Drumming, dining...

We had a full house on the 11th with 14 of us. Good gaveling enabled us all to read. Actually it involved more drumming than gaveling, as Alan assisted with a wonderful drum. I have a beer cap tamborine. Maybe we could start another drum circle.

The business of the night included a plan to meet for discussion and libation at Mr. Willis' house in the next few weeks. Art will bring us a selection of Sunday afternoon dates that are agreeable with the mistress of his home and hearth.

The Red Menace is reading at the Social Justice Center on Thursday. Anyone who wishes can join the crowd at Ichiban at 5:30 for dinner before the performance. Mimi will be signing books at the Book House the same night.

Tim is featured at Cafe Lena in November, tba.

Alan is soliciting subscribers to Rootdrinker.

Cathy was home sick.

Joyce the traitor Schreiber is taking Thursday night fiddle lessons.

I am enjoying the furor that has been generated by the Ben Stein article. Who knew?

Okay, on to the poems.

Weighing heavily on my mind: Tom rudely pointed out that my poem about Dewar's, ice, water back, was full of cliches. Oh, the pain of it. He, on the other hand presented a Bukowski-like piece with shades of Anthony Bourdain which I liked and someone compared to a jazz piece.

Willow brought a ghazal, which I had no clue about and Mimi disagreed with and the scholars (Tom and Dennis) tried to enlighten us about the next day. Do your own research.

Dan Lawlor was back from his travels with a "First Date" poem, no rhymes, no cliches, just a few too many words that could have been edited out. Lots of "and"s.

Dennis, who called an intervention on himself, passed out a packet of poems (gosh, I wish I could be home writing all day). The Calling was about kids trying on identities, which we enjoyed, but concluded it needed some air.

I liked Tim being bullied on his way home from school, his line "sometimes my fear is praise enough" was totally awesome. Paul had a great line as well - "Mother Nature was about to slam down the window on the slipping fingers of the growing season" in First Hard Frost. Obie was "in the gloamin of the mornin" with the suicide squirrels and got no criticism. Art included a woodchuck/marmot in what was actually a to-war-or-not-to-war meditation.

Philomena tried a sonnet, with an evil topic, related to her work with sex abuse victims.
Mimi's Farewell asked a rhetorical question about keeping our boys boys.
Ben Bird wrote a WCW elegy for DH Lawrence in four parts that Tom wanted to chop up.
Edie amused us with a day in her life with Saul.
Beverly Osborne, who was not frightened away, and, indeed, seems to like us, had a personal reflection work titled Glass which had good pacing, good space. Suggested to leave off final line.

Food followed, with most of us at Smit's. Wish I could figure out how to be at both ends of the conversational table at once. I am always missing something.

This coming weekend (20th) is the library book sale. Thousands of donated books, good ones for cheap prices. On the 21st they are practically given away ($1 for a whole bag). Bake sale, too, on Saturday, begins at 10 a.m.