thursday poets title

2011-06-24T10:50:00.003-05:00

I have had continual problems with logging in and editing this blog for several weeks. I think the problem has finally been resolved thanks to computer guru Judie.

Last night it was just me 'n' the guys. Mr. Williams and the Shadow-Poet were on time (noteworthy). Alan was quite poetic and kicked off quite a discussion of what wives and husbands talk about. The family silver? If you are a gay guy, Tim insists you talk silver.

Tim came with a bully/strawberry milkshake story which we gave him some critique about. Very little, tho, as it was already good. Dan "held wide the door" to new experiences with a patriotic sounding verse.

Paul was caught in the garden of good and evil and Larry had already made his leap. Mike took a little more controversy than usual describing a rainy bike ride for missing children. Mike was great, btw, at his Social Justice feature and dinner at El Loco. Turns out not to be my fav restaurant, but nobody complained. Good poems.

Poemless, me.

Only news is Sunday Four this week with Dale Hobson.

riding unharmed, and untouched, toward death (Carver)

2011-06-10T09:48:00.002-05:00

Tim entertained us all again with The Champions. Hilarious and very Tim. Tom suggested axing (at least part of) the last paragraph as too philosophical. We seemed to be philosophical quite often last night, perhaps LRapant is influencing us all (the philosophy emails have been flying fast and furious).

Edie inspired quite a discussion with Poor Yorick, a tongue-twister whose title seemed misleading. Paul recollected one of the moments in his life that haunted him in One Ghost and Edie told a holocaust story it reminded her of.

I amused myself drawing hats on Catherine's hat and hatless poem which had a great bald thought. Obee took us down the rabbit hole with a clever mind poem written in mirror form. Tim found it romantic.

Edie nominated Alan's line for best line of the evening: "way above, way way above". Alan was spontaneous. Larry was extremely effective with a story poem about a teen/teacher affair. The Shadow Poet emerged in In Search of the Magical Other, a lecture-like reflection on loss and love by Jim.

Tom is back, prompting me to search out more Raymond Carver, thank you.

Philomena and I were poemless. Plans talked about for dinner next Thursday prior to the Beach Boy's appearance at the Social Justice Center.

Late Again

2011-06-03T09:45:00.003-05:00

I had more problems with the blog last week and took a while to resolve them with the help of the VPL computer guru Judie. Now I have half forgotten the last meeting and don't much feel like writing about it, so I will be very brief. We started out small but ended up with ten people as others straggled in. Dan was the very latest and we were unable to squeeze his poem in because we had been indulging in extra conversation. That, btw, is okay with me. Our conversations are invigorating and on topic (poetry) even if we wander away from the poem on the table.

I will mention that Tim brought a (very) short prose piece which he had asked me about ahead of time. I have no problem with short prose; in fact, it was standard procedure when the group began a million years ago that writers could bring anything they had written, subject only to length limits. Larry's work tonight also bordered on prose, although we all seemed to dislike it, making LR happy.

I feel that I should mention Mark's garage door photos, which I personally loved, along with the poem. Very creative example of Mark's abundant talents.

If there was anything else, I've forgotten.

They said there would be cake

2011-05-19T10:35:00.001-05:00

I think that is why my soul said yes
to this life
that and banana cream pie

but the heaven realm
couldn’t capture
the promise of flesh

and some times
I am up to my neck
in this muddy life

having insisted on the outdoor barbeque
despite predictions
of pouring rain

desire and misery
is a finely mixed
recipe
-Philomena Moriarty

Perhaps this is the best poem Philomena ever wrote.
Perhaps it is my favorite.

Perhaps I should follow my own principle of never reworking.
I tried to fix last week’s poem. Now I hate it.
Perhaps I am just feeling hateful today.

Jim skittled in late wearing a very attractive red ref shirt, poem in hand. Another exploration – a pantoum, a poetic form which first appeared in 15th century Malayan literature in which lines b and d become lines a and c in subsequent verses. Jim’s consisted of very clever rhymes.

Jim slipped me a copy of another poem I had requested: Tercet Eight: Shadow-Poet
Arriving like the waterless flood/having fewer neurons than he’d like/shadow-poet knows the secret of the universe. The rude one is only one of many/ who populate my ego, my subconscious/a rowdy group of feisty complexes who try to run my life. My dogged efforts to tame this lot/are endless, ongoing…

Like this, too.

Ally the birthday cat was present with a well-titled work called Old Haunts. We had a few suggestions for ways for her to clarify the action in it, particularly identification of the people mentioned. It was a little confusing as written.

Alan seemed determined to cram every fact he could into his biographical poem about Albert Andriessen Bratt, the sawyer from Norway who arrived in Fort Orange in 1637. Bratt was an interesting character, but I think we all agreed that there were too many dates included. Alan’s best line (again which I loved and want for my own): “glitches and gremlins did the guy in” That’s how I want to go.

Larry wrote a long conversation with Tanya the Check-out Girl. Not a lot of commenting (that’s okay).
I am finding Larry’s artwork wonderful, creative and weird. (He doesn’t mind if I say that). Don’t miss seeing it for a reflection on Larry. It will be up through the end of May.

Burke was back for his first meeting since November. His bi-annual poem was about a poor dead guy named Dave, or rather, Dave’s funeral. We didn’t like the line about the shaky old preacher and made a couple of other suggestions.

Paul‘s retired musical instruments brought about a discussion of melancholia vs. nostalgia vs. plain old sad. Poem was “pretty complete” except for title. Perhaps “Notes on Notes”?

Dan’s poem was very aptly titled A Tyrant’s Regrets and went on in that vein. Dan empathized thoroughly with the tyrant and Cathy wittily commented that what he described could be attributed to mothers as well.

Sorry this took so long to blog. The blog was inaccessible last week and then I got busy.

There is so much piano in my stomach

2011-04-29T07:58:00.006-05:00

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.

A Little from Langston Hughes

2011-04-29T07:53:00.000-05:00

Daybreak in Alabama

When I get to be a composer
I'm gonna write me some music about
Daybreak in Alabama
And I'm gonna put the purtiest songs in it
Rising out of the ground like a swamp mist
And falling out of heaven like soft dew.
I'm gonna put some tall tall trees in it
And the scent of pine needles
And the smell of red clay after rain
And long red necks
And poppy colored faces
And big brown arms
And the field daisy eyes
Of black and white black white black people
And I'm gonna put white hands
And black hands and brown and yellow hands
And red clay earth hands in it
Touching everybody with kind fingers
And touching each other natural as dew
In that dawn of music when I
Get to be a composer
And write about daybreak
In Alabama.

April 14 (late)

2011-04-19T08:56:00.003-05:00

Two newcomers entered the lair last week. Laurie from Guilderland brought no poem but was a good contributor to the discussions. Stephen from Schoharie confessed that he was a psychologist, which was also good because we probably all need one: hope he comes back. Stephen reappeared at the contest on Sunday with what appears to be his specialty - a Japanese Haibun (a paragraph of prose ending with a haiku)- about a red-tailed hawk.

I will be brief as I am already way late in bloging this meeting, but I don't want to skip it because we had some beyond good poems. Judge Amidon brought a bit of a tearjerker (for me at least) about missing Thanksgiving dinner with the old folks. Obeeduid's was dedicated to Tom Corrado who was not here to listen. I have posted his accompanying, exquisite photo to the right.

Dan Lawlor (who surprised me by saying he joined the group 7 seven years ago) told a story of the nightingale called Lotus Dreams. Alan was good with a philosophical number called Turn Turn Turn Again, which I wanted to make into two poems, or at least two parts.

Cathy Anderson had a real winner recounting the empty chairs in her life. Very effective. Ann followed her food motif with a nostalgic effort about making babka. Note: she did not bring any. Tim, who has been very excited about his writing workshop with Marion Roach Smith, brought a "prome" rewrite about his brother who wouldn't die. Larry's love songs in a dentist office had some powerful lines (I loved "realizing you're hearing canaries because you're sitting on one".)

It seems like I have forgotten someone, but...?
Me last. Larry remarked on the "vivid details" in my recitation of a Florida night interrupted by an old man on a bicycle.

"Nature is always clothed with the color of the spirit" - Emerson

Contest Recap from Judge Amidon

2011-04-19T08:32:00.002-05:00

SECOND ANNUAL SMITH’S TAVERN POET LAUREATE CONTEST

The Second Annual is now in the record books, and the books will show that Howard Kogan is the Tavern’s Poet Laureate for 2011, with Marilyn Paarlberg second and Mark “Obeeduid” O’Brien third. Therese Broderick placed fourth and Tom Corrado fifth. No one ran away with the scoring. As with last year, competitors in the top half of the scoring were within a few points of the poet just above them and the one just below them. This comes as no surprise, as everyone who signed up to participate belonged in the contest. No also-ran type poets entered the fray. Another thing that was obvious was the reading talent displayed at the microphone. Every reader did a good job, and most did an excellent job. It was a pleasure to attend this contest and listen.

Now that two of these “Annuals” have been held, a few observations can be made. One is that the format and operation of this event is good, and any tinkering with the rules and procedures should be minimal. This is a well-thought-out contest. Second is that it’s about the right size, both in the length of time it takes and the number of contestants allowed. Third is that it attracts the type of poets the sponsors and hosts want to attract. It is not a contest for flash-in-the-pan poets, or for showboaters whose chief interest is to draw attention to themselves through crude work and onstage antics. Fourth is an observation everyone made last year: Smith’s Tavern is a great place to hold a poetry contest. Why go dry and hungry for poetry when you can drink and eat at the same high level the poems are? It’s a no-brainer.

When a contest flows smooth as glass from beginning to end it’s because the organizers anticipated problems and solved them, then did a good job directing the actual competition. Judges had all the time they needed, and there was no dead time between poets thanks to a steady stream of poetic quotations to guess at from Edie at the microphone. The Second Annual was as good as the first. It has put Smith’s Tavern on the map for poets beyond Voorheesville and Delmar, and has cemented its reputation as the place to meet for local poets.

A Japanese saying is: “If a thing happens twice, it will happen again.” It comes to mind because I hope it comes true at Smith’s Tavern, next April.

Tinian, Afghanistan, and Poets on the Run

2011-03-30T22:24:00.002-05:00

Let’s face it; some nights just don’t have it. The discussion is insipid, laced with uninspired observations, statements of the obvious, boring conversations filled with irrelevancies. This wasn’t one of those nights. Opinions and observations rolled around the table like loose cannons on deck, and the nimble of foot and word had no time or inclination to yawn.

Dennis got things off to a fast and interesting start with “A Visit From the Dead,” a two and a half page piece that held everyone’s attention and sparked a good deal of discussion. Tim and Philomena both felt the poem should be read more slowly than it was to give the reader time to assimilate what it has to say. While Philomena said she sees Dennis’ poems as mystical, Tim said they seem more religious (in a general way) than mystical, and felt this poem “has tiredness and contentment in it.” My own feeling was that it is a musing on life, and projects a feeling of acceptance. Larry started chasing down a tangent about the nature of the mind vs. the nature of the soul, and a few others helped out. Larry’s statement that “Dennis has a style that grates against my inner joints” didn’t reflect my opinion, as nobody’s style has yet had any effect on my inner or outer joints. Dennis told us he felt his parents had entered the room when he wrote the poem, which would have inspired something in my mind if it happened to me. I can’t really say, though, as my parents have never showed up at any hour, but then again I’ve never been up at 3:27 AM to write anything.

Dan gave us “The Butterfly Lovers,” a work that prompted Tim to say it struck him as the type of poem that would be written by somebody who has lived a long time. I took that to mean someone who has gained much wisdom by living a long time, as opposed to some old goat who has lapsed into senility but refuses to quit writing. The poem is a brief summary of a 17th Chinese legend. Knowledge of the legend would help the reader fully understand the poem, and when Dan related the legend we found out that “The Butterfly Lovers” is a good summary of the legend, but by adding a few more lines he can make it an even better summary. Only the word “chums” didn’t quite fit.

