Sherry Chandler » Mary Christine Delea
Mary Christine Delea
Well, folks, this is the last day of National Poetry Month. I have had a great deal of fun digging up all those 18th and 19th century Kentucky poets, but I have had enough. And I ’spect you have, too. So for the finale, we’re coming up to the present day.
Christine Delea’s new book, The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky, is pretty much hot off the Main Street Rag presses, and it’s a doozy. It’s a book full of poems that I want to read out loud to other people. “Listen to this!” I say, to my husband, to my son, or to whomever else might be in reaching distance of my restraining arm.
Christine was born on Long Island and has since lived all over the country, but we are fortunate now, at least for this little while, to count her as one of our own. She is an assistant professor of Creative Writing at Eastern Kentucky University, she has a long list of awards that you’ll find here, and she is very active both the Kentucky State Poetry Society and the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. A couple of years ago, Christine brought her formidable energy to our KSPS contest, and she is in the process of transforming that event (entry deadline June 30!).
She also makes quilts!
Christine gave me permission to share with you the poem below. It is a particular favorite of mine because it reminds me of many a night with a bottle (or two) of wine and a gaggle of women poets of a certain age (Christine says this poem is true but not factual):
The Hell with Tea and Apple Pie at Perkins—Two Middle-Aged Women in North Dakota Decide They’d Rather Get Drunk
The reds and violets of the last warm spring night
before summer starts sit on the horizon;
a perfect evening to get drunk in a field.
The troubles that come from gray hairs,
bad jobs and too many misunderstandings
require sitting in damp grass,
backs against someone’s
old rusted tractor. Not a night for the usual herbal tea,
opening the checkbook and feeling
their stomachs tighten at the balance,
or agreeing on appetizers while the waiter
daydreams himself elsewhere.
No ex-in-laws who snub sitting two tables over,
trying to eavesdrop. A six pack each,
three divorces between them, they plan to drink
until laughter is forced out of pores
and spills like seed onto the ground.
Grain elevators stain the landscape,
dwarf problems to the size
of corn kernels. As the cans empty,
they yawn, sneeze, refuse to discuss
the problems that sent them to that field.
Instead, they gossip about acquaintances,
fret over each other’s kids,
plan a day at the mall.
Their plans bleed out into the fields,
around them for miles,
across states, over national borders.
No need on a night like this, at this age,
for berries, herbs and apples;
they are surrounded by hardier
sustenance—barley, hops, wheat.
— Mary Christine Delea, from The Skeleton Holding Up the Sky (Main Street Rag, 2006)
Reproduced by permission of the author.
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