Sundial

Poems by Rebecca Schenck

Cover price: $8

 

 

This Limited Edition chapbook is part of Main Street Rag's Author's Choice Chapbook Series. An Advance Discount price of $4 will be available through March 28, 2012.

Release date: April 18, 2012.

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About the Author / Recommendation / Samples


Author Bio

 

Rebecca Schenck
Rebecca Schenck is a native of Charlotte and a former president of the Charlotte Writers Club. After earning a bachelor's degree from Queens and a master's from UNC-Charlotte, she taught at both colleges, leaving to devote more time to traveling with her husband Gordon in his business of architectural photography. Her poems have been published in literary journals, and she co-authored a John F. Blair book, Maryland's Historic Restaurants. She edited Mint Museum Antiques Show catalogs and wrote advertising essays for Exclusively Charlotte. Her non-fiction has appeared also in Southern Living and Better Homes & Gardens. The personal essay is her style, and she appreciates the economy and imagery of poetry. She also likes secondhand bookstores and holds dear the relationships formed by those who understand each other through the truth of their writing.

 


Recommending Author's Comment

 

Rebecca Schenck’s poems click like the shutter of a camera, images always in focus. In “This Was So Important,” she watches from a car as her husband turns from a sidewalk pay phone and faces her, “not knowing/she had seen the slight/inward movement of his foot/like the tremble of a chin.” Schenck’s quick wit shines in “Politics”: “Crows are in convention/this Sunday afternoon…./Delegates wet their feet/and cast their vote:/one hundred caws/for some cause.” Her tempered pace, her joy in life’s smallest pleasures, prevail amid a silent sorrow she neither glosses over nor fastens upon: “We look at roots of the Kapok tree/and make no claim” (“Looking for Family in Tampa”). What saves us, the title poem suggests, is attention to the ordinary: “As day moves toward evening,/I am in the kitchen again./Gone is the image on that side,/but a tree trunk is here in the sink.”

--Irene Blair Honeycutt

 


Samples

 

Sundial

 

Morning at my house
sculptures a bentwood chair
on the kitchen floor
and dogwood on the shelf.

On the cold refrigerator door
a warm Soleri bell.
Noon is geometric, triangles
speckled with twigs.

A sharp diagonal strikes the chimney
as though to light a fire.
Then a hearth-bound, one-eyed bird
sees in shadow its scrap-metal self.

Late afternoon,
harbored on a window seat,
rows of magazines and books
summon my attention.

As day moves toward evening,
I am in the kitchen again.
Gone is the image on that side,
but a tree trunk is here in the sink.

 

The Man in the Moon

 

He knew the Milky Way from childhood
but could never find the man
until one night I pointed out
the eyes, the nose, the mouth.
He wished someone had told him
to look for the face instead of the figure.
Lying in the dark,
I trace the features of my husband's face,
touch the corners of his mouth
and find a ready smile.
Midway up from lip to nose,
the imprint of a furnace coil
brings back his bloody words:
"I'm hurt, but it's not bad."
A see-saw scar goes down one brow.
I pinch a well-shaped lobe
and tell him he has perfect ears.

 

Photograph

 

When we were sixty-five and sixty,
we spent our anniversary
taking pictures of the past,
driving down dirt roads with a church
at every end: Free Will Baptist,
Missionary, Piney Grove.

We worked for the railroad when we met
and wanted now to photograph Engine 4501
as it puffed around the mountain.
We looked till dark the night before
to pick the perfect spot and found it
on Summer House Hollow Road,
where a red-trimmed house was guarded
by a pair of lions, a pair of trees.
Next door was a no-name church
without much paint, but it had shape.

The camera would show both train
and church, and we set up across
the tracks that foggy morning to wait.
A chicken crossed the road in silhouette;
a boy in a Batman cape ran from a yard
of zinnias, kudzu, tobacco, dogs.
Sun was kind to the church, and finally
we heard the whistle of a Diesel.
The steam engine couldn't make the grade.


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