Looking in the rear-view mirror while driving down those narrow country roads is a bad idea.
-Amy Le Ann Richardson, from Don’t Look Back a poem in the Summer 2024 issue of Untelling
Amy Le Ann Richardson is another one of those do-gooders the world is lucky to have. She seems to be everywhere all at once, full of ideas that she is busy putting into motion. She is a writer, a farmer, a visual artist and an advocate for small farmers and the environment, all while raising her young family. One of the cool things she has been up to is hosting writing workshops for mountain women farmers and gardeners through a grant from the Kentucky Foundation for Women to honor and preserve their stories. I’ve spent many hours with her on the porches of Hindman Settlement School in wide-ranging conversations, the kind of talk that spins worlds into being. She doesn’t know this, but I keep the little maple leaf bottle of syrup from her farm she gave me a couple of years ago on my meditation altar. It is there to remind me of the sweetness of friendship.
I like overcast days, and I like this Diamine ink. It will be lovely in my writing pen.
My Advent Tree this year is dedicated to my writer friends and teachers. I am so grateful for all the light you shine in the darkness.
An Apology: I am behind on my Advent tree posts, the last week of school before the holiday break has pretty much done me in, but I aim to catch up in the next few days.
I love these lines so much, these lines and this poem Sunday Open House by my friend Angie Mimms. I feel this in my bones, this longing for hope. I love its evocation of the Emily Dickinson poem that has lived in my head for many years. Angie nurtures hope, she is a careful guardian of it. She’s been my roommate at the Appalachian Writers Workshop many times along with our friend Patsy Kisner. Angie is floodkin too, we were sharing a room in Stuckey, one of the rooming houses on campus, when the 2022 flood in Eastern Kentucky rose up in the middle of the night. Stuckey became an ark that night, sheltering lots of people and their children and pets on campus seeking higher ground. We had a kitten that belonged to musician Sarah Kate Morgan in our room that night, keeping it safe from the dogs who were in the rest of the house. I only have to close my eyes to be right back in that room with her.
A cherished memory: walking through Angie’s neighborhood with her beautiful daughter Anna blowing bubbles everywhere we went. Angie is a former newspaper journalist who has lately been writing poetry and creative nonfiction around her daughter’s struggles with Dravet syndrome, a rare and debilitating form of epilepsy. Recently she has been working on a daily devotional for Anna and others who may not move through the world like most people. I know this will be a work of hope and beauty.
This looks black in the photo, but it’s a stunning metallic teal that sometimes looks red by Diamine called Laurel.
My Advent Tree this year is dedicated to my writer friends and teachers. I am so grateful for all the light you shine in the darkness.
An Apology: I am behind on my Advent tree posts, the last week of school before the holiday break has pretty much done me in, but I aim to catch up in the next few days.
-Marianne Worthington from I wanted to write a poem
Marianne Worthington is a wonder. A light many of us have come to depend on at the Appalachian Writers Workshop. Poet, teacher and a friend to everyone but someone who won’t let you off the hook either- do it and do it well. The last couple of years she’s taught a pre-workshop at the AWW open to just 20 or so registrants, first come first serve. As soon as you get your acceptance letter from Hindman, you can sign up. It allows you to come a day early for some writing sessions with special focuses in poetry. I’m no poet, but that doesn’t stop me from writing poems anyway. It helps to have a teacher.
This last summer I was particularly relieved and grateful to be at Hindman for AWW and Marianne’s session. I’d spent the spring in the hospital with my 24 year old daughter who had a cryptogenic stroke that affected her entire right side. It was a terrifying time, but we were helped by so much kindness- from my family, Hindman friends and from my church and school colleagues. Sitting in rehab one day, out of the blue I received a DoorDash gift card from Marianne that made me cry. So thoughtful and so much needed at that moment! By the time Hindman came around, my daughter was in her last week of outpatient rehab and was doing well, though still early in her recovery. My sweet family made it possible for me to go take some deep breaths at Hindman that last week of July.
I hadn’t written anything outside of my journal for months, but it was Marianne’s class that helped create a way in, a door that I could open to begin writing about the stroke. I ended up with a draft of a poem that made me shake inside, so I knew it was truth. It has since become part of a trio of poems called Daughter that will be published in the next issue of Untelling. Thank you, Marianne, for your wisdom and wit and thoughtfulness. Thank you for showing me so many doors.
This is a fabulous red with gold sparkles. Ruby Taffeta by Diamine. Terrific drag name.
