At Winthrop, Cannon studied poetry with Susan Ludvigson.
Geraldine Cannon met Joseph Becker, her husband, while she was a student
at Winthrop.
In August of 1998, Cannon graduated from the University of
Arkansas, in Fayetteville, with an M.F.A. in Creative Writing--Poetry.
Cannon has won three awards for her poetry: the John Ciardi Award, the
Kenneth Patchen Award, and the Raymond L. Barnes Award for Excellence in
Poetry. Cannon has been published by journals such as: Nebo: A Literary
Journal, and Riverwind. She currently teaches composition classes for Northwest Arkansas Community College.
Geraldine Cannon has two beautiful daughters: Jessica and Joanna.
Three Poems
Sound Sense
His hoe scraped against hard dirt as I finished the sentence and turned a page. I thought Daddy wanted me to feel guilty for not helping him with his work, so I did, continuing to read. He leaned the hoe against my open window, with a thudthat made my window rattle. I looked out at the garden as if I expected him to be there forever, standing like the corn, tall and green. He kicked against the porch steps loosening dirt that would be there and on the floor inside for Mama to sweep up before dark. I had to read--ignore the distractions. I wanted to learn. He came toward my room, and stopped at the door. Words couldn't matter. I knew he was leaning there in the hall, like the hoe outside my window. He knew I'd been reading, but he stood there--always, expecting more.
Red Shoes in the Appalachian Mountains It didn't matter that Mama's hands were tired from working at her sewing machine all day, from peeling potatoes into a pot on the wood stove for our supper, from the countless daily chores. Friday night she would tie on our shoes and clap her hands for us to dance. She would sing songs handed down or make up things to help us find new clogging rhythms. "God bless us all," Mama said, "if dancing is the sin our new, young preacher makes it out to be." At night, I prayed for shoes that wouldn't hurt my toes, new red ones as shiny as my old black ones had been. I dreamed of pearly gates swinging open, a music playing with a rhythm I could understand, me and my whole family all white robed dancing in, my feet a bright red blur beneath a brand new hem.
The Residue of Waves He holds a seashell to his ear, of course, he says he hears the ocean; sees gulls winding on the air; hollowed sand angels above the creeping tide. I think of the sun rising on us alone. We walked in darkness first to greet the beach before the crowd. Crabs zig-zagged around before they hid. Birds walked fully intent before they flew. Prints would suddenly appear and then be gone. We meandered back to our domed tent. Not breaking camp right away, we crawled inside with clinging salt and sand. Smells of cocoa butter and night musk were zipped up with our stuff. We moved our hiking boots, our staffs, and gear over to the left and unrolled a bag. He had no trouble when he reached for me. There were no zippers or hooks in his way. Imagine pearls. Diving. Deep. Inside. Sky peered through mesh above us and was blue. I wanted more room. Hot air grew hard to breathe. I opened the door flap with my toes. Now, watching him search the shelves for a book, I want to tell him afternoons are often fine. First, I put a dab of sunscreen near my ear and rub my body with cocoa buttered palms. He still has the seashell in his hand. I touch his back and let my ocean whisper dance around his neck. His skin develops braille as he breathes me in. Putting the seashell with our box of pictures, he is so careful I try not to laugh. Such tenderness for an object so complex, so complete--that shell just felt the touch of our first date. Why should I want to measure height or depth or length? We ride the waves. The bedroom is a tent I carry in my mind for when our bodies work together. We ride the waves. We contemplate much later.
All poems on this page and on the link labeled "Click here for more selected poems." are ©1998-1999 by Geraldine Cannon.