In lieu of an abstract, here is a brief excerpt of the content:

THE WOLFPEN POEMS By James Still Excerpts from a forthcoming book of collected poems by James Still. 5 THE HILL-BORN They have come down astride their bony nags In the gaunt hours when the lean young day Walks the grey ridge, and cool light flags Smooth-bodied poplars piercing a hollow sky. They have come forth against the day's down-curving From wall-darkened beds where a child's breathing Flows beyond measure with the crickets' chirping, Or cicadas' song in seventeenth year spawning, Greeting the earth before the leprous mist Melts in the sun's bronze weaving. They are uprisen with the strong and fleet Whose footsteps weave no trace in aftergrass Forth with broadax and with adz and fro Where forests edge the ancient wilderness, To hew and flay among the patriarchs And bring their strength and aged glory low. Upon broad hills their scythes are swinging, In the high fields severing vine and stalk, The blade's arched stroke is wildly singing A song echoing from earth's dull throat. A sweep of years will bring them all to lie Wrapped in strange flowering of earth and sky. Starveling trees bear so sweet a fruit Along the shallow amblings of Squabble Creek, Down the prisoned waters of Troublesome: Spring tides surging to the naked root Have carved a road for wheel and hoof, And writ their passage on the living rock. Down the broad hills earth-born lays are sung, Sweet as a lark's song whispered down the wind— Never the free shall know a stricken tongue. 6 RIVER OF EARTH The sea saw it andfled.... The mountains skipped like rams, and the little hills like lambs. He drank the bright air into his throat And cast a glance across the shattered thrust Of hills: And he knew that of all men who slept, Who waked suddenly, he least of all could name this thing That held them here. He least could put the sound Upon his tongue and build the spoken words That all might know, might speak themselves, might write In flowing script for those who come upon this place In curious search, knowing this land for what it is. But there are those who learn what is told here By convolutions of earth, by time, by winds, The water's wearings and minute shapings of man. They have struck pages with the large print of knowledge, The thing laid open, the hills translated. He least can know of this. He can but stand A stranger on familiar slopes and drink the restless air, Knowing that beneath his feet, beneath his probing eyes A river of earth flows down the strident centuries. Hills are but waves cast up to fall again, to rise Still further down the years. Men are held here Within a mighty tide swept onward toward a final sea. 7 GRANNY FROLIC Old Granny haste your bonnet on and hie to Wolfpen Creek, Go bit and bridle your scar-hocked nag, go rein, go ride and hurry, Sid Gentry's woman's time is nigh and he's a-plague with worry, O he's a-plague with all the signs the almanac can carry. Go riding swift to Wolfpen Creek, on yon side Dead Mare Hollow, Go chin the ridge, go shoe the trail, go thresh the laurel thicket For this is Gentry's woman's first, the first child she's a-bearing, And fotch a horn of spirits along to keep Sid in the clearing. Sid's made a little crib of oak— A cradle short and narrow, He's whittled a poke of pretties And he's tuck a rattler's rattle; He's rid a coon of all its hide, He's cured it thick and furry— But hap it be a girl-child Young Sid will be to bury. Old Granny gallop. Old Granny lope Go like a hawk-bird flying, Go split the wind, go fork the night, Go knife the hoot-owl's crying, And fotch a pot o' barley tea, O hurry clap the lid, Bring all your queer needcessities, And bring a nip to Sid; Young Sid is thorned...

pdf