I presented “Hospital Waiting Room” and got several good suggestions for improving it, but once again came away with the feeling that when my poem hits the table people start trying to pick off all the individual words they can, like snipers firing from a tree line. This tendency may have something to do with Tim’s statement that “Paul applies prose rules to poetry,” which is true in more instances with my writing than with the writing of most other poets around here. I’m also a big fan of punctuation, which a good number of poets avoid, even run from. However, I left convinced that a couple of words need picking off in this poem.

Jim’s “Tercet Eight: Shadow-Poet” was well received, and prompted Tim to remark: “I love this. A very human poem.” Which it is. I see this as a poem of self-analysis. Edie pointed out it that has similarities to Dennis’ poem. The “rude one” mentioned in the second verse needs more than a reference, though, and whoever he is we need to hear something defining about him, as it is certain he is not the shadow-poet. Not withstanding that the rowdy group of complexes have the math guy’s number, I personally am confident that the math guy will rout this group of ne’er-do-wells in the end.

Larry brought “Ontology,” a poem one-fourth the size of what he brought the last time. When I opined that it seemed too short to be one of Larry’s poems, the author let slip that it is part of “a much, much longer poem.” Short though it was, it still backed up Larry’s admission that “Minutiae is one of my favorite things.” (Shouldn’t that be ARE SOME of my favorite things?) Anyway, as Philomena said: “This is a fun poem.” The dark knight calculator mentioned in the second verse was the subject of some discussion involving Batman, the dark part of our own natures, and a few other things that sailed right past me. Larry surprised me when he declared ”The dark knight is making too much of a controversy, so I’m taking it out.” I’d leave it in, myself. Dennis thought the poem was “Blakean.” Look it up. I’m not opening that keg of worms.

Philomena’s “Schenpa” was based too much on Buddhism for me to understand it, and a knowledge of Buddhism is probably essential for anyone reading this piece. A sizeable footnote to shed some light on the meaning of the word “schenpa” led me to conclude this is a personal poem not meant to communicate with a large audience.

Ann presented “The Thank You Notes,” a poem about her father receiving thank-you notes from her eighth grade class for his military service during World War II that really appealed to me. It will be even better when the use of tenses is ironed out, and some confusion about exactly who is talking to whom and what is going on at the end is cleared up. Relating some additional information in the poem should do the job. This poem really had an effect on Tim, who effortlessly jumped from Tinian in World War II to Afghanistan today. By the time he finished alternately attacking the poem then praising it, I didn’t know if he was speaking from the strength of his convictions or just trying to keep the dust stirred up. This has the potential to be one of Ann’s best, in my opinion. I hope it turns out that way.

Tim’s “Washington Park 2 AM” used the dialogue of one person to paint an effective and dramatic picture of an encounter that resulted in two gay men being chased by a pack of other men intent on doing them no good. This is another of Tim’s poems that will be a hit at open mics, as it is a performance piece for sure. There is no ambiguity in this work, and few comments were made about either the form or wording. I consider it one of Tim’s best. Dennis noted, “You have the same rhythms as Gregory Corso and Allen Ginsberg.”

Last up was Edie, who offered “Gifts From My Father.” By beginning with a reference to the inheritance of unruly hair from her father, she glides into a musing on some of her father’s traits and their influence on her. Verse one and three handle this very nicely, but verse two seems to have no apparent connection to the other two. Maybe it does, but I don’t see it, and no one offered any explanation that helped me see the connection. Verse one and three stand as a poem by themselves, though. I’d like to see verse two elaborate on either her father’s characteristics or her relationship with her father instead of doing whatever it did.

ONE OTHER THING: The Second Annual Smith’s Tavern Poet Laureate Contest is coming up on April 17, and there are still places open on the competitor list. Sign up soon if you’re interested, as the sign up period will end soon no matter how many slots remain unfilled.

Write-up by Paul

Hiroshima, a unit of measure

2011-03-11T10:09:00.004-05:00

Philomena knocked us out with the impact of her title (above). Edie suggested that line was a poem in itself and so strong that it overwhelmed the rest of the poem.

Edie's poem was a very sensual offering loaded with assonance and alliteration. "I spoon with you and down your spine my finger slithers..." Minor controversy arose of the use of the word fluffy which, to me and Philomena at least, stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb.

Mark impressed with "Grateful for the small acts of morning", a slow and gentle read which interestingly was interpreted by the rest of us in quite differing ways. Mine was way off base (but amusing), perhaps inspired by Edie's sex poem.

Alan was artistic - "everyday you bring out your brush and swirl the surface about" -and spare with his words - "no message message I get the message" and thought -provoking - "is there a judge in the front of this prison?" Good one.

The artistic streak carried through Tim's descriptive rather than narrative endeavor. I must admit to finding it intriguing, but hard to sort out (one woman or two? downtrodden and walking the beach or drinking on the porch?) It also included a missing lake discovered and a posing herring which turned out to be a heron. It did read like a canvas, but I remain confused. Who shoots herring anyway - or herons?

Fortunately we rely on Paul for a dependably relate-able poem and he came through again. Who hasn't flattened a penny on a railroad track? Well, maybe not Edie. The rest of us all related and I vow to do it again this summer if summer ever comes.

Welcome back, Lawlor - Dan returned from his "weathered wanderings" with a musical poem about leaving memories, loaded (by his own admittance) with cliches. Mark performed an excellent third read of the rhythmical though not rhyming Yeats-referenced work.

Okay - Larry: A long dense poem on my neo-empty period which I had the privilege to read. It was fun, a bit of a tongue twister in spots. Some lines less effective than others, could be cut for the sake of lightening it, but the poem was well-received the way it was. I love: "I nibble the piece of cake on all sides trying to keep its shape as it shrinks"

Dan W. brought to my attention the fact that I frequently mention those who are missing from meetings, as well as attendees. I guess this is fostered by my now-thwarted maternal instincts. If some of the chicks are not around, I need to know where they are. In that vein I will report that Ally Cat Anderson is in Texas, Beach Boy Burke back in Florida, Tom C. in the wilderness of Huntersland, Jim Williams and Ann Lapinski, whereabouts unknown, and Dennis sent his excuses. That reminds me that I will be absent for the next meeting on the 24th as I am planning to be sunbathing on Bradenton Beach. Someone else (and all are fighting for this opportunity) will be in charge.

Remember to sign up on March 21 for the Poet Laureate contest (Tim and Paul and I are all judges). Alan's field trip is this weekend. Call him for details. BTW, if anyone cares, we are discontinuing discussion night for lack of participation. Larry and I will be planning more exclusive trysts.

The evening included an enthusiastic exchange of info on Spanish Bar Cake between Mark and me. Anyone else remember Spanish Bar Cake?

Smith's Tavern Contest Rules

2011-03-02T11:25:00.000-05:00

SMITH’S TAVERN SECOND ANNUAL POET LAUREATE CONTEST

WHEN
Sunday, April 17, 2011 at NOON sharp

WHERE
Smith’s Tavern, 112 Maple Avenue, Voorheesville, NY 12186; Tel: 518-765-4163

CASH PRIZES
Poet Laureate - $100
Second Place - $50
Honorable Mention - $25
(Names to be inscribed on Laureate trophy displayed in Smith’s Tavern)

TERMS
Open to the first 25 poets who register by emailing starting noon March 21st. E-mail must be from registering poet only. Applicants will be notified of acceptance by March 28.

THREE ROUNDS
Each poet will read three poems (one per round) of 25, 35, 45 (or fewer) lines respectively, the title of the poem not being counted.
Poets will read the title of the poem followed by the body without introductory remarks, and only once.
Poets must bring five hardcopies of each poem to the contest to be handed in to Laureate Coordinator, Michael Burke, at time of registration.
The poems for all three rounds must have lines visibly and neatly numbered in the margin for easy identification, and name at top, before they will be accepted.

DAY’S SCHEDULE
Starting Time: Noon sharp (The tavern will be open at 11:15 with all poets expected by 11:30).
Reading order: Poets will be randomly assigned positions beforehand by round; sheets with the assigned positions will be distributed to poets at time of registration.
Two opening rounds—followed by a 40-minute break—then the Final Round
There will be a brief (30-second) break between readers to allow the next reader to settle in
Prizes will be awarded immediately following the scoring of the final round

JUDGING BASED ON FOUR CRITERIA (1-5 POINTS FOR EACH POEM IN EACH ROUND)
1. PRESENTATION—Poem is clear and understandable with good rhythm and flow; conveys awareness
2. MECHANICS—Uses metaphor and imagery well; exhibits concision and wholeness; has good sound
3. DEPTH OF FEELING—Is unique, creative, passionate, inspirational, fresh, and thoughtful
4. OVERALL IMPACT—Is engaging, interesting, stimulating, captivating, compelling

ALTERNATES
There will be no alternates allowed should any of the registered poets fail to show.

TIES
In the event of a tie, the judges’ scores with the lowest total score for each tied poet will be dropped. This will be done until the tie is broken. More on that the day of the event.

LAUREATE AS JUDGE
The Laureate for each year will be invited to serve as a judge for the following year’s contest but acceptance of the invitation is optional.

Black Tree Tango

2011-02-25T11:05:00.006-05:00

The above phrase caused many poets much conflict last night in my work, which was nothing more than a descriptive passage of the sight of a forest of bare trees dancing in the wind. The trees were bumping hips and elbows and shouting "tequila". I thought it was quite clever. Oh, well.

The night's masterpiece clearly flowed from Tim's pen (figuratively speaking). I had the privilege of doing the second read and, while I was being dramatically affected by the content, the rest of the group was in stitches. I guess you could say it was both moving and hilarious in a sad way. It is called Nightmare on State Street and anyone who missed it should ask for a reading. Definitely a performance piece, possibly to be performed at Sunday Four.

Edie's Eye of a Camera was talked about at length. Edie offered us alternative endings to the comparison of a photograph and a poem, both as art forms. Lots of opinion on this one.

Larry brought us a trilogy of poems, loosely linked in theme (sex, of course). Jim asked if we knew why Bach had so many children (23?) and no one did, although I can't tell you the answer here. Back to Larry's main poem: we labeled it powerful and true. Good one. And...Lar was wearing beautiful bandaids.

That math man assaulted our senses again with a mathematical poem: Cinquain A Cinq, written in five, five-line stanzas with matching number of syllables per line. Each stanza was planned to act as a stand-alone poem, and it all reflected JW's black humor.

Paul's nicely crafted poem delivered its strong, clear message as usual. The topic was friendship: "Sunlight, twilight, rain: no matter: I am in for the long haul." Good sentiment, good poem, although I wanted to chuck the "among tears" phrase that Paul refused to part with. He did vow to take another suggestion about line breaks.

Philomena has been talking to her dead brother, which is not as bizarre as it sounds. Her poem was quite touching. Tim was vehement in his assertion that one would not mourn for someone they had not been close to in life, but I understood it perfectly. One would, perhaps, mourn harder.

I passed around a copy of the Smith's Tavern PL Contest chapbook. Mike Burke did a great job of compiling and getting it published. Thanks so much to Missing Mike and Distributing Dennis. Copies are available for purchase someplace. Maybe Book House. Check with Dennis who was not there last night.

I am having grandchildren visit this weekend but will see you at Sunday Four to hear Joe Krausman, if possible.

PS - Alan, I have Rootdrinker dues for you!

glad for the stink of it

2011-02-11T09:11:00.007-05:00

CASLINE'S ARTISTIC MUSE TRIUMPHS: The Bird's artistic muse fought it out with his scientific muse and won. The result was an inspired work called Invoking which included lines such as "blindness occurs when you are shown everything" and "glad for life, glad for the stink of it". We approved.

