17/07/2023
From Change Seven Poetry Editor, Doug Van Gundy:
The literary community lost a dear friend on Saturday, poet (and poetry advocate) Bill King.
If you knew Bill personally, you know how lucky you are. If you didn’t, let me offer you this brief introduction: Bill taught literature and creative writing to a generation of students at Davis
and Elkins College in Elkins, WV. He was a generous teacher — the grown-up at the front of the classroom who convinced his students that a child-like sense of wonder and excitement about
literature and writing was the only possible response to the miracle of the written word. He was also a keen-eyed editor of the poetry of others — students and friends alike.
He was also the guy in the neighborhood with the greenest thumb, the biggest pumpkins, the sweetest-smelling roses and
the hand-painted sign between his flowerbed and the street that read, “We love our sunshine, please consider parking a little further down the block”.
Bill was all of these people because Bill was a person who believed. Bill believed in the surpassing beauty of a brook trout, the therapeutic power of sinking one’s hands into the soil, the
idea that nothing should be beneath our notice, and no-one should be beneath our empathy.
The novelist Tom Robbins once wrote, “It’s never too late to have a happy childhood”. I think Bill believed that, too, and believed it was possible for everyone – his own amazing children
(now grown), the boy whose blood he shed with a thrown stone forty years ago, the child that he himself was and the “grown boy” he has become, and by extension, you and me: everyone. His
optimism and open-heartedness was the engine driving the poems he wrote.
For the last decade, I was fortunate enough to have Bill as my poetry partner-in-crime. What this meant was that most weeks – when our schedules aligned – we got together at one or the other of our homes for coffee and a few hours of careful and compassionate work on each other’s poems. Sometimes we just read to each other and offered suggestions, sometimes we drafted new poems or gave each other assignments. At some point, we usually went fishing, ending the day with a cold beer or two. This good work, shoulder-to-shoulder with this dear man, my brother, was one of the great pleasures and blessings of my life.
I hope you will read “Promise Made in Total Darkness” which first appeared in Change Seven and is reposted here. I also hope you’ll seek out more of Bill’s poetry (his chapbook The Letting
Go is available from Finishing Line Press and his first full-length collection, Bloodroot will be published by Mercer University Press in October). Like the man himself, Bill’s poems are full
of compassion and attention and intelligence. They are grounded in the natural world but establish no boundaries between where we end and the woods begin. They are poems that — to
paraphrase the Nobel laureate Seamus Heaney — “come at you sideways, and catch the heart off-guard, and blow it open.”
— Doug Van Gundy, Elkins WV. 17 July 2023.
“PROMISE MADE IN TOTAL DARKNESS” BY BILL KING
When we enter the Sinks—a mile-long gurgle of snow
melt and spring water that splits a high bald then slips
under a ledge of limestone—the summer blues go first,
and then spruce green, until we reach the last ripple
of light on the walls and stop. A swallow flits over,
and you, taller and bearded now, point one long
finger toward a clutch of blind beaks clamoring
above a lip of grass and clay. We wade beneath
them to the edge of the bend, step onto a boulder,
and stare into the black. You click your headlamp
forward but I swivel around to witness the quick
dipping bird flit from the flaming zero of the entrance
and into a swarm of flies. By the time I feel the ancient
wire of need keening across the space between us,
you’ve gone. So I click headlamp forward and step once
again into the shockingly cold water. The stream
narrows and deepens. Sand banks near the cave wall
steepen, then cake to mud. Crouched and low, I touch stone
for balance, try to catch up, but slip then slide waist deep.
How far ahead could he be? I think, and kill the light
to better hear. I call. One beat. Two. Until, "Dad?”
echoes off the opposite wall and I wait for the blade of light.
“We’ll do it,” you say, “but not today.” No hard hats,
no extra lamps, not safe enough, yet, for the long traverse
from blue to blue beneath a field of hooves. Lights off
again, you grip my shoulder and the weight of stone
above lifts like ravens riding updraft above the ridgeline.
“Next summer,” you say, gripping harder until I believe.