Monthly Archives: June 2012


The Theme Lives

Back by popular demand: A Theme.

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July, 2012: Summer

August, 2012: Tomato
(in honor of the Tomato Arts Festival)

JULY 14, 2012 Featured Poet: JAMES C. FLOYD


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Nashville, TN 37206



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JULY 14, 2012 

James C. Floyd is a poet, a screenwriter and storyteller, a founding member of TN Screenwriters, member of Academy American Poets, retired alcohol and drug associate councilor, and he taught creative writing at Nashville ST Community College.

SPECIAL GUEST HOST for Poetry in the Brew for July 14, 2012

Susan McBride

Storytelling has always been a natural part of my red dirt Alabama self.   In grade school teachers asked me to write about my family only they thought the stuff I read to the class was made up.   Truth was my childhood was damn near insufferable.    We were an alcohol, drug, food, and God addicted bunch.   My one preoccupation as a kid was to rewrite my entire life so it resembled something pretty.   In the end the things that haunted me most kept surfacing.   So, the ugly came out in spite of my best efforts.

For several years my work as a mitigation specialist in death penalty cases disciplined me to dig deep and wide.   The result would be a social history where the client would respond, “You know more about my family than I do.”   And it’d be true.  These peoples’ lives were as haunted as my own.   But they found healing in coming to know their story.   Eventually, so did I.

My mentors have been weavers of tales like Minton Sparks, Flannery O’Connor, Edgar Lee Masters, James C. Floyd, Lucinda Williams, Blind Mississippi Morris, a whole family of prevaricators (especially including my cousin, Teresa), Kurdish dengbêjs, Afghan poets, and liars in AA.


Lot’s Wife

My four year old knuckles

are white against the edge of the pew.

Sodom and Gomorrah are burning.

The people cry out under the rain of fire and brimstone.

Lot’s wife is in a stew.

She hears familiar voices in distress

and weighs giving a backward glance.

Lot walks down the hill

from the small towns that are no longer

hidden from an angry deity.

Their worship of other gods

and the itches they dared to scratch

brought down a righteous wrath.

Lot’s wife can bear it no more

and so she turns.

In an instant, crystalline feet slow her to a halt;

her legs, her arms, her sodium chloride core

break her stride.

My mother appears quite calm, bored even.

The pulpit, mere feet away,

vibrates as my daddy’s voice crescendos

to emphasize how dire the matter has become.

The people of Sodom and Gomorrah

wilt under harsh, ancient rules

written in King James’ tongue.

A rule book the size of a Sears and Roebuck catalogue

condemns their lust.

Their carnal fire turns white hot

and vaporizes them all.

And at the edge of the towns

stands a lone, forever stilled figure;

a symbol of mankind’s collective disobedience.

In Sunday School

There is a table covered with wax paper

Shakers of salt in a line.

“Today our story is about Lot’s wife

and what becomes of people

who disobey our heavenly Father,”

my teachers say.

They want us to remember

The fate of the woman who looked back

out of curiosity, perhaps in longing,

over neighbors whose end came so quickly.

What on earth did they do, really?

The salt gets poured into vials

and a solution seals them so they harden quickly.

I carry Lot’s wife out of the classroom in my pocket.

I cannot help the feeling of utter terror that’s come over me.

How far am I from turning into a pillar of salt?

An Alabama rain begins to fall.

Big drops the size of marbles

Splatter against everything.

My pocket soaks up the water.

By the time I reach my mother

Lot’s wife is a wet, crumbly mess.

Checking my pocket my mother’s forehead wrinkles.

“What is this in your pocket?”

“Lots’s wife,” and my tears fall

with the rain.

My mother takes no notice of my distress.

She pulls me to a wastebasket

where my pocket is turned inside out

and hand brushed.

I watch Lot’s wife disappear, sprinkled

over paper towels and chewing gum.

That night I have a recurring dream.

I’m in the very hell my daddy described

that is the place of eternal punishment

for people who will not follow God’s rules.

My daddy spoke of jots, tittles, and iotas.

My four year old self cannot grasp

The nature of those words,

But my sins have brought me here

to this white hot hell

where it is so dark

I can’t see my hand in front of my face.

Flames leap and people cry, but there is no conversation.

The people can only cry out for all eternity.

I call out for my mother

She comes to my room, wringing her hands,

for the umpteenth night in a row.

My heart races and I am covered in hives.

Dr. Kates arrives in the middle of the night

His satchel brings relief.

An injection calms my anxious self

and the hives retreat one more time.

“She is a sensitive child,” I hear him tell my mother.

Dr. Kates packs his magic satchel.

He seems unbothered by the hour of the night;

his potions, pills, and soft ways

dressed in humility.

Meanwhile my mother rocks me to sleep

and an angry God marks time.

Susan McBride – March 2011