Author
Cynthia Parker
Abstract
Southern Styles is a select four poems from a larger collection about rural life in the South and the extreme cultural and socioeconomic contrasts that exist in its people. As a southerner, it is often difficult for me to reconcile these extremes. Exploring these extremes through poetry has helped me to better understand how the beauty of the South co-exists along with the violence and inequalities. I use a sparse poetic form – short lines, few words – so that the important images do not get lost in a flood of language. For me, the socioeconomic and cultural contrasts in the South jar against one another abruptly and this style allows that conflict to be the focus of the poems. I hope that my poems will help readers view the South as if they are seeing a young African-American woman in tribal garb driving a minivan with a confederate flag bumper sticker – full of amazing contrasts that speak volumes, and perhaps not the same story to every person.
Submission
I. Jagged Edge
Emerald-green glass,
broken
from the neck of a bottle,
stained with tobacco juice,
edged in red clay –
This is my South.
White pillars
line the porch where belles
in bell-shaped dresses
sit
to sip mint-y iced
drinks – struggling not to
stain their brow with one drop
of the sweat that runs
like a muddy river down
the broad back
bent
in hard labor.
Breaking rocks, digging rows;
Breaking ground, digging graves.
Spanish moss and cypress knees
Oversee twisted growth.
II. Drowning
Air so heavy it sticks to skin
Like cling wrap as
She peels the sticky
Peaches for dinner.
Hard to tell if
That pesky buzz is
Gnat, fly, or blood-sucker;
Singly sweetly in her ear.
The wood floor creeks
With the step-slide-step
Of a Southern waltz;
She twirls in her apron.
Screen door slams –
Home again; peck on
The cheek. Follow-up with
A slap – laundry’s not done.
Snoring beside her,
Smell of sweat drowns her.
III. Fireflies
Evening slowly wraps
Her dusky cloak
On the day.
As she descends,
Tiny lights rise,
Flashing steadily,
They float skyward.
Children scurry
To capture them,
Peeking through chubby fingers
Before dropping them
Into clear glass jars,
Tiny holes poked
In metal lids to
Let in the night.
IV. Pray for Rain
No rain –
Dusty, red road coughs
Clay clouds with every
Step, coating everything
That gets in the way.
Shoes, jeans, skin, hair –
All with a fine film
Of red powder that
Pleads
For rain –
That runs in red rivers
On the road, cutting
Tracks through the dust
Until it slides to the
Ground becoming a
Red film that clings
To everything
As the ground shifts
And the dusty dwellers
pray – Stop.
About the Author
Cynthia Parker
Hometown, State: Columbia, SC
Academic Year: Senior
Major, Minor: English – writing concentration, Anthropology
Once I obtain my bachelor’s degree, I plan to pursue my Masters in English.
Growing up in the southern U.S., I often find myself intellectually and emotionally at odds as I attempt to reconcile the tensions that occur between the various cultural and socio-economic groups that co-exist in the area. I have always been fascinated by people – how they think, how they act and react, and what influences their belief systems. Living in South Carolina, it only made sense to study the subjects around me. My studies have included reading and analyzing essays, prose, and poetry from other Southern authors and poets, along with exploring Southern life through firsthand experiences and informal interviews with southerners from all walks of life.
I would like to thank Dr. Tara Powell who inspired me, in part through her Southern Writers course, to take my informal southern studies and use them to create a formal exploration of the people, cultures, and natural beauty of the South. I am very grateful to her for taking the time during her leave from the University to review my work and offer her valued advice. I would not have submitted my work without her guidance.
I love the South – with its romanticism and beauty, as well as its grittiness and tenacity. It is this sharp contrast, both symbiotic and in conflict within the same moment, that continues to inspire me.