In Honor of Sharon Wright Mitchell
I wanted to wrap up the month of April and National Poetry Month by honoring a poet and a friend of mine, Sharon Wright Mitchell, who passed away in January of 2023. I unfortunately missed sharing this post on April 30th. I’ve been under the weather. It’s a tough one, especially reading our interview and her goals for her poetry. I really hope one day her poems find their way into her own published collection. She deserves it.
Sharon was a wonderful mother first and foremost. Her daughter, Kerry–such a great kid– well, not so much a kid anymore; I’ll never forget the awe and pride Kerry so vividly expressed for her mother that night we recorded with Kathy Kincer at GSU’s Album 88.5. I had asked Sharon to record her poems for a weekly, poetry-themed radio show called melodically challenged created produced by Kathy. I had written that week’s show, “Bad to the Bone,” with the theme being villains. Sharon had dated a few. This was a theme she was well-acquainted with. She would often text me the details of her villainous dating escapades. But it was her poem, “Rooting for the Wildling,” a Game of Thrones’ inspired poem that hooked me. So many of us have been the Brienne in Sharon’s poem.
Sharon was also a teacher, a lover of nature, and damn fine person. She had a wicked sense of humor and not much of a filter–a combination I thoroughly enjoyed and that played out in her poetry. Last year when Sharon passed away, it was just too raw, too soon to share her poems and our previous interview. Even now while typing this post, it seems unreal. Actually, it was while hunting my flash fiction piece ironically called, “Libra Blues,” that I found a file saved as “Poems for DawnSharon.” My heart sort of plummeted. Libras are always looking for signs. I couldn’t help but notice a play on words here…”shar(e) on.” For me, that’s enough of a sign and so I am sharing her poems once again.
I have heard some experienced poets say you should save the poem that has the most impact for last, but I’d rather people leave with a smile.
–Sharon Wright Michell
The Fire and the Knife
"Abraham took the wood for the sacrifice and put it on his son Isaac’s shoulder…" You came home in a snit, over a wedding you weren’t invited to. You improved a rant on familiar themes. You don’t like them anyway. No one there works harder than you. You’ll be rich as fuck one day. They’ll see. Success will be your revenge. You spiral into a supernova of insecurity and spite, and turn your anger on me, disguised as “advice.” That poem you wrote? I didn’t like it. Nobody reads poetry. You should be writing stories instead. Those groups are a waste of your time. You read too much. I listened, unmoving hands in my lap as you preached, until the tears slipped from my eyes like a weeping icon, and I murmured I wish you could love me for me. You bound my hands behind my back and slit my throat on the altar of your pride. You tore me down to build yourself up and anointed your ego with my blood. "As they walked, Isaac said, ‘Father, you have the fire and the knife, but where is the sheep for the sacrifice?'"
Long-Range Forecast
I gaze
at the rain,
longing
to feel
the curve
of your back,
wanting you
who will never be
the man I hoped,
will never
be stable,
will never
be sober,
will never
be whole,
will never
be happy,
with you,
or with me,
no matter
how much
I love you.
You
are hardened ground
a drought my rain
can never ease.
The Promise
He held out a gift—
a square of wood
sanded and stained
with a heart
outlined in nails.
His hands dwarfed
the heart, as if
filled with emotion
he could not express.
How like him,
I thought, to show
his love with
wood and nails.
"That’s my way
of saying something..."
His way of saying
that my heart
would end up flat
and full of nails,
like that board
in his hands.
Rooting for the Wildling
Like Brienne
I was tall for my age,
serious, different.
I didn’t flirt or giggle
like other girls, or
understand the rites
that turned love
into a game.
Like Brienne,
with pure devotion
I loved a scoundrel
from afar, a rake
with a hand of gold
and a heart of lead—
malleable and
poisoned—
who could not
love me back.
I had only known
love as distance,
only seen strength
as anger and violence.
I mistook safety
for love.
I did not yet know
my own strength,
the future battles
I would face, how
the clang of swords
would haunt and
thrill me.
I was afraid of the
warrior in myself,
afraid of the power
I wielded over my
own happiness,
until finally, chafed
by the chains of safety,
I pledged my sword
to myself, by the old
gods and the new,
and set myself free.
She should have
picked the wildling.
I wanted her to,
wanted her to feel
the love of a man
her equal in strength,
who loved her,
"the big woman"
for what lesser men
could not see.
I wanted her
to go to his tent,
let him ravish her
in a pile of furs,
for her to bear his
warrior wildling
babies, and fight
with him to keep
the North safe.
