There is so much piano in my stomach

I gotta say that there were no "beyond good" poems in attendance tonight. There were eight of us here and everyone seemed to bring more of a work in progress than a finished piece.

Dan did bring a finished piece which kicked off quite a discussion of where do old poems go? Do they end up in the "dead leaf basket"? Do they lurk in chapbooks to be discovered in 22nd century France? Does anyone care about them besides the author? Dan effectively accomplished his stated purpose of hitting a responsive chord in the reader. BTW, Alan liked the concept of addressing the readers within the verse which I do not like but didn't get a chance say so because everyone was talking so much.

Someone opined that Alan's Poetry Contest - Smitty's Tavern was mis-titled because the poem did not actually mention anything about the contest, but was written in the tavern parking lot. Philomena (I think) mentioned that Alan likes "nesting" his poems one within the other which leads to our frequent comment that he is really combining two separate poems into one. I had no idea who Ken Warren and Jack Clarke are until Obie explained it. I thought they were mathemeticians. Wrong.

Obie decided not to read his poetry at all, but contributed a photo synopsis of a hiking adventure with Casline and Corrado.

Larry produced my best line of the evening - see title of blog - in a long poem tha began delightfully with: this poem is about me, it will be boring at times. I would like to write a poem that begins that way.

My poem was inspired by a novel and then a non-fiction book I read about a reform school for boys in Marianna, Florida. It was a house of horrors for those committed there from 1900 through the 2000's. There was some controversy over my line about "too sassy for our own britches", which is an accurate Southernism I remember from my Tennessee roots. It is a poem I may re-work a little.

(Some of) my ignorance was revealed in Paul's poem Pinewood Derby, which I thought meant soapbox derby. Wrong again. Whoever heard of boys racing 5-oz. wooden cars that they had made on their kitchen tables? Not me. The poem was a commentary on competitive fathers who can't let go.

Jim wandered in late in his referee's uniform, with a beautiful bald head and a buzzing cellphone. His poem was a psalm to nematodes and other garden dwellers.

Following Philomena's instructions I will not blog about her poem.

Edie was in the building but never made it into the meeting so I'm not counting her.

Alan was promoting the Delmar Writers Showcase at Pine Hollow on April 29 (today).

If you get a chance, be SURE to stop in and view Larry the Artist Rapant's exhibit which will be hanging in the VPL gallery for the month of May. I am looking forward to something strange and engaging.

PS - Vainly I am posting a new picture of me which, while it does not totally eliminate my double chin, disguises it somewhat.