The lines I use in my ornament are from Marianne’s book spine poem in the Summer 2024 issue of Untelling. It’s a feature in every issue in the back pages- different writers are asked to take books from James Still’s office and stack them to make a poem. The photo of the books is by Corey Terry. James Still was a titan of Appalachian literature who lived for many years in Oak Ledge, a house built by Lucy Furman out of the proceeds of TheQuare Women, her book about the remarkable women who founded the Hindman Settlement School. Tickles me pink that you can get this book today, even on Amazon- https://www.amazon.com/Quare-Women-Kentucky-Mountains-Industries/dp/1950564037 though I hope you’ll ask your local bookstore to order it for you instead.
Here is a terrific podcast episode where you can hear Marianne read her work. It’s also a great site for anyone interested in Appalachian literature.
Marianne is a writer, educator and editor. She co-founded Still: The Journal an online journal that energized and celebrated contemporary Appalachian writers. It’s no longer being published but you can still access the archives- it’s a treasure trove and it’s free: https://www.stilljournal.net/
-Chain of Custody, Melissa Helton from Troublesome Rising
None of us can thank Melissa enough for the way she is adding to the legacy of the Hindman Settlement School. Since 1902 it has been a place of inspiration, respect and preservation where people have come to learn and teach and share. Melissa has helped widen their circle even more as Literary Arts Director. She started the Ironwood Studio, a writers workshop for high school students that has quickly become the life blood of many young writers. She’s expanded the weekend retreats that are my personal oases throughout the year- not sure I could get through the year without them at this point. She puts together a kick ass Appalachian Writers Workshop that exceeds expectations every year. She founded, edits and fights for the absolutely gorgeous Untelling: The Literary and Arts Magazine of Hindman Settlement School (and there really is no literary print magazine out there like it). Right this very minute she is at Winter Burrow- a very cool weekend gathering of artists, scholars, writers, musicians and community organizers that I hope to be able to attend one year, another one of her brainchildren.
She’s a remarkable poet, artist, teacher and editor. Her anthology Troublesome Rising is a powerful collection of writing and art about the 1,000 year flood of Eastern Kentucky in 2022. The Appalachian Writer’s Workshop was in midweek when it hit, water rising 20 feet in just a couple of hours in the middle of the night, scouring the narrow valleys of the region. All of us who were there were changed by that flood. We, all of us, are floodkin now.
I’m happy for the chance to express how grateful I am to Melissa for all her reclamation work- on the school archives and buildings, and for our community and our memories.
-from alone in the house of my heart, Kari Gunter-Seymour
Some of the great gifts of the Appalachian Writers Workshop are the evening readings by faculty in the social hall where we all gather together. This morning, I am remembering Kari Gunter-Seymour’s reading this last summer- the delight of it, the bubbles, how even the hardest things rose up shimmering. I am remembering her singing, the surprise and joy of it. We can still sing she tells us, when all else fails, we can still sing.
I’m so grateful that I can sit here on a gray snowy morning reading your poetry Kari and be able to hear it in your own voice. Thank you, friend.
Kari Gunter-Seymour is the Poet Laureate of Ohio and a 9th generation Appalachian. She has a pretty fabulous website where you can find out more about her remarkable work.
Last year, Fireside Industries published Jane Hick’s remarkable poetry collection The Safety of Small Things, one of my favorite books of 2024. I read it all at once and have dipped back into it again and again. It is such good company. It lends me courage. The book speaks of her journey through cancer, of grief and fear and of the small mercies that can lead you through. I have been lucky to attend workshops and retreats with her at Hindman Settlement School- wise, grounded, funny and focused, Jane raises the energy of every room. Poet in the house, I remember to breathe.
When I think of Clayton, I see us standing together on the footbridge across Troublesome Creek watching the muskrat come and go from its lodge on the little grass island in the middle of Troublesome. We stood a long time, mostly silent, bearing witness to the wonder of it. His work is like that- a quiet, steady witness to wonder.
This line is from a poem in his first chapbook Concerning the Service, recipient of the Beyond Words Poetry Chapbook Awards 2024.
Clayton will be living at the Hindman Settlement School soon as their Youth Literary Arts Coordinator. Oh, this makes my heart happy.
This photo doesn’t do justice to this metallic Dimaine ink that changes from deep red tp blue to purple to green as you shift it in the light. It’s glorious.
My Advent Tree this year is dedicated to my writer friends and teachers. I am so grateful for all the light you shine in the darkness.