Perhaps she was
afraid of someone
loving her untamed
wildness, tearing down
her wall with a ruthless,
all-consuming love.
She chose the pretty boy
with the heart of lead
who could not love her,
and cried as he rode away,
whitewashing his name
for history her final
tragic act for love.
I’ll never again sell
my sword for safety,
or grieve the ones who
rode away—but should
a man with a wildling’s
heart, a Husband to Bears
and a Speaker to Gods,
call me to his tent
with a wicked smile,
I will go, unafraid,
and keep him warm
through the long nights.
After Surgery
I lie in bed, so still--
stillness a firebreak
against the red glow
of pain.
My breasts ache,
but they are saved,
my chest a field
of bruises in bloom.
I cannot lift my arms
to dress. You come
to help, detached
as an assistant.
What do you think
as you turn away
from your wife’s
wounds?
I feel contempt
for your weakness.
I bear the pain,
while you can’t even
bear a glance.
This Love
I hate you!
You’re a bitch.
You lied to me.
I’m done here!
A vortex of fury, he drags clothes,
guitars, paints, amps, mic stands,
out on the lawn. Leans canvases
against his van. Throws house keys
to the porch where I’m watching
and storms off into the night.
I finish my cigarette, then smash
his Pantera CD with a hammer.
I throw his pants on top of the heap,
fling his Converse out on the lawn.
The laces make a white trail in the dark.
Later, it rains.
The next day I come home
and he is there, cleaning
and washing his wet clothes.
He organizes my medicine drawer.
Cleans out the trash can.
Steps up into a red chair
so he can reach the ceiling fan.
Carefully wipes each fan blade clean,
then pull chains and hardware.
Washes each ridged globe
and replaces the bulbs.
You know what ROY G BIV stands for?
The colors in the spectrum.
I could paint each blade a different color.
Wouldn’t that be cool?
On Seeing You in Wal-Mart
I know your walk
the back of your head
the way you hold
your phone so well
that I don’t need
to see your face.
Startled, then
amused, I wonder
what you’re doing here.
No need to fear, I think.
If we end up face to face
beside the bread
I’ll laugh and greet you
with the name I used
to dull your blade
of narcissistic rage
and ask, Lord Vader,
if you drive
your girlfriends
by my house
and say you built it
by yourself
landscaped it, too
like you drove me
by some old house
and the girl before.
How is your child
you took from me?
But we don’t meet.
We continue on
our separate tracks
around the store
and I think in
some other world
we have the life
you said you wanted
or maybe
we never met at all
saving me the ache
of your deception.
Q&A with Georgia Poet, Sharon Wright Mitchell
Sharon and I were roomies for two weeks during Reinhardt University’s MFA summer residency in 2019. As part of the program, each student reads in the evening and I was blown away listening to Sharon. Her poems were both accessible and poignant.
Recently, I was writing a radio script for melodically challenged (a poetry-themed radio show that broadcasts from Georgia State University’s Album 88 FM), and I thought about one of Sharon’s poems I heard her read last summer, “Rooting for the Wildling.” Yes! A Game of Throne’s inspired poem! The show is called “Bad to the Bone” and features villains–a topic Sharon often writes about whether due to her choices in men or past love interests, poems forged with equal amounts of humor and melancholy. We’ve all had those bad boys in our lives.
I also got a chance to ask Sharon about her craft and goals, what inspires her, who she gravitates to and more. Whether you are a poet or not, these are thought-provoking responses for all writers.
To hear Sharon Wright Mitchell live, tune into melodically challenged Sunday, March 8th from 8:00-9:00 PM Eastern Standard time on WRAS-ATL (88.5 FM). To listen online, go to Album 88 and select listen. You may also listen via Tunein: Select LOCAL RADIO and choose WRAS-Album 88.
How long have you been writing poetry and when did you realize you were a poet?
The first poems I remember writing were in the 8th grade, and I felt like I had a knack for it, even if I wasn’t sure what I was doing. I still have them, awful as they are! So, I won’t admit exactly how long, but decades.
Is there a common thread or theme, structure, style, or tone you find yourself gravitating to in your poetry?
