Bull 'Gator's Lament
A Performance Piece Rendered on Screen

What's that man lookin' at, down here in this cypress swamp, so thick with branches that sun barely gets through? He's lookin' at me, Old Bull 'Gator, and I'm lookin' at him. Why don't you come on over for dinner?

Speaking of dinner, you should have seen me grab that turtle from his sunny spot by the water hyacinths. When I broke through to the meat, those tourists thought a rifle shot had gone off. Fish, man, bird, or turtle, I get my dinner.

Sometimes, though, man eats us. He'll come down to this swamp and put a bullet in a 'gator's brain. Those poachers skin the 'gator right out here and cut up the tail meat for Cajun delight. The hide gets made into boots.

The poachers never got me, though. Grown 'gators missed their chance too. I had to be careful when I was young But now, I'm the king of this here swamp.

Springtime is my favorite time of year, when Spanish Moss flutters in the breeze like curtains in an old mansion house. That's when I get to bellowing. 

My bellows echo off the cypress trunks and all through the swamp. Those lady 'gators bellow right back. When one of them judges Old Bull fit, we spin like two demons in a whirlpool.

Pretty soon, she'll be building a nest out of mud and sticks. When the eggs hatch and that fierce old momma 'gator hears those young 'uns grunting, she gently pulls the nest apart and tenderly frees them. That's when she won't want Old Bull around because we've been known to eat our own.

Maybe I'll wander off and watch those fishing boats go past. Perhaps one of them will flip over. Man, fish, bird, or turtle, I get my dinner.

Look over yonder at those little 'gators sunning themselves on their momma's snout. I believe one of them is a baby bull. He will have to grow some before he can be king of my swamp.  

Family - Fictionalized Memoir

One grandma died young. Her story is hearsay for my generation. Every story ever told is true, but that does not mean they are factual.

My mother became her nurse at age twelve. She helped the lady of the house to the porch so she could sew in the sun. Her dad called her their little nurse.

​Mom's older sister read constantly and wrote stories that I have never read. Perhaps they are lost or preserved by another member of the family.

Each morning she packed her daddy's lunch, an unasked question on her lips the day he dropped a pistol into the lunch box.

The miners were on strike. Grandad walked the picket line, wary of company goons. "Don't let anyone in the house. Those company men are tricky."

Another grandma succumbed to madness when her husband abandoned her with all those kids.

The orphanage kindly welcomed Papa. Two maiden aunts later took him in so he could go to high school.

I wonder how much I should let you see through my disguise. Perhaps I will let in just a little more light.
We may have been poor, but we owned land. The garden fed us all summer. Mason jars of beans, tomatoes, and corn got us through most of the winter, supplemented with rabbit and pheasant from Dad's game pouch.

Trips to the store were occasional, for grits, coffee, sugar, and bacon. Mama's hens provided eggs until the zoning commission said they had to go.

Some nights, I slept in my tent. During the day, I read in its shade. My companion was a hound dog, barely grown from a pup. I named her Babe after Paul Bunyan's blue ox

I read every story I could about that legend of a man.

Paul Bunyan's frying pan was so big two lumberjacks skated across its surface with slabs of bacon strapped to their feet. They greased the pan for the dozens of eggs he cooked and ate for breakfast each morning.
When the blue ox Babe stopped for a drink, the Round River ran dry.

Before I left fundamentalism behind, they dunked me in the water:
Three times!
Once for the father!
Once for the son!
Once for the Holy Ghost!
I emerged primarily unchanged.

Late August Collage: A Lyric Essay

Begin with the yellow flowers of a Jerusalem artichoke. Make strands of its essence. They are warp and woof, a framework for your tapestry.

Weave in the golden-brown of coreopsis, the pink of coneflower. Add the red of fireweed, and you have made a start. Weave in the rich brown feather of a wren, dropped near her empty nest.

Eggshells make a nice touch if you can find them.

Hang your tapestry from a hickory branch. Let it ripen with the nuts.

When the time is right, add lichen: the kind known as old man's beard, the ephemeral green vessels called pixie cups, the red-topped British soldiers.

Let it bake in the August sun and steep in the lightning of sudden storms. It will hide its eyes from the pounding rain and soften in the nurturing mists.

