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More from the UAP Poetry Series

Fire Baton
Poems by Elizabeth Hadaway

A cross between Yeats and a seasoned moonshiner

Read sample poems. . .

Read an interview with the author


Elizabeth Hadaway doesn’t just tell stories in her poems, she aims to delight as much as instruct, and her poems are scores for performance. Sparkling with shout-outs to Beowulf and Keats, varied meters, and surprising rhymes, she lifts centuries of hurt and anger into a contrary music. Her reach is vast, including everything from T. S. Eliot to the swans on her vinyl lace shower curtains. She warns us off from stereotypes and misconceptions about Appalachia and the South.

Here are short lyrics and long narratives, poems about ballads, baton twirling, hound dogs, Shelley, and NASCAR stars. In “A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Car, of Dale Earnhardt at Daytona,” she writes about a memorial T-shirt, “his face folded, half / in love with asphalt death.” Fire Baton announces the debut of a talented new poet of wit, vivacity, and color. And no matter how far she roams, she never lets us forget her roots, that she comes from a place “where where’s whirr.”


“Fire Baton is an immense achievement. Here is wit acid and sweet, angry and gentle, tonic and forgiving. Every line shines with the excellence of poetic craft. . . . Hadaway’s satire is deceptive in its strength. If you think you feel a pinprick, better look again. It may be a bullet hole.”

—Fred Chappell, author of Backsass: Poems

“Elizabeth Hadaway’s Fire Baton is formally elegant, yet effortlessly sassy and vernacular at the same time. In poem after poem, she proves herself place-proud without a trace of the provincial, and she’s exactly what a poet should be—smart and passionate.”

—Gregory Orr, author of Concerning the Book That Is the Body of the Beloved


September 2006
5 1/2 x 8 1/2 80 pages
$16.00 paper
1-55728-824-0 (978-1-55728-824-0)

Elizabeth Leigh Palmer Hadaway lives in Kingsvill, Maryland. She was an instructor at Virginia Commonwealth University and worked as an historical interpreter at Agecroft Hall in Richmond, Virginia. She was a Wallace Stegner Fellow at Stanford University and has received scholarships to the Breadloaf and Sewanee writer’s conferences.



Fearing the Loss of My Hounds

Fire Baton (page 1, page 2)

Public Transportation

A Refusal to Mourn the Death, by Car, of Dale Earnhardt at Daytona


Never, until we live again
where a girl can walk
to the basketball court unafraid,
among many pedestrians a pedestrian,
watching the red-tailed hawk
that roosts in bridge cable braid


swoop for its own delight
and hers, and play
a raptor-minded game
and walk back home that night
as safe as in the day,
the sidewalk crowds the same;


never, until we begin
to rise against what lurks
behind forty thousand poured
a year into Benz’s gin,
the Bavarian Motor Works,
the mouth of Moloch Ford,


those average annual dead,
will I attempt to grieve
for him in particular.
I have plenty to mourn instead.
I slap no sticky “3”


surrounded by a blur
of specious angel’s wings
on my window, no
“Gone to Race in a Better Place”
over the years of dings


scarring my bumper. Go,
buy your black t-shirts, efface
your own complicity
in his last crash. I
will admit I hold a grudge


against the whole jock galaxy,
but I didn’t want him to die
and I think you did, as much
as you want to, yourselves.
You eat the shafts


of your steering wheels. Cigarette
and gas stations pile their shelves
with his face folded, half
in love with asphalt death,
a cotton/poly blend


exclusive of decoration,
because it was no accident.
It was ritual. I won’t pretend
to buy into that rite, to pour the sponsor’s libation
at the foot of his monument.

 

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