The Hocking Hills Festival of Poetry

    WILLIAM KLOEFKORN was named the Nebraska State Poet by proclamation of the Unicameral in 1982. He is a professor of English at Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln. His many collections of poetry include Alvin Turner as Farmer, Platte Valley Homestead, Uncertain the Final Run to Winter (WindflowerPress), Drinking the Tin Cup Dry, Covenants, and a collection of fiction, A Time to Sink Her Pretty Little Ship. His poems have appeared in Prairie Schooner, Georgia Review, Poet & Critic, and elsewhere. New collections of poetry include Among the Living (Sandhills Press) Welcome to Carlos (Spoon River Press), Loup RiverPsalter (Spoon River). and Fielding Imaginary Grounders (Spoon River). In addition to his many publications and honors, he won first-place in the 1978 Nebraska Hog-Calling Championship. He recently retired from Nebraska Wesleyan University in Lincoln. His most recent is a collection of poems narrated through the voice of a sergeant on the Lewis and Clark expedition.

    Bill has worked dilligently to promote all of the arts in Nebraska. He has participated in programs in schools, universities and prisons. His sense of humor and unique style  of teaching make him a popular guest at poetry readings and festivals. Each summer bill is one of the Leaders of a program that allows teachers to follow the route of Lewis and Clark.



--while hiking Crane Hollow near Logan, Ohio


In a cluster of blueness the Quaker Ladies

punctuate the hollow

with their delicate silence. To hear them is to

listen to the names

of their brothers and sisters-­

hoverfly, hemlock, sandstone, Jesus Christ

lizard, its body on water

smooth as the silky ant, the azure butterfly,

the touch-me-not.

Ladies, just now I kneel on a damp

fecundity of ages

to give you the sound of my grandmother's

name: Myrtle. And the sound of the name

of the other: Anna. 0 how your silence, Ladies, so

delicate, so blue,

underscores each syllable: Myr-tle. An-na. And


wild crab, yellow violet, squirrel corn,

adder's tongue, on its tip the sound of

song: There blooms the lily of the

valley, that bright and morning star.

Ladies, into a damp fe-cun-di-ty of ages

you have found your place, place

near where I kneel to learn the far-flung art of

kneeling. Neglecta major: I believe in the

necessity of empty spaces. Dragon­fly and

damselfly: I believe in the chuckle in the throat of

the running stream. Myrtle and Anna: I believe in

the growth that must be happening above and

below and beyond the sounds of your blue and

delicate and thus far immortal names.


                                                            William Kloefkorn




"Poetry doesn't belong to those who write it, but to those who need it."
- Mario Ruoppola (Il Postino)