The Magic of Words That Matter
What’s it like growing up in the house of a poet? I’ll tell ya.’ Read on for the poetry and story of poet, writer, and matriarch, Kay B. Day.
As we close out National Poetry Month, I have a very special piece for you. It’s a very personal one. Today, I’m sharing the poetry of my mother, Kay Day, with you. I’m also sharing some of her professional story. May her story and words inspire you as much as they’ve inspired me over the years.
P.S. I’ve got a special treat for you below, where you can listen to a live reading of her sonnet poem, “Church for Hire on San Jose.”
Words Matter
It was wonderful growing up in the house of a serious poet. Not one of these new-age ivory tower types that declares, “everyone is a poet and everything is poetry.” But one who worked at her craft day in and day out, was hardly ever without pencil in hand, and knew how powerful words could be because she was in the business of writing them. From a very young age, while observing her late nights and early mornings on deadline, trying my four-year-old best to be a darn good office assistant, and asking her plenty of questions about the written word whenever I could, I learned something indispensable to human nature. Language, the English language in particular, is man’s most powerful tool for building civilization, building relationships, building life, and building yourself.
In other words, I’m very glad I grew up in a house where words and how you string them together were (and still are) taken as seriously as a profession on a par with pursuing a medical or law degree.
Words matter. Among many, many other things, that’s an important principle my mother taught me. And it’s an important principle she will always exemplify.
The Magic of It All
Some of my fondest memories from childhood are of me accompanying her to literary events. She had book signings, speaking engagements, and poetry readings. Each time I attended I couldn’t help but get caught up in the magic of it all. A group of people coming together for the love of words and the comfort they bring, the courage they instill, and the lessons they contain. As I got older, and attended poetry readings and events my mother wasn’t in charge of, I noticed a good bit of that magic was missing. That’s when I realized words themselves aren’t magic. It takes a keen, devoted magician to leave you bewitched. And that’s what she always brought and will always bring to that proverbial literary table. Magic. I’ve yet to meet another poet who can recreate their poetry as well as she has done so many times in a live setting.
My sister and I grew up in a house where poems and stories and books act as antidotes, great teachers, and entertaining friends. At the dinner table, the great Seamus Haney and Beowulf was a conversation piece that wasn’t just a one-off. We talked sonnets, Dickinson, the great male poets of the early 20th century who were equal parts daredevil and nurturing salve. Politics, history, fine art, nothing was off the table (pardon the pun).
Six-year-old me got very excited when my friends started talking about how much they loved Donatello, Raphael, and Michaelangelo. I was left scratching my head when I found out these are also the names of supposed mutated, crime-fighting turtles, not just great Renaissance artists.
The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle movies still make me laugh today because of that schoolyard faux pas (this faux pas has happened more than once. My husband can attest to that).
A Testament to Writing Diversity
My mother grew up with humble beginnings. A (proudly) self-proclaimed “mill village kid,” she spent her days playing baseball barefoot, eating “mayonnaise and onion sandwiches” (I still haven’t quite figured out how that qualifies as a sandwich), and getting constantly lost in stories due to her insatiable appetite for books.
In college, she studied under poet and screenplay writer James Dickey, and novelist Tim Gautreaux, at the University of South Carolina. She then made a name for herself in the writing world when women were still using initials for their bylines so readers didn’t know the writer they were reading was indeed female (this went on far longer into the 20th century than you might think).
She channeled her inner-Thoreau and spent many of her early freelance writing days in the woods. But she wasn’t waxing poetic at Walden Pond. She was in the Carolina swamps with the Wildlife Department working to save the Peregrine Falcon from being an endangered species.
The awards she’s won over the years are a testament to her writing diversity. Two she remains most proud of are a medical journalism award she received early on in her career, and she won the Carrie Allen McCray award for poetry. She also won multiple awards with the American Pen Women association.
She read at the Library of Congress in Washington, D.C. for a “Florida Poets Arrive” event she organized. When I asked her about her accomplishments, this was one of the first she listed saying, “That was a defining moment for me.”
And proving that miracles really do happen, during these hard times when people rarely get excited about poetry, much less read it, her early 2000s book release, A Poetry Break, was a big hit. It was embraced by readers and poets alike. And it launched a book tour (the Poetry Break book tour is one in particular I look back on fondly).
A Poetry Break won the Florida Writers Association Poetry Book of the Year Award in 2004. When the book debuted at the Amelia Island Book Festival, it sold out. I will repeat this because it is just oh so good… A poetry book sold out at a book festival.
Years after graduating college, when she attended the Southeastern Booksellers Association convention to sign books, her table was positioned next to Tim Gautreaux, one of her favorite former professors at South Carolina who taught her the ways of words before she officially embarked on her professional career. The two were delighted to be stall mates. As they traded stories, the gravity of the moment set in. A once dedicated professor and budding poet were now literary equals. That should be the natural progression of higher education. Sadly, today, this type of full circle moment is rare, which makes this memory all the more special.