I like direct, bold expression, especially of difficult emotions. Some of my poems are about tough subjects like cancer and family conflict. I also have a lighter, more humorous voice. Those are the types of poems I prefer to read out loud. I’d rather make people laugh in person. I write mostly free verse but will experiment with form if it suits the subject. I love organic forms that embody the meaning of the poem somehow, from the strictly concrete to the less obvious. One poem I wrote about the nature of mother-daughter love mentions the Fibonacci sequence, so that’s how I spaced the lines. A little inside joke for the observant reader. I am fascinated by water and all its symbolism and metaphors. So yes and no. I am a person with many sides to my personality, so my poetry reflects that.
What makes a poem a success?
If I feel that I have said what I want to say in the best words I can find to say it, then it is successful. After that, it comes down to rhythm and flow. While I value the input and feedback of others, I write ultimately to satisfy myself, and I am a hard taskmaster. My goal with every poem is to express how I see the world, what strange things come together in my mind that give me insight and understanding.
Who are your favorite poets, your tried and true that you go back to for inspiration? Favorite collections?
Sharon Olds is my favorite right now. She has so many “truth-telling” poems that just make you say, “Damn!” at the end. I recently read Night Sky with Exit Wounds by Ocean Vuong, which I loved as a collection. I skim current journals to see what’s out there that I like. My mentor Rosemary Daniell has published several collections I love and has a new one coming out in April. I enjoy Emily Dickinson for her vivid interior world. I am an introvert and feel some kinship with her vision. I fell in love with the Romantics as a teenager and still have my ancient Romantic Poetry and Prose college textbook. I enjoy the wonder the Romantics felt for the natural world even though it isn’t popular now. I’m a promiscuous reader. I love the one I’m with in the moment.
Are all your poems meant to be shared, meaning are there some you keep to yourself or some that you would publish but never read out loud in public?
Ultimately, I intend them to be shared once I get them polished. I do write some drivel now and then, but I revisit older poems regularly to try and shape them up. When I read, I try to choose mostly lighter poems. I feel that when you read a poem in front of a group, you are asking them to take a journey with you, and that journey needs to be worth it. Some poems just don’t lend themselves as well for reading out loud. Even though I am a poet, I have a hard time sitting through pages and pages of cryptic abstraction or ten haiku in a row. I wrote a very long poem, which I like, for a class project, but I’d probably never expect an audience to hang on with me for eight pages. It’s based on sonata form, so there’s a lot of repetition of themes and images.
A few of my poems are difficult to read out loud, such as the ones about breast cancer, but I didn’t write them to keep them to myself. One in eight women will develop breast cancer in their lifetime. In every audience, there will be someone who has it, or someone they love has it or will have it. It is a cancer that has particular emotional complications, and my giving voice to those emotions may help someone who hears me read.
How do you choose the perfect poem to read to the public?
I usually have a tentative list planned based on the expected audience, but once I get to a venue, I might change my mind really just based on intuition or the size and demographics of the audience. I have Google docs on my phone so all my poems are accessible, and I can make last minute changes. As I said earlier, I usually prefer humor over more serious poetry for readings. I have heard some experienced poets say you should save the poem that has the most impact for last, but I’d rather people leave with a smile. If I had to choose just one poem, that would be tough. At most open mics, there’s time to read maybe three poems, so there’s less pressure. I have planned lighter poems and then switched to more serious ones just for practice if there aren’t many people.
What is next for you? Do you make goals for your craft? If so, can you tell us some of them?
I always have goals for everything…so many goals. I have some specific topics I’d like to write about. I’m working on a set of three poems about breast cancer based on photos from Hiroshima after the bombings during WWII. There is a historic area close to my house I’d like to write a series of poems about. It’s an abandoned mill village and was also the site of the Creek territorial border in the late 1700s. It’s very rich in history. I do best on those kinds of projects when I can completely immerse myself in research and writing. Since I’m a teacher, I’m able to do that in the summer.
Some generic craft goals are to work more on deliberate lineation. I think I can improve my line breaks to build more tension. Also, my grad school mentor is having me work on openings and closings. I would like to incorporate more visual art into my poetry. I am always submitting and sending out conference proposals. I could easily write full time or more, but there’s work, school, parenting, and maintaining sanity to be dealt with, too.
About Sharon Mitchell:
Sharon Wright Mitchell is a neurodivergent poet and teacher living in Athens, Georgia. She studied English, comparative literature, and education at the University of Georgia. She contributed to the anthology I AM STRENGTH: True Stories of Everyday Superwomen from Blind Faith Books and has had work published in The Wild Word, Independent Variable, Inquietudes Literary Journal, Blue Collar Review, The American Journal of Poetry, and Dream Pop Journal. She is currently pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing at Reinhardt University. Find her on Instagram: @apoetseyeview