I was unknown in the poetry world, but the poem came quickly. So did the prize I won. The journey to the reading at the statewide awards ceremony, held in Nashville, was like a trip through fire.
I wrote the poem which cemented my nature poet persona near a small waterfall from which I drew the title, “Glen Falls Trail.”.
Years later, I sit by the waterfall, and the light shines through the translucent leaves as Glen Falls murmurs in the distance. The forest floor has become a carpet in red, gold, and brown.
I call Glen Falls diminutive because I live in a land of waterfalls. Lookout Mountain stretches above my Chattanooga home, 90 miles across the corners of three states. I have visited and photographed these grand falls in autumn and winter when the flow is small and in spring when they become raging cataracts. Glen Falls is a gentle stream like others found throughout the East Tennessee mountains and ridges. Our region has a few thundering waterfalls and many smaller ones, the likes of Glen Falls.
When I wrote the poem, right here at Glen Falls, the buds were giving way to leaves. The birds were still winter residents, awaiting the arrival of warblers, a living river flowing through our forests in spring and fall. Spring wildflowers were about to bloom and instill hope in the heart.
The poem, “Glen Falls Trail,” began with the stream’s murmur over the falls and graffiti, “George Loves Lisa,” painted on a rock at the bluff above the falls. The poem ends with the lines:
“I never knew this George or Lisa.
The rock bears their names in silence,
names the stream forgot years ago.”
The poem ended there, but not the story. I submitted the poem to a writing contest sponsored by the Tennessee Writers Alliance and later learned I had won second place. I was invited to read the poem at an awards ceremony at the Southern Festival of Books that October, to take place on Legislative Plaza, 100 miles away in Nashville, the state capital.
As summer progressed, I rehearsed the poem a few times and noticed I had less energy than before. Though only fifty-four years old, I thought my reduced power resulted from aging. Meanwhile, I had taken a job that proved to be more physically demanding, and I noticed myself sleeping more hours each night.
I thought my body was adjusting to the demands of the job. Still, my doctor performed a stress test in September and sent me to a cardiologist. The specialist performed an angiogram and declared that I would undergo Cardiac Bypass Surgery the following day.
I objected. It was a Thursday, and my awards ceremony was on a Saturday, just two weeks away. More than that, I had been relatively healthy all my life, and I could not adjust to the idea that I was not well. From the exaltation of my successful poem, I was at a turning point to despair, thinking I might die during surgery or become disabled.
The surgery took place on a Friday morning. I remembered the room was cold, and the nurses put some rock music on a sound system.
Then, I was out. Friday night and early Saturday, I was in and out of consciousness like a failing fluorescent light on a marquee, the type which flickers to life, burns brightly for a while, and fades with a buzzing sound.
I saw dark visions of financial ruin and a lifetime of disability. Death appeared as a woman in a dark shroud and again in gothic clothing, dancing.
I was in a private room by Saturday night, where I would remain for six more days. The questions buzzed in my mind. After the insurance payments, how much will I owe? Will I be able to go back to work? Six weeks off? I will be bankrupt and homeless.
Then I rested at a friend’s house for three days before returning to my apartment. At home, I kept everything within reach, not reaching over my head, and ate a healthier diet, but one which I consumed voraciously.
The finances were resolved, and I eventually returned to work.
My neighbor spoke to me and agreed to drive me to Nashville for the awards ceremony, a promise she immediately regretted. She was sure I would die on the trip, but when Saturday arrived, we departed for Nashville with her friend driving his Mustang.
I slept most of the way, full of pain medicine and the stress of a healing body.
At Legislative Plaza, the sun was bright, and the crowd roared past. It was my first visit to an urban area since the surgery, and I was in a separate world. Still, the canopy under which the ceremony would take place was easy to find.
Surprisingly, the awards ceremony was one of several simultaneous programs on the plaza and surrounding buildings. I had thought it would be the only event. I pictured a large audience. I picked up a copy of the program for the festival and noticed that a friend had a poetry reading the previous day. Too bad I missed it.
I greeted the mistress of ceremonies, my poem in one hand and a heart-shaped pillow in the other. The pillow was decorated with a lovely color schematic of a human heart. I explained the pillow’s importance in helping me clear my lungs, speaking to her bemused countenance.
Fortunately, the emcee explained my journey to arrive at the ceremony before I stepped to the microphone. Though I did not bob and weave like an owlet, I was somewhat unsteady on my feet as I read what was, in fact, an early draft of the poem and not a copy of the submitted manuscript. According to my neighbor, I accelerated and slowed the pace of my reading randomly. I finished to the reluctant applause of an audience of strangers. We returned to Chattanooga, and my neighbor was amazed that I did not die on the trip. I spent more and more time on the porch, listening to the sweet sounds of chickadees and titmice. I wrote very little, but the inspiration from Glen Falls and my survival of the trip to Nashville convinced me to continue as a poet.