Poetry Reading September 24 !

Runyon will read from her recent book of poems, Where Is Our Prague Spring?, at St. David’s Episcopal Church in Cullowhee, NC on Sunday, September 24. The heart of this book, written during Black Lives Matter events, puts forward a history of progressivism in Appalachia.  It challenges the common stereotype of the region as backwards and racist and presents an alternative view of both past and present without whitewashing either. The reading will be followed by a discussion of “Love, Race, and Hate in Appalachia.”  Scroll all the way down for a sample poem.

Louise Morgan Runyon Poetry Reading

“Love, Race, and Hate in Appalachia"

St. David's Episcopal Church

Sunday, September 24, 5:30 p.m.

385 Forest Hills Rd, Cullowhee, NC 28723

(on the Western Carolina University campus)

There is also a "Sunday Soup Supper" at the church at 5 p.m. before the reading, to which the community is invited.  

Ordering Information

Where Is Our Prague Spring?:  $20 + $4 shipping

To order, go to http://louiserunyonperformance.com/ and click on "Order Books" on the menu at the left.  You must click directly on the words "order books."

Says poet Catherine Carter of Western Carolina University, “…Runyon interrogates the place and her family’s long history there to illuminate a complicated tradition of Appalachian progressivism dating both back to and forward from the Trail of Tears.  These thoughtful poems evoke an Appalachia that few outsiders know: simultaneously progressive and conservative, woven into the wider world in unexpected ways, and rooted deeply in the labor and vision of women.”  

Kami Ahrens of Foxfire Museum notes, “Runyon's manner of writing engages the reader in conversations about contemporary themes that reflect stories of the past while providing lessons for the future.  A must-read for any lover of Appalachian literature.”

Sample Poem

Cherokee-Scottish Festival

 at the Cherokee-Scottish Festival in Franklin, North Carolina

not far from the “Qualla Boundary,” which is still home

to the Cherokee who escaped

the Trail of Tears

 

my cousin and I stand

at the table of Cherokee artisans

viewing the exquisite two-color baskets

the sleek carved panthers and bears

the roughly chiseled stone

 

from the crowd at the table an elderly white gentleman

in a crisp red tartan kilt with all the trimmings

turns out of nowhere to say to my cousin and me:

 

in Sylva, they are trying to tear down

the Confederate monument, of all things

 

and he proceeds to say this bad thing about the Blacks

and that bad thing about the Blacks –

 

            they should tear it down!

I interrupt, throwing caution to the winds

who does he think we are, my cousin and me – tourists?

 

the racists here love to talk

about being in these mountains eight generations –

that’s as long as any white man could be

 

our own family has been here for eight generations

we marched to tear down the statue in Sylva, for lord’s sake –

we weren’t raised to be racist

 

my ancestor, among the first Europeans in Franklin

     deeded land to a Cherokee chief

          to save him and his family

     from the Trail of Tears

 

     but we are not innocent –

            this same ancestor owned slaves

 

has promotion of Scottish heritage

become codeword for white supremacy?

my cousin and I go and listen to the bagpipes

before leaving the festival

 

I love the bagpipes

they remind me of my Scottish ancestry, McIntosh

the bagpipe band played traditional tunes

including “Amazing Grace”

 

do those tartan-clad players know

that song was written by a former slave ship captain

who became an abolitionist?

 

the week after the festival the Franklin newspaper

featured a centerfold spread of the “Cherokee/Scottish” event

full color photos of all the tartans and kilts

not one photo of a Cherokee artisan

****

later I go to get my car inspected

at an auto repair shop I’d heard about

owned by a family of old-time musicians –

good people, I’m told

 

I’m curious – are these the kind of people

I grew up knowing here – heart-solid

kind, honest-as-the-day-is-long

mountain folk?

 

the young brothers working there are all pale-skinned

with ginger hair and reddish beards

they are incredibly nice, fast and cheap

 

when I enter the gas station cafè to pay

there is no sign of music or old-time musicians

just a poster for a Christian singer

who will appear soon in Franklin

 

the patrons, all older white men

look suspiciously at me in my pink mask

“not from around here”

          they must be thinking