If the stink line qalified for best line of the night, I'm voting for Tim's Your Eyes for best poem. For me, it edged out a field of extremely good ones because of its intensity, the passion, the sadness and loss that was so apparent in it.

Alan's muses were not the only ones at odds at this meeting. Several minor controversies arose, one revolving around Tim's use of "supposively" which Mark looked up and found in the Urban Dictionary on his ever-ready iPad. I enjoy made up words and will advocate for them except in situations where they appear to be simply grammatical errors, as this appeared to be.

Interestingly, the word "litanize" is also not in the dictionary (at least not in the Merriam Webster's I looked at) but it certainly sounded like a legitimate word and it was obvious to all of us what Dennis meant in his psalm I Am Moved To Litanize. Dennis the criminal justice professor revealed a momentuous decision he had recently made regarding his belief in the afterlife (reference The Will to Believe by Will James).

I was also thinking of the afterlife in a roundabout way as I described The Beast that is consuming all of us "one finger, one toe at a time". Not a lot of critique. Some quibbled with my making the beast male. Seemed logical to me.

Markle and I crossed swords over the composition of Ann's The Magnolia. It was back to the old issue of line breaks and breathing. I thought they were poorly executed in this work, but Obee defended them heatedly. The flowing poem was a nice breakthrough for Ann, who has previously been more reserved and structured in her expression.

Mark himself had a good one about listening to the sound of the Oniskethau creek which runs by his house. There was quite a discussion over whether or not streams "burble" in the winter, but the poem was concise and clear painted a perfect picture of the mountain shadow, full moon, and snowy landscape.

Alan remarked that there was no narrative in Paul's The Silver Lining, a "fantastic" poem (Tim) more conceptual and zen than his story poems. I accused Larry of channeling Tom in his war-is-interrupted-by-jelly-donuts work. Someone pointed out how acidic and bitter it was, making Larry happy.

Jim Williams impressed us anew with his guitar playing and the unusual instrument he was toting (we all smelled it). Beautiful. Beautiful. And it was good to see Jim.

I MISSED COLDFEST. Cathy and I chickened out because of the freezing rain. I understand a lovely time was had by all and I had to eat my appetizer for dinner that night, and for about three days following.

Which reminds me, I heard from Mike Burke, who is presently in sunny Mexico and not coming home anytime soon.

Afterthought: I have been investigating The Poets Laureate Anthology, a new library book which includes all of the American PLs ever (since its inception in 1937) with short bios and samples of work. Foreward by Billy Collins. Worth a look.

The Geography King

2011-01-28T10:25:00.005-05:00

turned out to be Alan who triumphed in the face of opposition from Cathy and myself. Who knows where the Sandwich Islands are? He did and I'm not saying more except that I was wrong. If you don't know the answer and you care, you can look it up, which Mark did on his iPad to settle the argument.

Yes, we had a cameo appearance by Cathy Anderson, who has been among the missing for a while. She had a lovely poem about sleeping memories (see the epigraph to the right) which I found very sad. It was actually very similar to the brief poem I brought, written at the last minute for the occasion because I was feeling guilty for not writing lately. Anyway, my poem, called Eavesdropping, reflected my feeling of isolation when I become aware of the life that is going on around and without me. Pretty much of a bummer.

Larry's work was a bit of a conundrum to me this week. I couldn't get a clear picture of what he was trying to convey. Some great lines, but not a lot of comment. BTW, "smithereens" according to the dictionary can only be used as a plural noun meaning bits or fragments. There is no smithereen.

Perhaps I was particularly obtuse last night, but I also had trouble with Alan's Echoes Going By, which the author said he wrote in a parking lot by a railroad track in Maine while waiting for his shopping wife. It was one of his hexagrams (#12) relating to the I Ching, which I don't know much about. I don't seem to know much of anything today, do I? I do know "The little gate opens from the dragon garden".

Markle had a good one in How the sky was emptied, complete with beautiful photo. In an interesting experiement we re-read the poem a total of 5 times, experimenting with lines and breathing and pace. It was a poem expressing excitement - the anticipation of capturing the sun in hand, which exuded a feeling of calm. Strange.

Paul's poem North Star was the impetus for the island argument, mentioning the Solomon Islands as a port of call for his uncle Ezekiel who spent his life roaming the seas. One island led to another somehow. Anyway, it was a beautifully framed poem which the group had a lot of suggestions for, taking out unessential words or lines, perhaps changing title.

Lastly, we were practically stunned by the bearded visage of (the ghost of?) Tom Corrado. Then, he blew us all away with a rendition of his new chapbook "A History of the World in Four-Line Feeds: Part 18". Excellent, excellent.

Reminder of: COLDFEST at Alan's February 5 at 3 p.m. and Discussion night here on February 3 at 7.

According to an email from Beach Boy Burke, the anthology of Smith's Tavern poems is almost ready for distribution. Next Poet Laureate contest date was changed to April 17.

Cookie Interruptus

2011-01-14T10:01:00.003-05:00

The following was written by our scribe, who filled in for me last night and, obviously, ate my share of the cookies. It is a good post. Thanks Paul.

NINE POETS ON A COLD NIGHT

Nine poets. A good number to kick around any poem that dared show its face. No surprise that that’s exactly what happened.

The first sacrificial offering of the evening was “Three of Seven Exterior Plates on Gundestrup Cauldron,” which consisted of a detailed description of three parts of a silver cauldron found in a peat bog and dated to 100 B.C. Alan covered the territory as far as description was concerned, but mentioned nothing else. For that he drew fire from several fronts because the critics were looking for more. Larry pointed out the poem did not indicate the significance of the details described. Mark felt the description did not take him anywhere, and asked: “What is the poetic journey?” Ann and Tim agreed. I did too, and felt it read like prose. Alan’s intent, however, was not to take the reader anywhere, but to describe without interpreting. He succeeded in what he wanted to do. He wanted to find out how much energy the poem would raise in a critique group, and he succeeded in that too. He found out that the group had enough energy to make it clear they wanted more than he served up.

Mark’s poem “Susurrations” sent Dennis to his Spanish dictionary to see what he could find out about the title. A Spanish word quite close to Mark’s title had the same meaning: a whisper. Alan noted that the poem compared nature to nature through the use of metaphor, a quality he liked. Larry jumped on the third verse as describing something that is impossible (seeing tears on one’s own cheeks). Tim whittled the last line off three of the verses. Mark described the poem as “me talking to me,” which was of some help.

Dennis brought a ten-verse poem longer than most of his others, loaded with good images and food for thought, titled “Ten Thoughts About the Eternity of Day.” Alan commented that it was a great poem, with a lot of Dennis Sullivan in it. Tim felt it was a strong poem, and that the details that tripped him up didn’t matter. He also pointed out how the listeners benefited from having the standard second reading. I won’t include it here, but the sixth verse was considered to be the best, and it was a good one indeed. One part puzzled me, however. The lines “get rid of no, except to turn down second helpings of turkey breast and forced sex” had me wondering. Is a first helping of forced sex all right? I would have mentioned it, but I was too busy eating one of the superb chocolate cookies that Ann brought. Anyone who passed up the cookie box, you blew it. They were great.

Larry gave us “Love,” a piece characterized by his usual style of including cryptic lines that are sure-fire discussion starters. Tim tossed out the idea that the title seemed like a tack-on because the author couldn’t come up with anything else. Some lines were unclear, but different lines were unclear to different critics. Alan didn’t favor a line about a bodily function, but let’s face it, body parts and bodily functions appear in so many of Larry’s poems that we can’t reasonably expect him to give them up now. We can, I suppose, but it isn’t likely to happen. By way of commentary, Larry said he was trying to show some of the many things we think of as love.

My poem “Statue of Liberty” generated more discussion than I thought it would. Alan and Tim both thought a lot could be cut from it, as the story has been extensively written about. A poem must stand on its own, though, and cutting because the subject has been extensively written about assumes readers will know what is not stated. Older readers might, but a lot of young people are far enough removed from those who immigrated to America a century ago to not know the history us older types have had closer contact with. Mark didn’t relate to the poem because most of the Irish were already here when the Statue of Liberty went up, but that’s all right. I bagged over 12 million immigrants who came after 1888. That will have to do.

Tim’s “Fratres” had us wondering who the poem was about, and opinion was divided. Catherine had the feeling it was about Tim, not someone else, while others didn’t know and wouldn’t hazard a guess. There were a lot lines in this one I didn’t understand. Dennis noted it had “great economy of language,” and I have to agree with that. Ann, among others, felt the last stanza was confusing, and there was some discussion about it. Tim ended things by telling us it was a love poem about another person, and said he knew readers wouldn’t be able to understand a lot of the lines without more information. If it’s not for general consumption, that’s the poet’s choice. If the poet is happy, I’m happy.

Catherine rolled out “Bitter Vision,” and like the rest of the evening’s poems, it generated a good round of discussion. I had no idea what the first verse meant. Edie admitted to having no clue about what was bitter. The origin of the poem apparently has something to do with its confusing quality: it sort of “wrote itself” as the author was arranging words from a magnetic poetry kit. I had never heard of a magnetic poetry kit, and was informed that it’s an assortment of words mounted on small magnets. You move the words around on a metal surface (like a refrigerator) and see what you can come up with. Interesting concept. Catherine confided that she doesn’t know where the bitterness is either, and that even she isn’t sure what some of the lines mean. Well, if the magnetic poetry kit came up with this, maybe it can clear up parts of it too. The kit sounds like an interesting approach, kind of a spark plug for the imagination. If I find one at a yard sale I’m going to make an offer.

Except for one line, Ann’s “It Hung on the Living Room Wall” did not suffer from lack of clarity, and told an interesting family story. What hung on the wall was a picture of her father and Governor Rockefeller, and the story concerned her father’s appointment as a Deputy Commissioner in the Rockefeller administration. After Tim concluded the line “clean living” was an intentional contrast to the life of hard physical work endured by her grandparents, Ann informed us it really referred to the clean politics her father practiced after his appointment. Clear that up, and the poem is good to go.

Edie concluded the night’s poem-mauling festivities by handing out “Heeling A Dog on Your Left.” This one hit the table in pretty good shape; most of the discussion focused on finding a better term than “stunt” for one particular line. She used only six lines, but they were long lines. My opinion was that she should try using the same wording with more but shorter lines. I didn’t mention this either, because I was half way through one of the few cookies left. They were really good cookies. Better than the weather. Better than the trip home. Better than this blog posting. Good thing I have a metabolism like a shrew. Now what I need are a few good ideas for more poems. Or a magnetic poetry kit.

Paul

1st Night January

2011-01-07T14:42:00.002-05:00

Catherine Connelly is a great contributor to group discussions and it was good to see her at 1st Night. We started off picking some of the lines that Larry had emailed us and followed the discussion where it led. A good bit of the talking was about visual art (our guest Steve was doodling while we spoke). I said that I was unable to function simultaneously in writing and art modes, so Larry suggested that I bring a visual piece as my next poem. Worth contemplating. Also talked about the difficulties surrounding critiques, those who want or don't want it, how to do it w/o hurting feelings, how much your own work affects your critical thinking. I would like to continue that conversation. Five of us attended and we ended in time for me to rush home to see Grey's Anatomy.

A little late

2011-01-05T14:31:00.003-05:00

Seeing that I left on holiday vacation immediately following the last meeting, without a chance to blog it, I won't. It was a quiet vacation for me, reading, doing a little artwork, and watching game shows (confessing I love game shows) on TV.

