North Carolina

On December 22, 2014, Shelby Stephenson was appointed the ninth North Carolina poet laureate. Stephenson has authored several poetry collections and taught at both Campbell College and the University of North Carolina at Pembroke. He will serve as poet laureate until 2016.

upcoming events

datesort ascending
Sep 10 2015 to Sep 12 2015
The 10th Annual Carolina Mountains Literary Festival

The festival begins Thursday night with a film about the creation of the US Forest Service. Friday and Saturday almost 30 authors including NC Poet Laureate Shelby Stephenson, Sara Gruen and Wiley Cash will present free readings.

The Friday night banquet with Jay Erskine Leutze and Saturday night's "Conversation With Barbara Kingsolver and Ann Patchett" are ticketed events. Four writing workshops and a nature walk require registration and tickets.  More information is at cmlitfest.org

7:00pm to 10:00pm
6 South Main Street
28714 Burnsville, North Carolina

recent & featured listings

typesort ascending name state
Writing Program The University of North Carolina, Wilmington North Carolina
Writing Program Warren Wilson College North Carolina
Writing Program Davidson College North Carolina
Writing Program Queens University of Charlotte North Carolina
Writing Program The University of North Carolina, Chapel Hill North Carolina
Writing Program The University of North Carolina, Greensboro North Carolina
Landmark Carl Sandburg Home North Carolina
Landmark George Moses Horton’s hometown in Chatham County, NC North Carolina
Conference Writer's Week Symposium North Carolina
Conference North Carolina Writers Network Conferences North Carolina

poems

poem

Fuss, fight, and cutting the huckley-buck—Dear Malindy, 
Underground, must I always return to the country of the dead,

To the coons catting about in the trees, the North Carolina pines 
Chattering about sweetening bodies in their green whirring?

Do these letters predict my
poem
In the moon-fade and the sun’s puppy breath,
  in the crow’s plummeting cry,
in my broken foot and arthritic joints,
                                       memory calls me
to the earth’s opening, the graves dug, again, and again 
I, always I am left
                   to turn away
into a bat’s wing-brush of air
poem
There was no water at my grandfather's
when I was a kid and would go for it
with two zinc buckets. Down the path,
past the cow by the foundation where
the fine people's house was before
they arranged to have it burned down.
To the neighbor's cool well. Would
come back with pails too heavy,
so my mouth pulled out