Now your tapestry is ready to receive the gentle songs of chickadees and nuthatches. Let the pileated woodpecker drop chips from his drill as he feeds on carpenter ants. A few will stick.

Seek the help of a spider. Her silk will bind the work together. Hang your tapestry on your wall if you must. When spiderlings hatch from its thread, you will understand that it belongs in the woods. This change will happen at the time of day when the buzzing of cicadas gives way to the trills of katydids.

Hang it on your porch. Let the light from Altair and Deneb illuminate its recesses. It will waffle in the breeze of early morning as bats retire to take their daytime rest.

Ask yourself: have I woven this tapestry, or has it woven me?  

A slightly different version of "Late August Collage" appeared in Catalpa Magazine. Downloadable files of this magazine appear here: Catalpa | UTC Scholar | Student Research, Creative Works, and Publications | University of Tennessee at Chattanooga

 Photo - Coke Ovens at Grundy Lake
​by Ray Zimmerman
A few months ago, I started on a feature article about the Friends of South Cumberland State Park and their dedication to supporting the park and its managers. It was rambling and far too long at 1,700 words. The final article is a tribute to State Park Naturalist Mack Prichard, 1939–2021, and his achievement in helping the park to grow. Publication is pending. Here are a few paragraphs I had to cut to streamline the article. 
 
The State of Tennessee established South Cumberland State Park in 1978 with approximately 10,000 acres, already large by state park standards. It has since grown to 30,899 acres, and some sources say it is our largest state park, though one source credits the Cumberland Trail State Park as the largest. Those two are our only state parks with more than 30,000 acres. The Friends of South Cumberland State Park was incorporated in 1993 to assist the park and its managers.
 
In the film Mack Prichard—My Story, Prichard thanks donors for two other parcels of land. 
The Mr. and Mrs. Harry Lee Carter Class II Natural-Scientific State Natural Area is a 931-acre tract donated by the Carters, including caves and waterfalls typical of the Cumberland Plateau's karst topography. Rangers from South Cumberland State Park give occasional tours at Lost Cove Cave, also known as Buggytop [AM1] Cave. This portion of the park is a sensitive area with some rare plants and animals. Carter (Harry Lee) (tn.gov)
 
The University of the South donated the tract now known as the Natural Bridge Class I Scenic-Recreational State Natural Area. This three-acre tract includes a natural sandstone arch spanning a 50-foot-wide opening. Natural Bridge (tn.gov)
 
Denny Cove is another portion of the park, just south of Foster Falls. This natural landmark includes a waterfall, rock climbing opportunities, and rare plants. Further information is available from the Land Trust for Tennessee: Denny Cove (landtrusttn.org). The Southeastern Climbers Coalition assisted in acquiring this acre 380-acre parcel of land.
 
***
 
Multi-Genre Submissions Calendar
 
Here are some publications you may have overlooked, but they are open to all writers and produce a fine product.
 
Number One
Website: Publications | Volunteer State Community College (volstate.edu)
Genre(s): Poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction with an emphasis on sense of place
Notes: Volunteer State Community College faculty produce this journal, not to be confused with their student publication, the Pioneer Pen. They print one issue per year in the fall. They have published my poetry.
Submissions: Materials are due in February to emily.andrews@volstate.edu
 
Catalpa Magazine
Website: https://scholar.utc.edu/catalpa/ 
Genre(s): All
Notes: This magazine is affiliated with the graduate program at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. Copies can be downloaded from their website. Graduate students produce one issue per year in the spring. They have also published my poetry.
Submissions: Contact scholar@utc.edu  for further information
 
Nashville Review
Website: Nashville Review – A Publication of Vanderbilt University
Genre(s): All
Notes: Sample works from the current edition are available on the website. Join their mailing list for alerts about submission deadlines.
Submissions: Accepted through the Submittable platform in January, May, and September
Submit (vanderbilt.edu)
 
Open Mic Opportunity
 
Poetry in the Brew
Website: https://poetryinthebrew.wordpress.com
Notes: Poetry in the brew offers an online open mic via Zoom on the final Saturday of each month. They also have a midmonth in-person open mic at Portman Brewing East in Nashville and poetry pop-up events in surprise locations. Christine Hall hosts the two-hour online event and allows four minutes per poet.

