Poetry of the People with Al Black featuring Frances J. Pearce

This week's Poet of the People is Frances J. Pearce. I first met Frances over a decade ago in the low country, where she is a respected fixture of the literary community. I've heard her read at literary events and admired her steady hand when she served as the President of the Poetry Society of South Carolina. Her poetry speaks of family and friends as she observes the passing of days casting her luster on our community of poets.

Mount Pleasant resident Frances J. Pearce is a poet, essayist, and fiction writer whose work has appeared in Archive: South Carolina Poetry Since 2005 (Ninety-Six Press), The Fourth RiverNorth Carolina Literary ReviewKakalakFall LinesI Am a Furious Wish: Anthology of Lowcountry Poets (Free Verse Press), and elsewhere. Her poetry chapbook Those Carolina Parakeets Once Far from Extinct was published by Finishing Line Press. She is a past president of the Poetry Society of South Carolina. 

Yorkshire Pilgrimage 

On a drizzly August afternoon, Marion, Jo,

Katherine, and I traveled on foot up the perilous

hillside path to find her resting place—not

 

amongst ancient graves surrounding the church,

but in the walled section beyond the gate, behind

Dunleavy, beside the Drapers. All lined up like patients

 

in a ward. Black letters on gray granite. Full name.

Dates. A line of verse: Even amidst the fierce flames

the lotus can be planted. A tangle of weeds. Blades

 

of bright green grass. A lantern leaning against Sylvia’s

headstone, an unfilled basket resting on the mound.

Later, jackets drooping, skin wet, we four pilgrims

 

filed down the High Street of Heptenstall, passing by

the wafting aroma of mutton pie. The others cut through

occupied pastures and returned to our borrowed rooms

 

in Ted’s hillside house, a mile from where he buried you.

Alone, I entered a pub, empty except for the German

Shepherd, sporting a red collar, seated next to a window.

Night Sounds in a Neighborhood along the Wando River

  

Sometimes palmetto fronds

rustling. Sometimes a foghorn

 

cautioning an approaching ship.

Sometimes the buzz of mosquitoes

 

out for blood. Sometimes a deafening

boom as lightning ruptures

 

a loblolly pine. Sometimes the call of

barred owl in pursuit of wharf rats.

 

Sometimes a shipping container

plummeting to ground at the nearby port.

 

Sometimes the swish of a car traveling

across wet pavement. Sometimes the

 

explosion of a transformer. Sometimes

the scream of the vixen calling her mate.

 

Often the neighbors’ various dogs

barking. One time, a sudden screech

 

when your speeding truck missed the

curve. Tonight, the floofy cat pretending

 

I’m her kitten, purring into my ear,

It’s all right. Everything’s all right.