Reminders: Edie will be reading on January 20 at UPJ (Dan Wilcox) and we are planning dinner at La Salsa Latina at 5 p.m. prior. Let Dennis know if you will be attending and he will make a reservation for us. Alan and Jennifer's annual Cold Fest will be at their house on February 5. Alan has thoughtfully made the start time 3 p.m. for those of us who no longer like to be out after dark, although you are invited to stay late if you are so inclined. Always a good time, although I will personally miss Professor Willis and Judy this year.

Misc: Tom stopped at the lib this week and is not snowbound in Huntersland. Larry and I had a great visit at Tim's new apartment; it is lovely and was beautifully decorated for Christmas. Weather permitting, I will be having lunch with Catherine Ally Cat Anderson this week and will encourage her to rejoin us soon. I understand from his daughter that Professor Sullivan has been having some tooth problems. Jim Williams is a little under the weather, too. I missed Dan W.'s open house on New Year's day. Did anyone go?

Tomorrow night is discussion night here at 7 p.m., regular meeting on the 13th.

Very annoying things

2010-12-13T12:13:00.003-05:00

keep happening to me the last few days and I am fed up with electronic/computer/email problems, so if anything goes wrong while I am blogging this, I'm quitting.

We again had a testosterone-dominated group last Thursday. The balance improved to 4/7 with the last minute arrival of Philomena and Edie. Philomena brought "Audience", addressing the question we have tossed around for discussion of who we are writing for. Edie wrote a clever "Ginsberg-like" character sketch of spinster Amalia Ottemberg.

I missed most of the critique of Ann's "Eight Varieties, One Garden" because I was out of the room, but I know it was about tomatoes and it was colorful - unlike Paul's "After Hours" which painted a great picture of a quiet bar without referencing a single color by name. It mentioned the Poet's Corner, making us all believe it was Smith's Tavern. Mark's iPad reminded us of the Poet's Corner in Westminster Abbey, too.

The debate over audience was revived over "Beautiful Child", Tim's twin brother. The question was how much we poets were affected by already knowing a lot about Tim's family and if something needed to be clarified in the poem for those who didn't have the background info we did. I think Tim decided to rework it a little.

Dennis proclaimed Dan's poem excellent and another good stretch for this relatively new poet. I liked "oysters of thought", did not like "salivated". Someone suggested a tense change.

There was some debate over Alan's first line(s), a small punctuating error (the old it's/its dilemma) but he received kudos for the placement on page and a popular ending. Mark brought a Freudian poem of repression (according to Dennis), which to me was merely an nice work equating broken relationships to broken dishes.

My noms for BPOE (best poem of the evening) are Trying to Sweep Away the Fire and Ode to Darkness, Larry and Dennis respectively. Larry's worked because or in spite of the cameltoe reference which we explained to the unfamiliar. Larry: " small fire, a giggling wick on a carpet". Dennis: "Like an unloved brother, you appear and tug upon my coat to draw attention...". Dennis tells us his audience is himself. I feel pretty much the same. I had no new poem, but did a quick read of my old "The Pixie Sisters, 1957" which happened to be in my folder and is one of my favorites.

Beach Boy Burke, btw, is off pursuing his destiny in enviable climes for an unacceptable length of time. We may possibly see him in time for the Poet Laureate contest. Alan re-issued his invite for the Cookie Party on Friday night at his house. Sorry to say, it seems like many of us are going to be busy or away.

Yes, poets are meeting on December 23. Philosophers on the 16th.

Tim's Amazing Video

2010-12-02T10:50:00.000-05:00

Loggerhead Rises from a Swamp

2010-11-12T08:51:00.010-05:00

Aptly titled and accompanied by an amusing picture on Mark's iPad, Alan's poem was a more "poetic" effort than the one I so harshly commented on last time. Tim remarked cutely that it lacked scientific references to the flora and fauna. Alan and Mark had trekked up Bennet's Hill in Clarksville, the inspiration for both guys' poems. Mark had written Hilltop Visionation (he made that word up, I asked), a letter to America in a great font, which we all liked. It was adorned with colorful vistas from his camera.

The photos led to a short discussion of the efficacy and purpose of photos and artwork accompanying poems, a topic which was tabled for a discussion night.

Jim tried to tangle Paul's tongue with Carmen Maccaronicum (Macaroni Song), a real twister with a hodgepodge of foreign words that Jim presented in his own inimitable style and accents which Paul had to attempt to duplicate. Jim called it an aural toast, definite open mic material.

I thought Osterman and Whiteman was an hysterical portrayal of a prestigious law firm run by a short guy with small genitalia. Few criticisms of this one.

Wildly successful is my thought on Philomena's Corduroy Pants, I think my alltime favorite of her poems. It was a commentary on sweatshops, invoking a comparison betweens worlds and cultures that was well written and intense. "...to be connected by the clothes on your back to that person sitting and eating rice noodles...yet to be on guilt's edge with the rightness and wrongness of world equations." Great stuff.

As I write this I'm realizing what a good night it was. Ann unveiled a heretofore hidden aspect of her life with a picture of her ex as The Wolf. When she left the cottage, she left forever, no woodsmen to rescue her. (As an aside, Ann's face looked like someone had beaten her, but she hastened to tell us it was from dental work. Don't go to her dentist.)

Beach Boy Burke took some unusual criticism last night with Lakeside Rocks at Lookout Point. Everyone was waiting for Mike's traditional surprise ending which did not occur. Paul (I think) said it was too formal for Mike's voice. We suggested rearranging the verses, taking out some unnecessary words and reworking the final six lines. Don't laugh, we did like the poem in spite of all the disagreement.

Dan did another good job with Skipping Stones. I noted that Dan seems to have made a great leap (sorry, pun) in his work recently. That means that now we can get down to the business of finetuning our critiques. One point made was that taking out the qualifiers (some, someday, always, much) would make the work stronger, e.g. "False opinions are like sins" instead of "some false opinions are much like sins". Dan assured us that he is an eager learner.

I chuckled over Paul's response to my desire to have more color in last week's Carousel Horses. Instead of inserting more actual colors, he added the word color in two places. It was funny, but it still didn't work for me. Paul made changes to the whole poem. We still wanted him to lop off the final two lines. Tim told us Paul never stops revising, which is good.

We spent a long time on Eddie's (Edie) Visit to New York, with a variety of opinions on the length (her longest ever) and the topics included. I thought it tried to cover too much and would have been stonger as three separate poems. Not everyone, including the writer, agreed. We all liked the first section best, re the bus stop encounter.

To sum up, the twelve of us were an energized group with lots of interaction and some really good critiques. Larry and I graciously :)) gave up our spots in the interest of time.

We will not meet again until after Thanksgiving, so blessings on you, raconteurs.

There follows an email I just rec'd from Dennis and his poem (which I enjoyed).

Dear Poe-ettes,

Sorry I could not make the gathering last nite but I have had a wee bit of work
done on my plumbing. Am ok.

I did have a poem to share which I send below. It is dedicated to Helen Vendler
that great spelunker of poesy caverns, holding high her torch so all can see her steps and perhaps wish, dare to tread there as well.

I was thinking what a great gift to poetry she is and thus this poem below.

Dennis

AN EARLY MORNING MIDNIGHT RUN

(For Helen V.)

When the sounds of day
Are neatly packed away
In their proper drawers

And darkness rings
Like a visitor from outer space,
Rings the bell of consciousness,

I sit and ponder my remains
Strewn like carrion across
A solitary country road,

Which even crows deny
A place at table, remains
More alone than nothing.

But who’s to weight
The weight of life more
Than endless death?

The mind could care less,
Calculator running up the score,
But the heart, the heart cares

Runs about like a crazy neighbor
Organizing the neighborhood into
Edens of collective joy

Poor heart, the heart, driven
Like a horse without a cart
Blind at a blind man’s game.

Again, it matters not, it only
Matters how to settle in
To common consciousness

Where life and death night and day
Are so one that their twin selves
Have no past or future,

Suspending all that’s real
Into nothingness, an absence,
That gives pleasure beyond bounds.

Who has not stood at that wharf
And seen the boat of life sail off
Far into the thinness of the sea?

The sea is full of such,
Rudderless hulks without place
Or destination to go to.

Again it matters not, it only
Matters how to settle down
Into wordless silence

The place that is no place
A mind without thought or reason
A body wrinkled like a peach.

A drowsy numbness? No. Nirvana
Is no place or acheless state
Nirvana is the beginning

Before all beginnings were,
Before there was an is,
Before is-not was, before

Before before, before before
Was, when the sounds of day
Are neatly packed away

In their proper drawers
And darkness rings
Like a visitor from outer space.

Dennis Sullivan
dsullivan6@nycap.rr.com
October 29, 2010
2:11 am
The Ville

1st Night November

2010-11-05T08:16:00.003-05:00

The question was why we share our poetry - go to open mics, support groups, etc. - and, of course, we were off and running in a multitudes of directions. Larry talked about his Walt Whitman/grandfather association and Tim had us practically on the floor with his description of hanging his friend (apropos of what I can't remember). Edie and Philomena rounded out the group and we had a good time despite the cold and rainy weather which made me want to stay home.

Comment on Comment

2010-11-01T08:55:00.002-05:00

Just a quick comment on Dan's comment:
Paul's poem did not "fall on deaf ears". No one denied the poignancy of his thought, just that it was not as successful as it might have been. We were criticizing the mechanics of the poem and changes that we felt would make it even more effective to the reader, which, hopefully is what we try to do in all our critiques.

working backwards

2010-10-29T08:34:00.012-05:00

I hope you all took the time to read Self Portrait IV which Dennis passed out at the end of the evening and we did not have time to read together. It is a wonderful work and worthy of conversation. Dennis graciously gave his time spot to Philomena who came late with paradoxical poem with a fascinating title (Schrodinger's cat?).

Obeeduid's visuals put a real kiss on Dad was right you had great gams about his mother and his daughter. "in the archway ...at the window...to a kitchen...I was never in". Good stuff.

Dennis compared my Orphan Chronicles, part 1, to a Greek chorus, a two-voice effort about, what else, the parents. Our guest Rod Cornell, who I have not yet mentioned, did a nice reading of it and I forgot to compliment him. Rod is (was?) a teacher at the high school who wants to do some writing and came at Dennis' urging.

I questioned people about any experiences with the fairly new Troy Bookmaker; contemplating self-publishing a book of my Alzheimer poems.

I am afraid I went a little off the rails over Alan's Bee Buzz Before the Winter. Sorry, Alan. The following comments are mine alone: the poem was floating along in a lovely lyrical manner - "flowers drip desire...who will drink our nectar?..." when, whammy, he dropped in a textbook excerpt on how many pesticides are found in the human body, intestinal flora, herbicides, chemicals, percentages, organisms,and more,then abruptly began to wax poetic again at the end. No, I do not consider scientific data poetic. Informative, enlightening, maybe activist, but not poetic. It gave me an abrupt, stabbing pain in my head.

Larry did not delight me either but his collection of 87 (yes, Alan counted them) one-liners did inspire quite a bit of discussion, beginning with way to pronounce the title Seraglio (meaning a harem, pretend there's no "g"). General consensus: too long, not cohesive, no taproot, possible haikus. Mark went to the bathroom and said he missed nothing.

Tim delighted all of us with Mister Figgerwigger's Sister, a poem in "constant motion" which O'B said had a rhyming Cat-in-the-Hat feel. It included a love poem to Dennis, who proclaimed it a "great step forward, a liberation poem" for Tim. I just took it for a great, amusing character sketch. The shower curtain joke is pretty funny.

This poem also led to Dennis' speculative question on whether an adjective ever takes away from the force of a noun. Good question to ponder, maybe talk about. That leads me to announce the change of 5th Night Poetry discussions to 1st Night poetry discussions, still on Thursdays, still nicely alliterative. For those interested, we meet next Thursday at 7 p.m. in the director's office to talk. Everyone is welcome, last time was fun.

