Poetry Reading and Publication Celebration in Luther Bean Museum (11-20-07)
Adams State College Chair of English, Theater, Communication and Languages, Dr. Carol Guerrero-Murphy will read from her recently released book of poems, "Table Walking at Nighthawk," at 7 p.m. Tuesday, Dec. 4 in the Luther Bean Museum.
"Table Walking at Nighthawk," was published by Ghost Road Press. According to their website, ghostroadpress.com, "Carol Darnell Guerrero-Murphy's poetry pulls the threads of literature and memory into an intricate and thoughtful collection that looks both forward and back into an extraordinary mind."
"...a compellingly complex and lyrical world infused by ancestral, mythic, and dearly familial voices that weave together the literary and the intimate." -Kathryn Winograd
Also reading will be Kathy Park Woolbert and Erin Lewis, seniors in the Adams State College Creative Writing Program.
"Table Walking at Nighthawk" is available through local bookstores and on the web at ghostroadpress.com
The evening is free and the public is invited. Refreshments will be served.
Below is a "Table Walking at Nighthawk" poem:
Limits of Memory, Anchorage, December 1969
He waved me over to the side of the road behind his car. This was Alaska before many of us knew to be careful so I pulled over and rolled down my window. In no time he sat in the driver's seat, a gun at my head, my head pinned to his lap. He wanted some money, which I didn't have. He couldn't figure out how to get back out of my car and into his car. So we drove. My head wedged under the steering wheel I promised him many things. I noticed oily bits of potato chips. I noticed glacier gravel on the floor mat by his big boots and thought, "I should vacuum."
The long night wore on. He let me up. I saw the mountains as if they weren't really there. We discussed how to return him to his car but at our first pass by the cops were looking it over. He got out the second time around.
I arrived home late, shaky, dry-mouthed; told my parents. I couldn't remember anything my parents might believe, not the color of his hair or the shape of his eyes, not the make of his car. Only the smell of his breath and the damp weight of his hands. My father phoned around to discover if any criminals or madmen had escaped. They decided to let it drop. It's Christmas, my father said, maybe he is worried about not having money for presents, maybe he has children waiting at home.
