tree 35

Fireword 36

Splinter 37

Firewood in Heaven 38

A Devil in Ever Fire 40

Manna 42

Oiled by Sunshine 43

Scroungers 44

One Bright Day 45

Gat No Heat 46

Green Wood 47

Fine Right Here 48

Pole Creek 49

Double Rainbow 50

Two of Everthing 50

Two Crows 51

Striking a Cord 52

Logsplitter 53

Uncle Ike Hill 55

Tomb Rock 58

Tick 59

Don't Know Why 60

Hoot Owl 61

Past Praying For 62

I Didn't Mean to Do It 63

Katydid 64

Fall 65

Fence Posts 66

Christmas Tree 67

Warsper 68

Mustard Tree 69

Birdbrain 70

Important Questions 71

Firewater 72

Tomcat 73

March 74

Posey Green 75

Olive Branches 76

The Lonesomes 77

Woodsmoke 78

Swing Low 79

Acknowledgments 81

Editorial Reviews

"The beauty of Woodsmoke is that it gives us the pleasures of both poetry and prose as it unveils not only the story of one man’s life, but the story of a whole culture. I’ve long admired Wayne Caldwell’s novels, and I’m now an admirer of his poetry. Woodsmoke is an absolute delight." —Ron Rash, In the Valley and Serena

"Sit in a quiet place, preferably in front of a woodfire, take deep breaths, and listen to Posey Green. His voice is a beautiful elegy for a southern Appalachian language and mindset almost gone." —Charles Frazier, Varina and Cold Mountain

"A beautiful book that reminded me of things about our culture that are so often overlooked. Woodsmoke and Posey are rooted in the core of the Appalachian spirit: a commitment to hard work, the land, and neighborliness. Like splitting and stacking wood, this collection of poems honors the complex intricacies of a life so many might refer to as simple or easy." —Savannah Sipple, WWJD and Other Poems

"Alert to the equal importance of nature’s most miniscule creatures and the power of one’s true love, this collection touches on the common threads that bind us all together." —Annette Saunooke Clapsaddle, Even As We Breathe

"Skeptical, thoughtful, funny, proud, and humble, Posey Green tells the most telling truths. I read this volume through, then read it again. For dessert." —Fred Chappell, As If It Were and I Am One of You Forever

"At once familiar and alive with curiosities and the kind of delight in the unknown I seek out in a book of poems, Woodsmoke brings me to a familiar landscape and breaks it open for me to feel anew." —Matthew Wimberley, All the Great Territories

From the Publisher