​Unknown Territory
This piece is a response to “The Greatest Nature Essay Ever” by Brian Doyle, published by Orion Magazine and available at: https://orionmagazine.org/article/the-greatest-nature-essay-ever.
Brian Doyle has given us a fine essay on the art of essay writing. After my initial response to the word “greatest” (is he kidding me?), I calmed down and found five paragraphs of genuine, perhaps gently humorous, views on what should happen in a nature essay. First, the essay must get the reader’s attention—not in the sensationalist terms of the news headline, but in a way that takes readers out of themselves and into an unexpected place where they secretly hoped to go.

In her poem “The Speed of Darkness,” Muriel Rukeyser says, “The world is made of stories, not atoms.” She then spins the reader into her world of pain. This is what Doyle proposes the next few paragraphs should do, but in the realm of nature. The beauty unfolds, but a threat to the natural world is unveiled. He then states that the writer should “tiptoe” back to the gently unfolding story without sermonizing or grandiose conclusions. I picture this perfect essay ending with the reader aware of a tapestry of beauty with dark threads of threat interwoven into a cloth of hope.

Some reviewers have said that Doyle’s essay meets its own criteria, that it is in fact “The Greatest Nature Essay Ever.” This makes the piece a “meta-essay,” a work written in the form it describes, much like the “Ars Poetica” of Horace (who, perhaps unexpectedly, founded a school of poetics that took the name of his poem). Though originally written in a poetic form, it is usually translated as prose, and the full text appears on the website of the Poetry Foundation.
Ye who write, make choice of a subject suitable to your abilities; and revolve in your thoughts a considerable time what your strength declines, and what it is able to support. Neither elegance of style, nor a perspicuous disposition, shall desert the man, by whom the subject matter is chosen judiciously. – Horace
 
Doyle’s essay might have led me to the conclusion that I have read very few nature essays. Make no mistake, I have read extensively from the works of naturalists, from Thoreau’s Waldon and Cape Cod to Annie Dillard’s Pulitzer Prize–winning Pilgrim at Tinker Creek and Peter Matthiessen’s National Book Award–winning The Snow Leopard. I had never heard of Brian Doyle before, and this may have led me to my first impression of arrogance. Greatest nature essay ever? From an author of whom I have never heard? Having read the essay, I’ve changed my mind. I like his work, and now want to read more of it.
So, I find Doyle’s comments helpful, but not an exclusive set of criteria for nature essays. The self-aware aspect of the work is interesting. I suppose the phrase “in the flow” might describe its opposite. This phrase is a poor approximation of the ancient Greek term “Kairos,” as opposed to “Chronos,” which is the ordinary time kept by a clock or chronometer. Kairos is sometimes described as “the opportune moment” but can also mean sacred time. It is the time in which hours pass unnoticed. It is the intersection of the divine with the ordinary. My time spent in nature and writing about nature is more Kairos than Chronos. 

Seeing you there, I take comfort in your presence. One standing in the water, safe from predators, as the other flexes wings in a posture of landing, beak agape. I hear the rattling call telling me all is well in the world of cranes, my land of solace. 

I learned of you from Aldo Leopold of Wisconsin, the naturalist I never met. I read his book, A Sand County Almanac, in which he lamented the sadness of marshes that held no cranes. He saw you as a disappearing species, like your cousins the whooping cranes, cut down to just a few hundred. 

You may have visited my childhood Ohio, but I never saw a crane there, not even a photograph. For me, a crane was a machine, an earthmover, or a steely blue-gray bird I would later call a heron, one Audubon calls the "heron crane." 

In later years I saw you in my adopted home of Tennessee, along its mighty river. I saw your winter dance as beaks gaped open, and I heard your call from miles away as you flew over or I approached your cold-weather refuge. I wrote poem after poem of your mystic personas. 

Year after year, the bird alerts tell me you have returned. "The cranes are back"—an annual event, but in the longer view, back from the brink. You fooled old Aldo Leopold and everyone else, abounding in tens of thousands beside the Tennessee, hundreds of thousands along the Platte. 

You always return along rivers, and we hold a festival here, though it will not take place in the years of Covid-19. Last year, I looked out at November fog and pondered anew, "the cranes are back." Festival or no, I will drive to the refuge and seek your presence there, being older now and not knowing if another November will come.

I drove to the refuge several times that winter and cranes were abundant. They came closer with the smaller number of people to view them. I will be back with their annual return this year. 