Israel's musicality (how Paula Abdul of me) was evident in Coppertop (an energizing drone in the movie The Matrix )who dreams of a more utopic world as he works. With a few syllabic adjustments it would be a perfect rap.

Catherine's Wheels led to talk of similes and metaphors, with Dennis giving pertinent examples in a very effective relationship poem, tightly focused and universal.

Dan's blossoming artistry shone through in The Dead Soul, a rather dark railroad journey through dreams. "haphazard tunes on broken silk....infuse the silence of the night...dream a dream of no demand".

I am an old woman and I reached for the Websters to look up dactyl, a word that came up in our discussion of Paul's Carousel Horses. The poem received mixed reviews. Catherine pointed out that it was a little unsettling, as clowns can be, and it revived creepy, puking memories in Mark. Someone asked "what is the message?" in the poem, and I wanted some color.

The dictionary on dactyl, btw, says a prosodic foot of three syllables, one long followed by two short in quantitative meter. So, I looked up prosodic, the appropriate meaning of which seems to be the stress and intonation patterns of an utterance. Fortunately I knew what utterance is, so I went back to quantitative and got pertaining to or based on the relative duration of syllables. I am getting a little discouraged. This seems too much like work.

Dennis reiterated his invitation to a memorial poetry/food fest in honor of Arthur, to occur the day after Thanksgiving. You should all have rec'd an email. EOTNP (and s.o.s) only.

Eight of us, who seemed to be starving, went to Smit's for sustenance and were briefly joined there by Jim who had been referee-ing. Gosh, I have no clue how to spell that. And I don't intend to look it up.

Hope to see some of you next Thursday. Larry, Tim and I are definites. I am heading to Dobb's Ferry today for Hallo with some of my kids. I'm psyched.

No Difference Between Living and Dying

2010-10-15T08:01:00.006-05:00

The last man in will be the first man up: Dan Lawlor brought The Child Inside, which he dedicated to Dennis. It proposed a thought provoking concept that at death we are greeted by the child we were born as and he presented it well. Mike B. commented that it was a beautiful idea, filled with peace.

Mike, back from his Saratoga sabbatical, brought an appropriately titled piece which put the finger on the track and it's patrons accurately. Most of us agreed that the first verse which described the physical surroundings was unneccesary (boring?) and could be incorporated into the next verses with the use of adjectives.

Philomena, back from the unknown, who snuck in even later than Dan, offered a nice small poem with a great title Only two elevators left about the enforced intimacy of elevator rides. Susan was expounding on love with wonderful imagery that was cluttered and in need of trimming. Larry suggested she try to make a story from the scattered list.

Susan was "dancing with joy" over Dark Water, brought by Michael Nardacci. Mike freelances for the Altamont Enterprise and heard about EOTNP from Jill (our poetry "groupie" from Smitty's). Mike is a spelunker who is probably full of exciting tales of caves. It was quite obvious that he was no fledgling writer from the quality of his poem, a dense and descriptive adventure that produced strong emotional reactions in many: "powerful presence, tapestry of cold, chill, black, sense of mystery" were some of the remarks. I hope he continues to join us as I'd like to hear more.

My own Waiting for the Water to Get Hot struck a chord with at least a couple of people. Tim said it was devastating. Reflective of the dark quality of my thoughts lately.

Tim Norman Verhaegen was my hero last night, appearing with a gift that took my breath away (okay, maybe I'm easily impressed). I'm not telling what it is but if you want to see it, it is sitting on the counter in my office until I can make room for it at my house. Tim Norman also brought a successful poem about art and loneliness, which put a voice to the strong internal struggle most artists and writers experiece.

Larry evoked the smells of autumn, which included some that were less than desirable (Susan objected strongly). "it's all piano out today, fingers reaching out for peak colors" - that's my kind of autumn poem. None of the schmaltzy rhyming rhapsodies which too many people churn out.

Mark was vacillating between several versions of a work in progress that shows good promise. I loved the phrase "lipless mouth" and everyone agree the final line of "endless ways of being held Prisoner" was a winner.

Mr. Amidon fielded a little critism this week over tightening up Hawk Shadow, a bird revenge poem with a kick at the end. Paul also brought an announcement of a Veterans Poetry Open Mic Night at Sage on November 10.

True to form, the Math Guy had written a sonnet, teaching (me, anyway) that sonnets consist of 10 syllables per line, what cachexive means and what a volta is (an emotional or dramatic turning). Susan remarked that it was a beautiful form for a terrible subject (Jim's cancer).

Dennis, the new Cosmic Poet, was in fine form about the relationship between biology and the psyche, called My Torah, dedicated to Edie. Dennis also offered some very helpful critiques tonight.

Tim and Larry in particular seem eager to continue the "5th Night" poetry discussions. We all had a great time at the last one and are considering the possibility of meeting more frequently. Any joiners? Any opinions?

We missed Catherine, Anne and Ally Cat, Israel and Alan and Boondocks Tom, but still had a full house.

5th Night

2010-10-04T09:35:00.003-05:00

Ah...those of you who did not grace us with your presence missed a great deal of inspired discussion. There were eight of us, each of whom offered their response to the question "Why do you write?" Not only did we get to know each other better, but the answers led to other questions and we covered a good deal of territory. It was definitely a good session, leaving us to lament the fact that there is not another 5th Thursday for several months.

There follows some "Ramblings" from El Rapant, the titular head (did I say that?) of the philosophers, exhorting your attendance and...well, generally rambling.

Tis a shame that many of the folks on this list were not around for our grand discussion of the 30th when many of these topics were either spoken about or hinted at. Tis also to be regretted that they do not ever attend philosophy club meetings. If they are so concerned with the below issues...

I will repeat my off-the-cuff remark from last week: I am all the time amazed by the general and scientifically caused belief that, despite our obvious and pronounced differences and uniqueness or quirkiness as individuals, we are all of the same species. Whether or not our dissimilarities are at least in part caused by the emphasis on humanism and individuality in Western cultures, the rift between what we want and need for ourSELVES and what the community needs in order to survive cannot be patched up by simply ignoring or repressing one side of ourselves for the sake of the IMAGINED OTHER, i.e., the image that holds the community together. The flaws in both the individual and the community make both imperfect, make all shoes fit uncomfortably, and prick us on to ceaseless strife. Conflict resolution is a hoax, or a temporary fix to a permanent problem built right into the creature of various species mixed, also referred to imperfectly as the human being.

And conflict resolution, with a decidedly mystical tone to which all of the faithful sing the same tired old song together, is another name for religion. All it takes is one original voice, aka the gorgeous angel named Lucifer, or the poet, to return the entire congregation to its conflicted reality. Please remember that there could be no Lucifer unless we all had an emphatic luciferousness about us.

This conflicted angel would like to ask all the smoothies out there: Are any of you into numismatics per chance?

We are all going to try to stuff all this nonsense in one little room again on the first Thursday of October at VPL at 7:00 p.m. Please come and be another trapezoid in the confines.

2010-09-24T13:29:00.001-05:00

Vive Le Professeur

2010-09-24T10:29:00.003-05:00

September 24, 2010

I TUCKED MY FRIEND IN BED TODAY

2010-09-24T09:07:00.005-05:00

I am finding it hard to describe Dennis' tribute to Art. It was eloquent, flowing, accessible, touching. I quote:
In the eyes
of a man whose soul
sits aside the Stygian shore
I see a boy skate wild
across the frozen floor of Russia...
For me it was a throat-tightening, eye-blurring experience. Thank you.

My own poem (yes, I had one) dims by comparison, although I was fairly happy with it when I wrote it. Belling The Cat was inspired by my new Hell's Kitten, Moses, but actually tried to relate the act of a small pain letting loose the floodgates to all the pain in the universe. Mixed reviews.

Tim brought us a work in progress which is off to a good start. I, too, am fascinated by cemeteries and Tim included a visual of an old one. I believe Mark suggested that the poem ended on the first page and it could, but there was good stuff on page two that deserves to live. Not, however, "widdle tikes".

We were happy (and a little surprised?) to see Israel and Catherine again. We don't always have good luck with return visits from the people we initially attract. We might need to address this problem. In any case, they still seem to like us, and although Israel had not written, Catherine brought a wonderfully fresh Sylvia Plath poem which we all liked.

Ann drifted off the beaten path with her Two People which totaled nine alliterative words, written with her calligraphy pen, prompted ideas of the words floating around the page.

Mark, who seemed determined to chop everyone's poem off at the knees tonight, had a great title - This Foul Act - for his couplets re living life in obscurity.

Acorn shrapnel was raining down on Edie who experienced a horrible summer and was now facing the hailstorm of autumn. Edie had wisely removed a sappy verse before presenting it to the group. Dan was also into the autumn cycle with a rhyming "summer's gone" poem. Appropriately he told us how he often hears music while writing poetry. Susan compared his work to a book of timeless poems she has that was published in 1913. That was a compliment.

Susan's own Words was thought provoking and led to discussion of line breaks. It was a poem that needs several readings to absorb. Alan's list poem of the contents of his college desk in 1973 was much more on the surface, and gave us some tells into his personality. General consensus was too many books listed, poem needed weeding. Paul's First Communion started off better than it ended up, with great detail about the "uncles with knives in their boots on Saturday night". There was controversy regarding the final three lines, whether to keep or ditch.

Larry delighted me, despite his clothes clashing, the sight of his hairy legs made up for his clothing delinquency. "Exploding soapy sponges". What a concept.

All 13 of us were a little rowdy and the gavel was wielded on a number of occasions. I forgot to mention that Mike Burke left me a note assuring us of his imminent return now that the track season is over. No, Mildred Kerr is not dead but I think Tom Corrado is.

And, forgive me, God, for joking - I just got a phone call that our Mr. W. is gone.

Sexaholic Pajamas

2010-09-21T11:23:00.004-05:00

O-kay, so I'm really late with this blog. I had other things to do.

Let's skip the poem recaps and hit the high spots, the highest of which was the presence of Catherine Connolly and Israel Stark, who not only came to check things out but bravely came with poems. We gave them kudos for courage and hoped not to frighten them away, as has been known to happen. I have their emails, addition to the list pending.

There were a dozen of us filling the tables; Jim Triolet bouncing up and sitting down guitarless, Tim chortling and dialing his phone over and over, Alan back at Black Mountain. While debating a title for Catherine's Waves Dan got pretty mad at me. Larry sprawled around in those ugly pj's. I was enamored with Israel's hand printing, Dennis arty scrawl and Obee's font and believe that acceptance or rejection of a poem is so related to its presentation. I always appreciate Tim including photos. And doodles. Doodles would be good.

I am barren of poems. Gushing tattoos.

DIDGERIDOO from Dennis

2010-09-07T08:35:00.002-05:00

Dear Poe-ettes,

As probably all are aware, a few weeks ago Arthur's [Arthur Willis] TO THE TUNE OF A DIDGERIDOO AND STICKS came out under the auspices of Benevolent Bird Press, very nicely done as we might expect from what we have seen from that press already. And done with great dispatch to accommodate the reality of the hour.

Arthur [Willis] had wanted to read that poem accompanied by a didgeridoo and sticks as advertised and plans were made for him to do so but they got scotched somehow. When the Bird [Alan Casline], poet and publisher of the Benevolent Bird imprint series, saw this to be the case he went to the Willis Farm in Quaker Street, New York on Tuesday August 24 to record Arthur reading his long poem. He accompanied Arthur with his hand-held skin drum.

[Incidentally, the next day, Arthur's wife Judy, told me the reading had taken such an emotional toll that the poem went to bed to rest, toll as in healthy catharsis.]

Later in his studio Tom Corrado, using dubbing measures and the like, added the didgeridoo and mbira [an African musical instrument consisting of a hollow gourd or wooden resonator and a number of usually metal strips that vibrate when plucked] to the recorded reading.

