A THIN STRAND OF LIGHTS

A WILD REGION
by Kate Buckley

Editors: Ricki Mandeville, Michael Miller

There is so much stunning language in this collection, so much accuracy and grace, and there are so many images that take my breath away Cecilia Woloch

A ribbon of Appalachia winds through Kate Buckley’s vigorous voice in her debut collection of poems, A Wild Region. It was my pleasure to choose her as the winner of the 2008 James Hearst Poetry Prize for the North American Review, and it is an equal pleasure to welcome this book of poems, crafted from the patterns of speech of the wild region Buckley loves and the wildness of its people, too Molly Peacock

A Wild Region is a family history in verse as well as a lovely elegy for Buckley's grandmother set in a Kentucky that is both pastoral and industrial: 'I have ridden on horseback / under the harvest moon, gold and heavy' vs. 'the coughs that stained your linens black / no matter how many times you bleached them...' The elegies are especially moving: 'her wispy hair, fine as floss / cotton against the pale earth of her skull' and 'I cradle her, cradle her, and rock her home.' Pick up this book. (Buckley won this year's Hearst Poetry Prize.) — Vince Gotera, North American Review


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Ricki Mandeville

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kate Buckley, a ninth-generation Kentuckian, is currently an MFA candidate at Spalding University in Louisville, Kentucky. Her poems have appeared in a variety of journals including: The Bellingham Review, The Cafe Review, New Southerner, The North American Review, Slipstream, and Spillway, and in the anthologies: Tide Pools, an Anthology of Orange County Poetry (Moon Tide Press, 2007) and Verseweavers (Oregon State Poetry Association, 2008). A Pushcart nominee, she is the recipient of numerous poetry awards, including the Gabehart Prize for Imaginative Writing for poetry, and most recently, the 2008 North American Review's James Hearst Poetry Prize, selected by Molly Peacock. A Wild Region is her first book.

From the Book


WHEN WE WERE YOUNG

I was always the darker one,
dusky as a gypsy my Granny said,
with cat-colored eyes,
legs longer than was good for me,
always bruised from climbing trees,

my sister, china eyed,
skin paler than any moon --
smooth as the jazz
our parents played late at night
after we'd gone to bed.

I saw them once
moving slowly into each other
against the pale August night,
his dark hand on her shoulder,
her laughter, the brightest sound
I have ever known
sailing up and over
lighting every candle in the room.