Matthiessen called cranes The Birds of Heaven, described every species named, called you "The Bird from the East," as you are known in Siberia where some members of your tribe nest, returning across the Bering Strait for winter. 

But you will always be the birds of Tennessee for me. You returned as I knew you would, back from Wisconsin marshes where you appear in pairs to sing, dance, mate, and nest. Welcome home.

***
​
Please visit my website for links to my works published in Appalachian Voice, The Chattanooga Pulse, and the Hellbender Press: Home (rayzimmermanauthor.com)

I also have pages for my color and monochrome photographs, and I archive these newsletter articles in my blog: The Rains Come (rayzimmermanauthor.com)

My newsletter began as a source of online activities during the early days of Covid-19, hence the title RayzReviewz. It became a place for my rambling writings, but I am now attempting to keep the writings short and make room for information of interest to other writers here in the review section. A few current opportunities:

The Southern Festival of Books returns to in-person programming on War Memorial Plaza in Nashville, October 9–10, with virtual programming during the week leading up to the festival. Chattanooga author KB Ballentine will read from her most recent poetry collection at the festival this year. Southern Festival of Books – Humanities Tennessee

Cagibi is currently accepting submissions. The journal is online, but they published a print edition at the end of 2020. My essay, “Postcard from Hiwassee Island,” appeared in the online journal. Cagibi – /kä'jēbē/ ▸n. a literary space. (cagibilit.com)

Nimrod International Journal of Prose and Poetry at the University of Tulsa is now accepting submissions. I have sent them work in the past but none have been accepted. Nimrod – International Journal (utulsa.edu)

Writers/South Awards is a writing competition with prizes in several genres. I have not investigated or entered the contest, but information is available on their website. Writers/South Awards – Charlotte Lit
You may have noticed some changes in my blog and newsletter. I am now working with the exemplary editing support of Red Pen for Rent. Red Pen for Rent – Writer Support Services

 
Could a mockingbird mimic the strains of “Jupiter, the Bringer of Jollity,” or any other section of “The Planets,” that lovely set of tone poems composed by Gustav Holst? Imagine the melancholy tune of “Mars, the Bringer of War” issuing from the throat of a bird. Though such complex mimicry may be beyond birds’ abilities, animals frequently amaze and amuse us with their behavior.
 
Why do these behaviors hold such charm for us? Is it the recognition of our own triumphs and foibles when we look at them? We see ourselves in their behavior and even their anatomy. The bones of a bird’s wing, revealed in the glow of an X-ray, are those of a human hand. The same is true of a whale’s flipper, which moves it through the ocean in tandem with the thrust of its tail.
 
Our assessment of animals is often inaccurate. We gasp when hearing how a captive killer whale, incarcerated for years, bit more than the “feeding hand” and took the life of its keeper. These intelligent beings learn tricks rapidly, but intelligence makes them dangerous captives. For millennia, killer whales have survived in ocean currents, but an escape becomes a “current event.”
 
We forget that they are killers, able to take a seal or a man in a fast attack. Charm ends here, for they have become too much like us. We, too, kill to survive. Whether dining on wild-harvested venison or range-fed beef, we sacrifice other lives on the altar of our continued existence. Even a vegan, consuming only plants, feeds on the lives of other beings.
 
Killer whales, intelligent captives in public displays, are not meant to perform for our amusement, let alone on a regular schedule, not even when that performance includes a narrative intended to generate empathy and respect. We will only make peace with our animal neighbors when we see them in us as we see ourselves in them.
***
Where else would my article on the hellbender, North America’s giant salamander, appear than in the Hellbender Press? I wrote the article after interviewing Dr. Brian Miller, professor and researcher at Middle Tennessee State University. Dr. Miller has been researching hellbenders for 40 years and offered great insights into the lives of these impressive yet reclusive creatures. Hellbender Press - Hellbenders falling off Highland Rim of Tennessee
 
Waxing & Waning, a literary journal, publishes a diverse array of contemporary southern writers. In their own words, the editors “want what’s on the fringe. Whatever is deep and true. The moon represents this idea: what is dark, what is brooding, what is wild, what is crescent and changing.” https://www.waxingandwaning.org     
 
April Gloaming Publishing of Nashville has released Sinew, a collection of poems by Poetry in the Brew participants. This open mic group recently celebrated its tenth anniversary of live open mics at the loft of Portman Brewing East, a Nashville coffee shop. Pandemic panic sent them online, and while the online event continues, live performance at the coffee shop has returned as well. My poem “Green” appears in the anthology, along with work by Chattanooga poet Christian Collier. April Gloaming Publishing – “Amplifying the voices of the unbridled holler.”
April Gloaming Publishing – "Amplifying the voices of the unbridled holler."
 