She was the first poet to speak at the annual gathering of the Pulpwood Queens in Texas, the group that launched Good Morning America’s book club.
She also accepted memberships to the American Society of Journalists and Authors and The Authors Guild.
She was also always a big hit at the academic arts school I attended, Douglas Anderson School of the Arts, when she made time to speak to creative writing students for special events the school hosted. There was never an empty seat in the room.
An Artist’s Work is Never Done
While working on this article, I called my mom to get a list of her proudest career accomplishments. She rambled off a few things, but for the most part drew a blank. She then rummaged around and found a notebook she told me that my dad had actually started that lists her accolades. As she rattled off awards, events, and honors she laughed and said, “I forgot I did all this.” She followed that up with, “You really don’t need to put all this in there.”
It’s hard for her to remember the awards she’s won, but she can recite the sonnet she wrote for my dad, “The Length of Us,” without missing a beat. As we set up to record her poem “Church for Hire on San Jose,” included below, when I asked her for a soundcheck she flawlessly went into Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s “How Do I Love Thee?” monologue style.
In true artistic fashion, for Kay Day, the honor is in the work. And it’s her life’s work. And like a mother’s work, an artist’s work is never done.
From the magic she’s brought to so many poetry readings to her expert ability to render groupings of words sacred by skillfully maneuvering form, rhyme scheme, stresses, and syllables, I know I am not alone when I end this particularly personal piece by declaring:
I am so happy poets don’t have retirement dates.
To check out Kay Day’s latest work, receive updates, and be the first to know when that new collection of poetry will be debuting (hint, hint, Mama), visit her Patreon at UnderCovered.
And now, with much gratitude for allowing me to share some of her wonderful poetry with you, I present to you a short collection below of poems by Kay B. Day.
Which one is your favorite from the bunch? Let me know in the comments. And as always, thank you kindly for reading!
“Church for Hire on San Jose,” a reading by Kay B. Day
*If you read the poems below on a mobile device, formatting such as line breaks may appear different than original
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Rounding Grendel
Grendel inspired fear, but his own slaughter
spawned immortality and the wrath of his mother
who stormed from the lair, her gut bloated
With a fine Dane. Revenge flattened, this death
comforted—a victory in a long line renewing
since Cain. One always wants another of its kind
As she must have, spreading her epic
pheromones, retracting claws, spewing fumes
through a ruined wood, then a colossal slam
Of bodies to make an oval within the water hag
in a hole disturbing the lake bottom.
Her newborn pierced the water
Entered the sludge to brood,
to listen with skin.
(Kay B. Day/First publication at Poetry Super Highway)______________________________
In the Company of Sisters
At first I didn’t want to be like Eve.
Despite her borrowed bone, she took
all blame for what went wrong at home. Her name
reviled, she pined, then learned to cook and weave.
She persevered, yet could not believe
the price one bite commanded, costing the same
as gluttony. She stood strong, no lame
excuses offered. She never thought to leave.
Now there was wool to spin and grain to grind,
babies to attend and a tent to keep.
While all the garden mourned, she paid no mind.
As mothers must, we find our peace in sleep.
After years of garden tending, we’re inclined
to bite down hard. We know we’re in waist-deep.
(Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break; 2004)______________________________
Monologue by a River
Think a kind of suffocation, slow
but never lethal, done by ordinary men
with tools like rubber and concrete. Swallow
discarded tires, or chew on a plastic bin.
Ponder why no fish worth eating can swim
in my belly. The dark old man who used
to sit on my shoulders never comes. My rhythm
has lost its zest. All my limbs are fused
to patchwork dirt, with bony trees and stone gates.
So I did what was just. Bless the thunderous boil
that wind and light assisted, that no man could abate.
I spilled myself. I sucked the air from all the soil.
A river keeps her promise, unlike man.
What I did before I will do again.
(Kay B. Day/First publication Passing the Ohio Graduation Test, Englefield and Arnold)______________________________
Study of the Virgin in Polychrome
Mary, one arm missing, observes
with patience acquired by four centuries
of waiting. Her eyes rule as saints
look on from panels of dark oiled wood.
This building of glass and brick pales,
even the folds of her robe precisely cut
readily agree to motion—perfection
from the artisan who crafted scripture into wood.
Mary, to you I whisper a certainty:
He loved you as he labored
over features that burn into your subjects,
then simmer long after they have departed.
The loss of your arm invites theories—Vandals
intent on subjection, or an act
of nature eager to reclaim what once was part
of her own domain. Perhaps you offered
It to someone without a limb,
severing it yourself at the elbow.
I know self-mutilation hurts
far less than losing a son.
(Kay B. Day/A Poetry Break; 2004.)
So beautiful! Thank you for sharing. ❤️