Also a part of the performance were the sweet girglings of Gaia, a bird perched on a tree-branch at the Willis farm who seemed to be sent by the gods to add nature?s trills to the event.

Yesterday, Saturday September 4 [my mother's birthday] the Bird, Edie [Abrams], and I headed to the Willis Farm to visit Arthur and play for him the recording of his latest and most beautiful poem.

What was most stunning to see at first, was the beautiful jewel case Bird had created for the CD, linen-like cover stock measuring 5 1/2 x 8 1/2 with a slit in the top to access the CD.

The front of the case sports a most extraordinary color design of SUN, MEETING PLACE, STAR, AND TWO CONNECTED SPRINGS, water color paintings in fact, in greens and blues and yellows and reds. They look like four Buddhist prayer flags two on top of two.

A note about this: anytime you go to a music store and buy a CD in a plastic-captioned jewel case in the future, after seeing this production, you will once again see reasons why the globalizing mercantile economy is such a sham. Bird has once again produced a great work of art.

And w/r/t the CD itself, its contents, Arthur's reading is a tour de force. He sounds like a mixture of Ginsberg, Ferlinghetti, Snyder, and Corso reading Beat poetry from a San Francisco loft. His voice has a rasp and urgency to it that is compelling.

Anyone who is a fan of Arthur's poetry or of good poetry or even feigns such, or who perhaps regards Arthur as a mensch of grand proportions, will want to get this CD as quickly as possible. Bird plans to make 100 with 30 already done.

And Tom Corrado's musical input is no icing on an already-delicious cake but an integral part of making the performance the tour de force I mentioned. His perfectly-timed and proportioned crescendos fit in perfectly and will get you.

And while Bird's drumming, when he performed with the Metamorphosis Trio, left much to be desired, here his contribution adds considerably as well. It too fits perfectly. This piece could have been done live in the basement of a Village coffeehouse in the late 1950s it is so good.

Before went into the house to listen to the recording, Bird read two beautiful poems he had written for Arthur, poems of deep feeling, expressing deep appreciation for his grand master of a friend. Hopefully we will get to hear them again sometime.

On the way out to Quaker Street, Edie remarked that she thought the last time we visited Arthur he did not remember her name. I was not sure he remembered mine.

I brought with me his earlier book of poems POET IN A FLYING SUIT (1986)?for which incidentally I set up a reading in St. Matthew's Church, Voorheesville, at which several hundred showed up to listen, a great afternoon with Arthur reading from the pulpit which I took out of my bag to show him, asking him what these were. He gave his attention to something else.

I then said: Arthur, what is my name? Do you know who I am? It was clear he was struggling to come up with something and then slyly he added, You are the maestro. I laughed heartily and said, what a trouble-maker you are and he laughed as heartily or nearly so.

Once again, like a simple bodhisattva, he spoke in aphorisms as if quoted from some religious scripture. He talked about the importance of sharing, that that is the essence of being human and that anyone who does not take that upon him- or herself hardly qualifies for the title of ser humano.

He spoke as well of the importance of meeting human needs at all levels in society, that that is the purpose of being together, and that that is our mission in life. Later he spoke about poetry, that is how he had responded to someone earlier about poetry, with: it is very hard to write a poem.

I told him while the four of us sat there, that there are people who play baseball, who hit the ball, catch a few fly balls, and then there are baseball players. And the latter in the sports world would be mighty careful to qualify themselves among the latter. I said the same is true for poets, there are those who write poems and read them and there are poets, yet the former speak of themselves as if poets, as if . . .

Finally, weeks ago Arthur's doctor told him that tea is good for cleansing the system so, once again he said yesterday?as he had told me many times?that the tea is beating the cancer and that that is a good sign. Yet later he did allude to the fact that he is dying. I felt for the first time yesterday he had found the words to tell what was going on in his heart?a start to a finish with dignity perhaps. I keep thinking of the end of Aldous Huxley and how his wife Laura cared for him with such dignity, meeting his needs at every step of the way. [See Mrs. Huxley?s memoir, THIS TIMELESS MOMENT: A PERSONAL VIEW OF ALDOUS HUXLEY? (Farrar, Straus & Giroux, 1968)].

Art singled out the poetry of Tom Corrado, saying he is a real poet, and spoke of Jim Williams with such enthusiasm, how Jim has been a model for him, a mensch among menches.

Last night, laying in bed, I felt like I was dying too, a piece of me was drifting off to some place I had never known nor seen before. And it did not concern me. We will all be there and not in tune with actuarial statistics.

I will end by noting how this grand maestro of a teacher, Arthur, has had the courage to allow students to speak their hears and minds in his class, always capable of relating any curriculum-related materials to what they had to say at the moment, a quality of very rare and great teachers. His word was so respected that letters of recommendation greased the skids for many students to get into the most prestigious of colleges and universities. I saw it happen.

Several weeks ago, when the head of the Meeting House in Quaker Street asked Arthur what he would like the younger Quakers to know about being a Quaker, Arthur said, as I mentioned here before, how essential it is for a person to pay attention to the silence in her- or himself so that when a person speaks, she or he will not make an ass of her- or himself, not as in the person being concerned about being a fool, but as in not having taken the opportunity to be a contributor to the great venture we call life in community with something profound to say and be.

La Paz,

Dennis

Dennis Sullivan
September 5, 2010
8:20 am
Voorheesville, New York

Stoneman Rocks

2010-08-27T08:05:00.005-05:00

Edie started off the evening with one her best poems, about getting ready to present herself to the world in the tropical environment of her bathroom. There was some discussion about the end line "and smile" and about the trademarking of "Ecosphere", but nothing that detracted from the good poem. Dennis remarked that it was her best use of language ever.

Dennis and Tim were particularly on the money with their critiques last night, both offering valuable insights in several instances. Dennis' own poem "A Week After My Annual Eye Exam" extolled his visionary experiences and asked the question (unanswered)- is the poem a warning or a dream? Best line: I live at 26 Utopia Street... Best phrase: sorry song of night Dennis was taken aback it seemed because we pointed out two(!) typos.

Tim presented a wunnerful, wunnerful (my words) work called "Morning Mourning Meltdowns" dealing with death, obituaries, Kubler-Ross cycle, and a lot of other things. It included a marvelous quote by Tim's dad which I won't print because it had a BAD word in it.

The Stoneman rocks! That's from Obee, said because Paul's poem about chasing the sleep demons away did rock. They watched from the shore, helpless to reach me.... We applauded.

Dan caused some controversey with "A Poe-Try", a knockoff EAP poem. Dan tried to recreate the atmosphere of Poe's "The Bells" in a work that followed man's progress to the grave. Good rhymes, but maybe too much repetition? Dan, btw, is appearing in concert at Avila (Washington Ave Ext.) on September 22 at 7:30 p.m.

Socrapant did not delight me, except with his nom de plume. Larry, who always delights me, did not delight me with his "Philosophy Made Simple" - 35 "chapters" of one-liners, some inspired, some not so. Personal response only; everyone else seemed to like it.

Ann brought a rewrite of "Cardinal Flowers" (which I think is a lovely title). It was much more successful than the first version, tighter, with fewer abstract words. Some suggestions regarding changing the phrase "tied to Rome". I had to gavel when the talk sidetracked to priests and the Catholic church.

Obeedude brought a winner, which I loved, inspired by sardines. Who knew, fish in a can becoming obsolete along with much else in our world. Sad. He also used a great type face which I presumed was his handwriting and gave a short demo of his iPad for me (again). I am still pondering the purchase of a Kindle.

I will be looking up Anthony Trollope in response to a question by Tim near the end of the evening. Short post today; I am flooded with festival chores. Festival is coming up on 9/11.

from Dennis

2010-08-18T07:46:00.001-05:00

DEAR POE-ETTES,

Tuesday August 17, 2010 6:40 am, The Ville

I see in this morning’s New York Times that Clint Eastwood has a new film “Hereafter” about to be shown at the New York Film Festival. In the film Eastwood tackles issues of death, near-death, and the so-called afterlife—a timely topic for many of us. For me in particular because I was going to recommend to you all this past week Helen Vendler’s newest book Last Looks, Last Books by Princeton University Press. I cannot recommend it strongly enough to poets interested in poetry.

The “last looks” part of the book refers to a supposed tradition of the Irish who, near death, go out amongst their favorite fields, etc. to get a last peek before they die. A kind of meet your maker. As in: this is who I was, this is who I am, this is the who who will shortly never be.

The “last books” part refers to poets who through their written work express their ideas, feelings, and general sentiments about their last looks. That is, what they say about death and how they try to make sense of their “passing” into whatever happens when we die. To say afterlife is to already have begged the question.

This grand dame of American letters at Harvard—she is as great one; Wikipedia reminds us that in 2004 the National Endowment for the Humanities selected her for the Jefferson Lecture, the highest honor for achievement in the humanities the United States government gives out—tackles the last books of Wallace Stevens, Sylvia Plath, Robert Lowell, Elizabeth Bishop, and James Merrill, five of my favorites. I mean how much has been said about Plath’s handing of her humanity and what death would do to enhance it.

Vendler says that poets—who work outside religious traditions such as Christianity and others religions which have packaged ideas about death and how to handle it in life—in effect have to create their own idioms and rituals through their making of poems. And those words are not icing on a cake, but a way a person/poet can pass into an unknown that is unimaginable, (or is it?) territory, a switch in consciousness, the off-switch. I could say more, let me just say I recommend it highly.

And, by the bye, I just got a note from Amazon that her Dickinson: Selected Poems and Commentaries which was scheduled to come out in September will be out next week. I cannot wait to see her take on Emily. I recommend this as well, one grand dame examining the work of another American great. This is fireside reading.

W/r/t the first book of hers I mentioned here on last looks, I was reminded of a piece that Peter Brown wrote in The New York Review of Books in 2008 “The Private Art of Early Christians” reviewing an exhibition at the Kimball Art Museum in Fort Worth, Texas. It made me want to live in Fort Worth for a day to see it. The exhibit lasted from November 2007 to March 2008.

Why I bring this piece up is that Brown points to the earliest remnants of Christian art from private homes which tell stories about life and dialectically death. There was a rather “secular” [not a word I use, not one that fits into my ideology, but I use it here because of this context] view of life and death. That is, the art did not reflect the theology and selling of Jesus as personal savior, especially when you die. See the Vendler connection? Poets do not sell anything, they try to figure out human dilemmas for the community, for the great collective.

Brown says one of the most “touching” pieces in the collection—and he sold me on it— was one “of the gold glass pieces (catalog pages 192–193) [showing] a classical shepherd surrounded by his sheep. Around the edge is written, “(Be) the pride of your friends. Drink. May you live! [in Greek] May you live! [added in Latin, just to be sure!]” A collective mentality, a carpe diem. Imagine being the pride of your friends, someone people have something nice to say about—and not after you die!

That is, there was a modestly human basis to the art that grew out of experience, not a superimposed theology as we think of today. Important Catholic art historians put a religious spin on every social event they examined in art, a woman praying had to be the first nun, a woman and child eating a picnic lunch had to be Many and Jesus with the Eucharist.

When my aunt died a few weeks ago and I went to Staten Island to attend her wake and funeral, at the funeral mass the priest said that through Jesus she will live forever, that she has been resurrected, that she had not died in Jesus. I thought: what a religion, you think he might have thrown her a few more months while she was alive! That I’d sign up for for it has a very human grounding.