I just received a copy of Bearshit on the Trail: Essential Poems of Earth First! The 477 pages of poetry appear to be drawn from the poetry column of the Earth First! Journal. There is an ISBN but no identifiable publisher.
 

Speaking of Nature

Years ago, I wrote a small book of poems that took the reader along on my journey from anesthesia to recovery from coronary bypass surgery. I began with terror and ended with hope. I thought it would be a guide for others experiencing the process—and some have called it a perfect description—but it was not well received. Perhaps it was too visceral. I received the comment from several sources that I should stick to nature poetry. Years later, I wrote this essay in response.

Speaking of Nature

Shall I speak to you of nature? I shall, but I must give a warning. Kali, the nature goddess and patroness of Calcutta, personifies the destructive forces of nature. When the typhoon, the earthquake, or the tidal wave strike, she is somewhere close by, adorned with her necklace of human skulls. Some illustrations show Kali with her foot on her husband's chest, his heart in her upraised hand. 

She is indeed the bringer of enlightenment, but her wisdom has a price.


Aerial photographs of an area hit by a typhoon may reveal human bodies awash in an ocean. Some wave hands in the hope of summoning an unlikely rescue. 

Those destructive forces of nature are essential for new growth. When wolves returned to Yellowstone after a long absence, they happily set about killing elk. Trees browsed and in decline recovered, and the forest regained its health. The herds became more vigorous under the predators' watchful eyes.

With the healthy growth of trees, beavers returned and dammed the streams. Rivers slowed down, and marshes grew. Fish populations thrived. Small mammals flourished.

So, nature is not a safe country for discourse, but I have known its beauty and grandeur. I see the beauty of canyons and waterfalls, and I suspect you refer to this beauty when you say nature. I will speak of those things as well.

I recall the rhythmic pulse of waves breaking on the rocky shores of the Florida Keys and the sands of Cape Cod, Assateague, and Edisto. The rhythm is like the pulse of a mother's heart and the waves not far removed from the amniotic ocean where our lives begin.   

The clean smell of the receding tide reminds me of how fresh the world can be, and I forget   the smell of oil and industrial refuse, which persists in some harbors.

The playfulness of otters on the Tennessee River or seals near Cape Cod's shores or dolphins off the coast of Florida fill my memory. I once learned the importance of playfulness from a Right Whale Calf who waved flippers and flukes as I watched from the deck of a boat.

I forget from time to time, but it is a recurring memory. It gives me hope that these creatures continue to recover. The three I saw—mother, calf, and escort—amounted to one percent of the three hundred that made up the worldwide population.

I have read that their population has now grown to 450. Perhaps these magnificent creatures will someday reach the population of thousands they numbered before whaling days. Such hopes provide my reason for speaking of nature.
*** 
 
After writing this essay, I discovered that a much better-known author had published a piece with the same title in Orion Magazine. Robin Wall Kimmerer’s essay is a wonderful exploration of how the words we use influence our thoughts. And those of others. You can read it here:Orion Magazine | Speaking of Nature

See my article on bird migration here
https://appvoices.org/2021/02/26/counting-hawks    

Images in this issue: Great Blue Herons at Chickamauga Dam. 

Rayz Reviewz Volume 2 Number 17
Language Meets Landscape
Postcard from Hiwassee Island
If you come, come in winter. January is best. And bring warm clothing—the hills of southeast Tennessee have cold spells with occasional snow, ice, and frost. Bring a telescope, too, if you have one, or possibly a friend with a telescope.

Past, present, and future intersect in this place, and you will want to see the geography scarred by the passage of time. In the distance, Hiwassee Island is visible, right at the confluence of the Hiwassee and Tennessee Rivers. The island has a long archaeological history going back to the Mississippian Era and earlier.

