This is one of my favorite poems.  It rattles about in my skull always, speaking to my love of the mountain chain that runs through Appalachia, Britain, and Ireland. 

Heritage (1935)
by James Still

I shall not leave these prisoning hills
Though they topple their barren heads to level earth
And the forests slide uprooted out of the sky.
Though the waters of Troublesome, of Trace Fork,
Of Sand Lick rise in a single body to glean the valleys,
To drown lush pennyroyal, to unravel rail fences;
Though the sun-ball breaks the ridges into dust
And burns its strength into the blistered rock
I cannot leave. I cannot go away.

Being of these hills, being one with the fox
Stealing into the shadows, one with the new-born foal,
The lumbering ox drawing green beech logs to mill,
One with the destined feet of man climbing and descending,
And one with death rising to bloom again, I cannot go.
Being of these hills I cannot pass beyond.

James Still is one of the unsung greats of American poetry.  He died  a couple of years ago after a lifetime of teaching and writing in the hills of Kentucky. 

I can’t tell you how happy it makes me to know that so many other people are thinking of Brigid and Imbolc now.  It’s my Mom’s birthday, and it’s time to head down to John the Ferrier’s for a weekend of work and creativity and fellowship. 

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