Brown says in the Fort Worth exhibition, “Two rooms later, in the last part of the exhibition, [as the centuries have moved on] we see the ultimate symbol of Christ’s power at its fullest development—a fragment of the Cross itself placed in a cross of gold studded with gems, given to Rome by the emperor Justin II sometime between 568 and 574 (catalog pages 283–285; see illustration on page 49 of this article). Glowing in the dark with barbaric splendor, this was still a Cross of victory. As the inscription made clear, this was the Cross on which Christ had “subdued [death] the enemy of mankind.” It was also a Cross calculated to keep human enemies (of which there were all too many by that time) away from the walls of Rome.”

Here we have the superimposition of a Christian poetry if you will on life, dictating how things go down in death and who is big enough to handle that death—there is only one. How does that help people make sense of their life and death in human terms, terms that can be understood by others.

There is more I can say about this but you can see how Brown’s piece, the exhibit actually, fits in nicely with Vendler’s analysis of the poetic works of human beings through poetry trying to figure out how to be “victorious” in death, how to subdue it, and if not that, whatever. I have written any number or poems on death and life, all my poems reflecting the theology of Dennis Sullivan, with a foundation that I always hope others will see as valuable for them, in that they can develop a theology, a poetry that reflects their experience.

And to extend the analysis, how does poetry keep the enemies of self away from self so that one can achieve some level of peace of mind. This is what poetic consciousness does for me, a state of mind that is both creative and gratitudinously peaceful. How’s that for a start on a way to beat death? Poetic consciousness leads us out on a high note. For all the Snow Man Wallace Stevens is, I do not think he is bummed out, just weighed down by reality, but a reality that when understood brings a certain joy, one that helps face death sanely.

Finally, and to go back to Vendler again, her first subject in the last look books is Stevens, in particular his “The Plain Sense of Things,” pointing to Stevens saying that in a certain situation he is having a hard time picking an adjective to describe it—see the first line second stanza—to say what he wants to say “after the leaves have fallen,” hen one realizes that one’s time has come..

Here is his poem below. It is beautiful. I throw these things out today for your poetic enjoyment. Plus anyone who would like me to send them, via e-mail, a copy of the Brown piece—I do subscribe to The New York Review of Books, in print and online, my longest continuous subscription, over 30 years—I will be happy to do so.

Peace,

Dennis
================

Wallace Stevens (1879 –1955)

THE PLAIN SENSE OF THINGS

After the leaves have fallen, we return
To a plain sense of things. It is as if
We had come to an end of the imagination,
Inanimate in an inert savoir.

It is difficult even to choose the adjective
For this blank cold, this sadness without cause.
The great structure has become a minor house.
No turban walks across the lessened floors.

The greenhouse never so badly needed paint.
The chimney is fifty years old and slants to one side.
A fantastic effort has failed, a repetition
In a repetitiousness of men and flies.

Yet the absence of the imagination had
Itself to be imagined. The great pond,
The plain sense of it, without reflections, leaves,
Mud, water like dirty glass, expressing silence

Of a sort, silence of a rat come out to see,
The great pond and its waste of the lilies, all this
Had to be imagined as an inevitable knowledge,
Required, as necessity requires.

THE STALWART FOUR

2010-08-13T09:30:00.001-05:00

The meeting three weeks ago, a tumultuous blend of blather, multiple conversations, and performances, was attended by fourteen poets and combatants. Apparently quite a few people got their fill at that one, because a total of four poets, a record low as far as I can tell, showed up for tonight’s session. Maybe it was the summer doldrums, level of humidity, position of the stars, or possibly that not much writing has been done of late, but there was discussion time aplenty and we made the most of it. Still, it came as a surprise, left us wondering if there was some cosmic reason for the empty chairs, a reason that might be grasped if we tried hard enough. We didn’t come up with one. We gave up looking after a minute or two and moved on to the poems.

My offering was “Reunion,” a short poem that Dennis felt was one of my better efforts as far as rhythm is concerned. Cathy thought it had a depressing quality, since the reunion referred to is one that occurs after death. Ann liked it because it was “more obscure” than most of my stuff, and provokes thought by being so. I stumbled into the rhythm by accident, but did hope to provoke thought by the subject matter.

Dennis gave us “The Nature of Native Land.” A short period of silence followed, then he tossed out the clue that the poem was about the nature of personality. Cathy said “It’s too deep for me.” Dennis gave us some background material to the effect that each person has a native land that is their real self, from which personality develops. The poem, he explained, expresses a theory of personality. There was a brief discussion of the line “when the snow turns cold,” but nothing was resolved about how the snow is before it turns cold. I think it’s a thought-provoking line (among others). The poem was written at 1:08 a.m., when deep thoughts are bound to be out on the ether of the universe. I’ll have to try staying up later and see what happens.

Ann’s poem “Cardinal Flowers” generated much discussion, some of which might actually prove useful when considering revisions. The basic idea of commenting on these endangered flowers in conjunction with several problems facing present-day Catholic religious leaders is a creative one, but several parts of the poem would benefit from clarification. The ending lines are strong and need little change (I won’t give it away). I expect a very good poem to emerge from all this.

In the discussion of this poem, Dennis noted that Ann has a feeling for the subjects she writes about, and also worked into his commentary the following observations that I personally was unaware of: (1) A poet should never give the reader a choice, (2) The preposition is a late manifestation of the language, and (3) The pluperfect tense is valueless in poetry. Good thing I showed up for this meeting. Who knows if I’m guilty of any of these?

Cathy brought “Strange Taste,” a reflective work I felt could be made longer, although I couldn’t explain how. The feeling she wants to express is already there, but might be strengthened with more elaboration. Since I couldn’t offer any specific suggestions, however, maybe it would be better not to tinker with it. Nobody else recommended tinkering with it.

After grilling the poems, we sailed off into the wild blue of non-literary current events before gaveling out early. A bit of musing on the idea of Tom writing a few blog postings occurred, but since Tom’s current residence is half way to Idaho the chance of it happening is slim. Cathy brought the book Edie made from poems and photos of Cathy’s birthday party, a professional-looking hardcover volume only talent could produce. Top-notch job, Edie.

There are poets lurking around the area, and somebody besides tonight’s stalwart four must be doing some writing. Bring some to the next meeting. If only three show up next time, I’ll take the other two to dinner and write a piece of pure drivel about the missing poets.

-Stoneman Amidon

"Bring It On"

2010-07-30T11:16:00.003-05:00

That's Alan's response to one of the questions we thrashed about last night at 5th Thursday. The thrashing began with the question "who validates your work?" and proceeded at a goodly pace to cover "who is your audience" and the value of feedback. Paul "Stone Man" Amidon assured us that he considers our critisms despite his deameanor. Larry contributed a surprising (to me, at least) twist with an elitist approach to support groups. Who can participate, whose opinions do you value and who deserves your respect? We talked about re-writes and the question of when it ceases to be your own poem, how hard it is to critique without intruding yourself into the work. Mark talked about not getting enough feedback, which is where Alan remarked "bring it on". Both welcome negative criticism. We refered frequently to "drivel". We talked a bit about EOTNP - yes, we used personalities for examples, so if your ears were ringing, you should have been here - its format, its longevity, its mission. It was a good night. Where were you, Verhaegen?

A.T. I have just re-read Dennis post regarding the last regular meeting and found it very thoughtful. If you haven't read it, please do.

Thoughts from Dennis re: last night

2010-07-23T10:32:00.001-05:00

Dear Poe-ettes, who were at the session last nite.

gee, i was a bit taken aback by the sorta’ chaotic tenor of the evening. perhaps others feel the same way. people were talking over each other, interrupting, etc. i could hardly keep my thoughts straight.

i certainly require greater concentration to hear what people are saying and i suppose others do as well. true?

i was appreciative of larry’s question re: my poem, what the philosophical context for it was/is. we rarely ask those kinds of questions—or perhaps we do and i miss them myself—but they require the person asked to reflect on the psychological context from which she or he is operating. everything i read, well, that kind of stuff is asked and answered all the time.

perhaps contributing to the non-sense last nite was that we did not have sheets in front of us to concentrate on, what we were listening to, what with the broken copy machine.

if i were serious about my poetry, if i might put it that way, i would want, for example, questions raised about the rhythm or tempo of my work, about the philosophical [ars poetica] constructs on which it is based, and how my choice of words is related to such constructs.

i do not find statements such i don’t like this or i do like that, without some construct to hold on to, very helpful. poetry in its own right is a lot more complex than a salad or ice cream flavor. it involves ultimately the body and soul of humankind.

there was some discussion of rules-no rules in poetry recently but one rule to be discussed might be the tempo of the verse we project/read and to what extent that rhythm is true to our soul.

but, if one has not paid much attention to that, i might imagine issues of rhythm would be regarded as non-essential. i use rhythm/tempo as just one example off the top of my head. and i am indeed quite willing to accept john cage’s definition of rhythm as anarchic.

for those with an interest in my poem last nite and wishing to see it on paper, i have attached it—farewell never farewell. it does raise a question about time once again, and the nature and quality of light that burns within each of us and the extent to which that light touches the common weal, that is, deals with constructs that are greater than the kind of picture-taking film we just purchased at the drug store—what i have recently described to someone as Facebook poetry or a poetic fetish.

as wallace stevens says ad infinitum, the imagination must be grounded in a reality in order to fly, shine, whatever the imagination does. well i throw this out because, if that grounding is weak, what can the imagination do, how much juice will it have to light up the world? thus, how do we see the imagination’s role in artistic endeavors such as in what we do, write poetry? stevens said the poet lends his or her imagination to the species.

and what is that ground, grounding, in which that imagination flourishes, or never gets off the ground as one alternative dysfunction?!?!

thus i have also attached a second poem dedicated to stéfane mallarmé, about such grounding, what he called the native land, what existed in us before the settlers of pleasantry showed up to colonize “the native” and thus mess with the experience, and consequent words, flowing from the source of us.

Mallarmé, whose work i love and have been reading over the past year, of which i have a wonderful translation if anyone is interested—the notes and commentary are outstanding. yet, if you would like a peek at who he is, i send this wikipedia URL http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Stéphane_Mallarmé

he and another symbolist, paul verlaine, are two poets worthy of a more than a peek and have many similarities that help with issues such as imagination and its role in the production of the written word through the symbolist heart.

the last poem i am sending is one i mentioned last nite, looking forward to winter. it does talk about how the disgruntled soul is sent to utopia’s room, the imagination, to find new grounding in which persistent troubles can be dissolved or at least given a context through which ease pain is eased and continuity fostered, personal continuity and that of the species—all species.

but maybe that is not the function of poetry for some; for me poetic consciousness is a palliative but more than that, maybe a touch of Keats’ Negative Capability, a being suspended in reality in which reaching for shore is seen as foolhardy. it is more that one is thankful to be in that gifted situation—cause for praise, no?

But if personality is a substance that prevails, as the poem the nature of native land says—it must otherwise we rather risk severe psychic disintegration—thus i like to stick a nail into reality, the air that is all about us and hang my plumage there.

it allows me to take a breather and fly anew. such is indeed the basis of economics, out of which our poetics emerges, thus the so many different poetic realities we hear every thursday we meet.

well, just a few notes re: poetry poets and poets to be.

La paz, amigas, amigos,

Dennis

General Rowdiness

2010-07-23T09:18:00.005-05:00

Well, last night did not turn out as I expected. I imagined us subdued and quietly contemplating the life and times of our Professor Willis, who has had some unexpectedly bad health news. Instead we welcomed some entertaining guests who mistakenly thought they were coming to an open mic. A couple of them may have enjoyed themselves enough to become permanent players.

There was a big turnout - 15 in all - and it was also the first night of trying out our revised protocol, which allows for more talking. Talking was one thing not lacking and I took very few notes. Mary and A.C. and Jennifer all participated in the disussion. Tim did a little (very good) rapping to Dan's poem. Annie (A.C.) Everson performed. Susan waxed Romantic. Jim's title had no observable connection to his poem. Ann's damp fluff provoked the only dissension of the evening. Mark policed the room for scraps of Larry's orgasmic poem so small children would not find them in the morning.