The ancient people of these lands are believed to be the ancestors of the Creek, Choctaw, Chickasaw, and Seminole tribes, traditional enemies of the Cherokee who departed before the Cherokee passed through. The US Government removed their descendants to Oklahoma, like the Cherokee Removal on the Trail of Tears.

Perhaps as many as two-thirds of those Cherokee travelers passed through here, removed by a growing nation whose ways they had emulated. They had printing presses, log cabins, a constitution, and treaties. They published The Phoenix, the first Native American newspaper, now in its 186th year. Some owned slaves. Their assimilation did not save them.

Like the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington DC, a series of walls at the Cherokee Removal Memorial bears these travelers' names. Replicas of implements common to Cherokee life are also part of the wall, and a small museum in a log structure holds displays that illustrate local wildlife and Cherokee culture.

When the state of Tennessee planted corn on the nearby Hiwassee Wildlife Refuge to attract Canada geese and goose hunters, they may not have foreseen the arrival of cranes, a bird sacred to some tribes. As many as 20,000 sandhill cranes now pass by each winter.

The refuge is a stopover, a staging area for the birds to rest before heading further south. On any given day, you may see as many as 5,000 sandhill cranes and even an endangered whooping crane or two. Only about 600 of the stately whooping cranes remain in the wild today. They are pure white, except for their black-tipped wings, and they stand over five feet tall.

On a foggy day, you may hear the rattling call of the sandhill cranes and imagine thousands passing through. The mystic call of a whooping crane may set you to imagining an ancient village on Hiwassee Island or a line of Cherokee people boarding boats for a long trip westward. The great Wisconsin naturalist Aldo Leopold said he could imagine the Pleistocene when he heard the call of cranes.

Lately, pelicans have begun overwintering here—the large white ones, not the smaller brown ones. I’ve seen as many as 300! They always passed close by en route to Yellowstone in the spring and the Gulf Coast in the fall, but warmer winters now encourage them to stay.
 
Wear boots, for the grandeur of the area is offset by muddy trails.

Notes

A slightly different version of "Postcard from Hiwassee Island" appeared in the online journal Cagibi: A Literary Space. They publish one short essay per issue in the Postcard section. It's a great read. They seem to be open to submissions from new writers. For guidelines, see cagibilit.com.

To read some of my freelance journalism, check out my articles in Hellbender Press, a Foundation for Global Sustainability publication (sustainably.org).

I composed the following poem in October 2013 at the Scarritt Bennett Center in Nashville. While I attended the Southern Festival of Books, I stayed at the conference center and walked their labyrinth several times. I combined the poem with one of my photographs and published the work as an 11x17 broadside with design by Terrance Chouinard of the Wing and the Wheel press and printing by Wonder Press of Chattanooga.
 
Walking the Labyrinth
 
The path of the soul is not linear.
It spirals like the turns of this maze,
outlined with bricks on sides.
Like time, it circles back
passes by starting points.
 
I turn left one hundred eighty degrees,
not exactly the way I came, this path
to the center, where there is no Minotaur.
My dragons are all in my heart,
slain or otherwise.
 
The first wall outlines a square
which no paths cross.
Is this square sacred ground,
reserved for shaman, priestess,
and holy man?
 
If I stepped inside, where
no tracks appear, would I
transport to another place or time,
reappear burned to ash                                                      
by sacred geometry?
 
A friend asked a transit driver
in Nashville's less sacred geometry,
Is this my stop? Her simple reply:
"Either sit back down or get off the bus."
​

A Chattanooga Lookout
 
The Lookouts got their first shot at fame;
A New York Yankees Exhibition game.
 
They signed Jackie Mitchell, a publicity stunt,
but she pitched like a pro, not some sorry runt.
 
The starter gave up a hit and a double.
They sent Jackie in to heal this trouble.
 
She struck out Babe Ruth, third up to bat.
She struck out Lou Gehrig; imagine that.
 
Lazzeri, she walked, put a third man on base.
The manager pulled her just to save face.
 
The commissioner said that she had to go.
Should women play baseball? He just said no.
 
But Jackie achieved House of David fame.
That barnstorming team won many a game.
 
The men all wore beards and long hair to boot.
She donned a fake beard, thought it was a hoot.
 
She wasn’t afraid of a publicity stunt,
but she pitched like a pro, not some sorry runt.