The blossoms lengthened to prickle-skinned shafts, butter and egg yolk yellow, peeping from under broad fronds, jungle leaves, looking like they belonged in the outskirts of Manila, where he ordered a wife once.
From Heirlooms by Erin Miller Reid
Erin always brings gifts to lay on the little dining room table at Stuckey, one of the houses at the Hindman Settlement School in Knott County Kentucky, a chosen home for so many people since 1902. Writers gather there at the annual Appalachian Writer Workshop and several weekend retreats through the year. We work during the day and stay up late at night sharing gifts, swapping stories and catching up, and yes, partying.. When Erin opens her mouth to share a story, those who know her perk up their ears, waiting for the moment it turns south, because it always does only you don’t know where or how. Then boom! There it goes, and we howl or cover our ears. Don’t ask about examining rooms or the elephant that was hung for murder in Kingsport, Tennessee.
I love Erin and her generosity and her south turns. She writes poems and short stories and has a novel coming out in the Fall of 2026 that I can’t wait to get my hands on. Party on Dr. Reid.
Erin is also Flood kin, here’s some of her flood writing:
Oh Patsy, I breathe easier when I’m around you. We recognize something about each other, maybe it’s the way we hold grief in our bodies. We see it and don’t need to talk about it but can with ease if we want. For years now we have been friends, flood kin and roommates at the Appalachian Writers Workshops and retreats at Hindman. You and I and Angie Mimms will lie on our beds and laugh like girls at summer camp, lightening the load we each of us carry. Thank you for that ease. Thank you for that understanding.
I love your poetry- lean, spare, and right to the heart of mystery. I want Everyone to read it.
Everyone, this is Patsy Kisner. Her most recent book is Until the Surface Breaks. She has another collection coming out soon and I hope I get to do the cover art.
The year began with nothing but dread and did not disappoint. Each day has brought fresh blows. So much of what I believed about my country and the people in it has been washed away. So many harmed, in danger, belittled and silenced. I have felt hopeless and powerless. In the spring of 2025, my 24 year old daughter suffered a cryptogenic stroke, suddenly unable to feel anything on her entire right side, unable to find words or use them. She and I live alone together. I was able to get her to the ER at 5:30 am on a Monday morning, marking the beginning of many weeks in the hospital followed by months in rehab. She is doing well now, still in recovery, trying to regain what she has lost. Maybe she will. She has come a long way. It has been a challenge keeping my head above water in this constant inundation. Knowing that I am not alone in this does help. It also hurts too.
Reading and writing and making art have been so important this year. My communities have been even more important- my family, friends, the school and church where I work, and my writing community. Lord I am rich in a writing community. Being with them in workshops and retreats, reading their words when I am alone, sharing my words with them for advice- all of this has been a lifeboat for me. This year’s advent calendar is a celebration of them. Each day is a line or two from their work coupled with the ink of the day from the delicious Inkvent calendar I splurged on from Diamine Ink. I make an ornament with these words and hang them on my Advent Tree. I will make a post each day about their work and share where you might find more. I have so many writing friends and acquaintances that I will not be able to highlight them all in one Advent season, which grieves me. All of us are connected through the Hindman Settlement School. It is where we met, where we meet, where we teach each other and share our work. What a blessing.
Advent is my favorite time of year, a time to contemplate the darkness and the returning of the light. It is a hopeful time. Hope is what I need. Gratitude is what I have. Thank you friends for all your work and the light you bring into the world.
This is rich sparkly ink that has many dimensions. They don’t seem to show up in the photos, but it’s both wine red and ocean blue with a golden sparkle.
December 1 Celestial Skies
The terrible stars sometimes fall, but we are asleep in the valley, we are asleep in each other’s arms.
Annie Woodford
These lines are from the poem “Wilkes County Posada” by Annie Woodford. This poem gutted me when I read it last month in her most recent collection “Peasant” published by Pulley Press. It’s an astonishing portrait of what our immigrant neighbors are enduring, people we depend on in so many ways that we are completely ignorant of. People we vilify, imprison and deport without dignity or due process. It is absolutely the perfect beginning to the Advent season. I got the book from her when I saw her at the Appalachian Writers Workshop at Hindman Settlement School this summer. Annie is a poet from North Carolina who is quiet, unassuming and very modest. When you open her books, fierce love leaps off the page and roots you to our earth. I could not put it down. She has an excellent website where you can find out more about her and her work. “Peasant” is my favorite poetry collection of the year so far, and the year is almost over…
The Fox at Dawn 