Alison M. Bailey's Blog
February 16, 2013
Can a Western be High Literature/ Hip?
There's classic Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry ( originally a screenplay). There's Blood Meridian andThe Border Trilogy by the genius Cormac McCarthy. The Last of the Mohicans by James Fenimore Cooper is brought to life on the screen by off-the-charts talented Daniel Day-Lewis. But so often the women and men who traveled the Great American West are forgotten in the art of storytelling.
How about authentic The Oregon Trail: Sketches of Prairie and Rocky-Mountain Life, by Francis Parkman, where in 1848, upon graduation from Yale, he lives with the Oglala Sioux hunting buffalo and telling truth ( reviewed favorably by Herman Melville). And the bone-chilling heroism of the settlers in Dakota Territory is portrayed in O. E. Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth: A Saga of Pioneers. So often I hear, "Oh, I don't read Westerns." I hope this evolves. The landscape alone should send you soaring.
P.S. In a New Yorker, dated April 9, 2012, six pages are devoted to "Wild West Germany." Every summer three hundred thousand people attend a festival in Bad Segeberg honoring the American West and the German author Karl May, who celebrates a noble Apache Indian chief Winnetou and his German immigrant blood brother Old Shatterhand.
How about authentic The Oregon Trail: Sketches of Prairie and Rocky-Mountain Life, by Francis Parkman, where in 1848, upon graduation from Yale, he lives with the Oglala Sioux hunting buffalo and telling truth ( reviewed favorably by Herman Melville). And the bone-chilling heroism of the settlers in Dakota Territory is portrayed in O. E. Rolvaag's Giants in the Earth: A Saga of Pioneers. So often I hear, "Oh, I don't read Westerns." I hope this evolves. The landscape alone should send you soaring.
P.S. In a New Yorker, dated April 9, 2012, six pages are devoted to "Wild West Germany." Every summer three hundred thousand people attend a festival in Bad Segeberg honoring the American West and the German author Karl May, who celebrates a noble Apache Indian chief Winnetou and his German immigrant blood brother Old Shatterhand.
February 12, 2013
Sharing a Poem
Just finished writing and publishing my first novel XP 12 years in the making - placed it on Goodreads - and I was delighted to receive the email today telling of poetry - felt so good to share the simple story of a farmer In Kansas - I'm discovering the marketing aspect of publishing an extraordinary challenge - a full time job and the sweetness of just typing a poem and clicking submit reminded me of the pleasurable act of writing and sharing - no sales involved - I do hope you read it but there are
hundreds so I'd love to simply share the poem with you right now
In Kansas
Before the farmer
killed the hen
he played his fiddle
& she fell fast asleep
her feathers still -
she never knew
He sang to his corn
Built dovecotes from fir & elm
Thought of rain as prayer
To him the soil was
a woman's skin
and he tilled it like
a lover
Each Sunday he placed Lilies of the Valley on his
wife's grave - missed watching her
brush her hair
Often he paused midday
to feel the sun burn his cheeks
Bowed for grace over every meal
The moment of the accident
he was not afraid - his only regret
that he had never learned
to read
The last color he saw was blue sky
His body lay in the field for two days
When they buried him
people swore
they heard music coming from
the grove of cottonwoods
near Buckner Creek - some sort of
lullaby
His sons decided to keep the farm
Surprised the neighbors
as they were city folk
They say the youngest hums
when he
carries the lamb
to slaughter
Alison M. Bailey
hundreds so I'd love to simply share the poem with you right now
In Kansas
Before the farmer
killed the hen
he played his fiddle
& she fell fast asleep
her feathers still -
she never knew
He sang to his corn
Built dovecotes from fir & elm
Thought of rain as prayer
To him the soil was
a woman's skin
and he tilled it like
a lover
Each Sunday he placed Lilies of the Valley on his
wife's grave - missed watching her
brush her hair
Often he paused midday
to feel the sun burn his cheeks
Bowed for grace over every meal
The moment of the accident
he was not afraid - his only regret
that he had never learned
to read
The last color he saw was blue sky
His body lay in the field for two days
When they buried him
people swore
they heard music coming from
the grove of cottonwoods
near Buckner Creek - some sort of
lullaby
His sons decided to keep the farm
Surprised the neighbors
as they were city folk
They say the youngest hums
when he
carries the lamb
to slaughter
Alison M. Bailey
