Writing professor Katharyn Howd Machan’s poem “Tess Clarion: Redwing, 1888” has been awarded two prizes in the Books on the Bosque (Clifton, TX) writing contest.

By Debbi DeWeese, November 30, 2023

Writing professor Katharyn Howd Machan’s poem “Tess Clarion: Redwing, 1888” has been awarded two prizes in the Books on the Bosque (Clifton, TX) writing contest.

http://Writing professor Katharyn Howd Machan’s poem “Tess Clarion: Redwing, 1888” has been awarded two prizes in the Books on the Bosque (Clifton, TX) writing contest: the first prize in the poetry category ($300) and the Jones Best of the West Award ($1,000) as top winner out of all categories. Very unusually, contestants are allowed to submit previously published work and can submit only one piece of writing. Dr. Machan’s poem is part of her Cayuga Lake Books collection, Secret Music: Voices from Redwing, 1888.

http://Tess Clarion: Redwing, 1888

I might have found a house, a home, even a barn or weathered shed

with open door to welcome me

in full-cut frock, my belly huge

and ready. Too many miles alone—

what choice had I?—the horse fatigued,

the flivver jolting this way, that,

and suddenly a tiny inner

kick that loosed birth’s waters warm

and certain. She was my second; I knew

the clench and pull. No time to hunt

for bed or rush-strewn floor: I clambered

down to roadside pasture, hoping

for a level place of moss and grass,

my petticoats for rags. How long

I pushed—the swells of breathlessness

and breath—who knows? A cloud-whorled sky

and patient grazing horse in harness

the only witnesses to blood

and cord and sharp beginning cry

as tiny dark-haired daughter met

the light and rose to breast in my

glad hands. We lay in summer’s lap

adrowse, sun shifting gloom to gleam,

sweet clover at my elbow, pain

a shared commitment, bodies’ bond.

I think a redwing called, I think

the nearby stream sang both our names—

but memory’s a trickster when

a woman’s merged with God and given l

ove the shape of life. I knew

my husband still awaited me

the next town over, anxious for

my help, his hip so badly bruised

he could not walk nor ride; but I

let time take her and me along

in goldswept journey lying there,

breeze like softest feathers astir,

our foreheads’ sweat a halo. Angel

I mused, her mouth my mouth, her hands

such small curved stars. We’ll always share

deep summer’s voice, and wings to soar

through air.