I utilized the gavel several times, attempting to keep the side conversations under control, but there was an almost constant buzz except during the actual poem recitation - which turned out to be another problem, as the library copier was out of order, so no one was able to make our usual handout copies and we did not have vital visuals of the poems.

Speaking of visuals, picture Larry with the gavel next Thursday night, as we try out the 5th Thursday Poetry Discussion option. Bring a topic you would like to talk about or a question we can all offer an opinion on (!) and we'll see how the experiment goes. Larry is moderating. 6:30 start time. So-

All told, an unusual night. Fun and noisy, but licked with sorrow for our friend.

Why didn't anyone

2010-07-13T08:16:00.000-05:00

...tell me I was wearing two pairs of glasses last week? Both red.

Fomenting Revolution

2010-07-09T08:09:00.010-05:00

It appears that my blogging time, as well as my muse, has been slain by the demands of more plebian work. I was just too busy to blog the June 24 meeting notes, so I will incorporate them here.

Midway through last night's meeting, as we were struggling with unanswered questions over a poem, I was struck with the inspiration to abandon the RULES! After taking a quick survey, the group decided to suspend the protocol under which we have labored for umpteen years and try something new; namely, restoring the ability of the writer to respond to questions during the course of the discussion. I am feeling that this change will facilitate (stimulate?) conversation and the gavel will be employed with greater frequency, but I look forward to that. There will still be NO preamble allowed and this is being done on a trial basis. If it flops, it's over.

Paul reminded me that we have a fifth Thursday in July and we had vowed to begin discussion nights on such occasions. If you have ideas for discussion questions, please email them to me. I have started a list.

Alan mentioned that he is working on an Art Willis collection and an upcoming poetry day at the arboretum. Details will follow.

Moving on to actual poems. Ally joined us ready to do battle over war. I learned that the phrase "the dogs of war", which was the title of her poem, is a quote from Shakespeare. The poem strongly echoed the sentiments of most if not all of us - as Susan pointed out, poets are against war. However, some took issue with the generalities Cathy included, suggesting that they oversimplified the situation. Cathy, btw, expressed delight with the birthday book that Edie put together for her. She will bring it for show and tell.

Speaking of show and tell, Ann brought beets. Yep, chioggia beets. Alan, whose turn it was to do the second reading, was not happy with that one. Say key on jah. We all got to sample the shredded vegetable, which looks very similiar to a bermuda onion when sliced and tastes sweet and delicious. Ann's poem received very little critique because we were all busy chewing and discussing beets.

Alan's Molly Gregory was discussed a lot - portrait of a woman who was on the faculty of Black Mountain College, an experimental school begun in the 1920's (30's) and which died a dreadful death by mismanagement and bad press. The poem is part of a collection Alan is working on to present at a seminar later in the year. We found it confusing. Remarks were made that it was choppy and disjointed. I particularly felt that Alan was "telling" us things he should be "showing".

Dan wrote Painting a Poem, a lovely concept reflecting on making the transition between words and pictures. We suggested losing some of the "big" words such as verisimilitude and obliqueness, and changing some of the questions to statements to strenghten it. Susan asked for more specifics events to show the colors portraying the emotions. Dan has made great strides in the sophistication of his work since last year.

Clever Larry struck again with an ingenious portrayal of a man becoming a woman. It totally cracked me up . "The man waxed ashamed of his (hairy) chest and went to the beach in two pieces." Dedicated to Tim who was in P-Town for vacation.

Susan wrote Love Songs which we amended to Love Song, and she incorporated several of our revision suggestions to emerge with a totally kick-a poem about a man/woman relationship while the man is in prison. Lovely and sad.

Paul surprised us with a sarcastic rather than nostalgic piece called Repent, Ye Sinners. Larry expressed confusion about the first verse - I guess he is unfamiliar with "earthly disciplines". An amusing and satisfying poem.

Villanelles. They confuse me. 5 stanzas of 3 lines, 1 stanza of 4 lines with a complicated rhyme scheme which Jim Williams mastered while in traffic on I81 between Harrisburg and Scrotum (sic), PA. i don't think I will attempt one.

Here's the ketchup blog from June. (What is the matter with me? Just musing.) Because it was a small group, we let the conversation lead us in varying directions - covered kenning (I need to look that up, refers to changing words without changing meaning), Raintree County, Wallace Stevens, Sartre, suicide notes and other strange topics, all related to poetry.

Alan's Push a Blossom into the Green Fuse, a "take off" on Dylan Thomas, began the discussion of the kenning process. Alan, btw, had a successful performance at Cafe Lena last week, with several of us in attendance, although not me. Fearing the heat in the crowded upstairs venue kept me home. Not to worry tho, as Lena has finally acquired some a/c.

Larry's Allegory was another tickle-my-fancy as he described a yellow jacket "pacing like an innocent con in his cell on death row", then transporting the poor doomed creature in a dirty yogurt container to his grave - which, in turn, led to a debate over woodchucks vs. gophers not worthy of repeating here. Somehow Alice in Wonderland also became involved. I don't remember how.

People seem to be thinking war these days. Dan wrote about The Great War in dramatic detail. A few small suggestions were made regarding the use of capitals, keeping "creeping" instead of "slithering". Dan mentioned All Quiet on the Western Front which was one of my favorite books as a teen. I intend to re-read it now.

204 Boundary Avenue was almost a recap of Paul's early years. Beautiful memories of his grandmother's house; few improvements suggested as usual.

Missing Edie and some of the guys. Don't forget to send me topics and join us for the July 29 discussion, here at 6:30 p.m. Don't tell Larry yet, but I think I will ask him to moderate the discussion. Next regular meeting July 22. I might have a poem. Something that happened on the way home last night got me thinking about it.

AT (afterthought): Paul tells me his comments are still not getting through. My computer gurus are working on it again. Keep trying.

From Dennis

2010-06-21T13:44:00.001-05:00

DEAR POE-ETTES,

Just a reminder about upcoming two gigs, one a wee bit closer than the other.

First, the Bird is featuring at Café Lena, the first Wednesday of July, the 7th to be exact.

Those of us who have decided to go to support the Bird are planning to meet at the Parting Glass in Saratoga 4:30 or so for pre-prandials, wackles (that’s drinks), and some food. The PG is located at 40-42 Lake Avenue ~ Saratoga Springs, NY, Tel: (518) 583 - 1916

The CL gig starts at 7:30 I believe and sign-up begins circa 7. I think there is a three-dollar charge to get in. There are lots of readers in the summer and it sometimes gets hot in the queue but it all works (sweats) out. Great cookies for a buck and the coffee in the heat is aok too; during the break two of us head out and around the corner for a beverage.

Everybody is invited to the warm-up gig at the Parting Glass; we went last year and some of us had fun.
Let’s see the hands!!

Secondly, even though a further away, some of us are going to the Poets Forum run by the Academy of American Poets—see http://www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/20218—on October 30th, of this year.

It is an all-day workshop beginning at 10 am where interested attendees can see, hear, interact with 15 or so of the very best poets in these United States. If you are interested in improving your work: (1) how to start a poem; (2) last lines; (3) the self in the poem, etc. etc. etc.

We take the train down in the morning, the 6 am I think it is ,and walk down to NYU or the New School, wherever it is held. Some of the members of the Third Saturday Poesy Café are planning to go.

Others in the Café are planning to go that morning to the city and have expressed interest in the Poets House in Battery Park, the area I used to go to to work in the great Washington Market as a 14-year old kid, from midnight until 7 in the morning with my grandfather. Then back on the SI Ferry. More than true. Here is the URL for that fine place: http://www.poetshouse.org/

In the afternoon—I think I have the schedule right and sit corrected in any case—we are going to the famed White Horse Tavern, a review of which can be found at this URL in New York Nightlife http://nymag.com/listings/bar/white_horse_tavern/ and a description of which can be found in wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/White_Horse_Tavern_(New_York_City).

We are planning to hit the Tavern circa 3 pm for the early shift. Noted writers and poets such as Dylan Thomas, Jimmy Baldwin, Norman Mailer, Jack Kerouac inter alios.

All poets in the Thursday group are invited. We have fun, nice train ride, good conversation (mostly), some exercise from the train to the forum, exercise to the tavern, exercise IN the tavern, exercise back to the train. We have gotten the past two years the 6:30 or so train back. Maybe this year the 8 pm or so. That TBD.

Thought some folks might be interested.

La paz,

Dennis

ars vocatus moriendi

2010-06-11T07:47:00.007-05:00

Alan opened the meeting with a number poem called The Beauty Way which he had dedicated to Jim, the Math Guy. The theme was "beauty equates to math and harmony of nature" (per Larry). It began with some Navajo references to their way of life - mystic trails to another world, which Tim picked up on. Jim began to be a trifled riled over the unanswerable(?) question of which came first, math or science.

Jim then impressed us with The Suicide Note as Text: The Discourse of Last Recourse. "One does not perform a suicide, as one performs, say...a poetry reading." It was entertaining and clever and we learned one gross thing about suicide bombers which I will not repeat here. You can ask him.

Larry asked if his poem was a groaner. I didn't think so. The title Almost a Grand Union set the stage for his never-failing word play, with food and sex. Tim totally could hardly control himself and the rest of us chuckled.

Dan and Paul both brought us back to the sweeter side of life with Paul's recital of a School Concert and Dan's perfectly rhymed Christopher Robin's Prayer. Old Norman Rockwell raised his head - I've heard enough of this comparison, folks - again with regard to Paul's re-creation of a time and place. Alan deftly pointed out the emerging gang mentality, authority issues and ego submergence in Winnie the Pooh's crew. "Beware the Giants who linger here...Their waiting shadows, there and there..."

We got to vote on two versions of Mark's Seasoning poem. Picked the first person version with the second title. Another rhymer, perfect cadence and a lovely message. Larry asked what "salt of the earth" really meant and Mark looked it up on his IPad. Meaning: thoroughly good type of person.

Timmy's Questions provoked the most discussion of the evening, whether or not it successfully addressed the social conventions regarding mourning and why do people care so much what others think. It had several great verses, but to me, it missed the transition between the thoughts. Maybe too streamlined. Tim is committed to the poem and vowed to rework it.

The Purple Suit was an apt title for Ann's commentary on her relationship with her dad, which changed dramatically after her mother's death. I suggested portraying the change as happening more gradually and Ann seemed to agree. We talked at length and to no resolution about the role of the teeter totter. First, we had to describe a teeter totter for Larry.

I wrote a really stupid poem about my toe, which I am throwing away.

Alan will be performing at Cafe Lena on July 11 - sorry, July 7 at 7:30, preceded by group dinner at the Parting Glass, two great incentives for a Saratoga trip.

Afterthought - I just noticed a note I made regarding toilet seats having fewer germs than handles. You gotta watch those handles. And those automatic flushers.

Plus Eight

2010-05-28T08:04:00.011-05:00

Ann Lapinski, our newest poet, offered up some compliments last night on how much she had already learned by being part of the group. She performed at her first open mic last weekend and, although nervous, enjoyed it (photo compliments of The Verhaegen Studio). She brought a list poem of mouthwatering items she could no longer eat because they contain gluten, which led to an enlightening explanation of celiac disease. We talked about list poems and the necessity of using unique expressions.

Dennis impressed with The Parable of the Butterfly, which everyone liked a lot. Dan mentioned its lyric quality and Paul the "hindu meditative feeling". Dennis explained the word bodhisattva and kindly provided (me) with an About.com reference regarding Avalokiteshvara, the Buddhist God of Infinite Compassion, symbolically portrayed with 1000 arms. This god is venerated as the ideal of karuna, the willingness to bear the pain of others.

Tim (of Verhaegen Studios) had us all confused with Master, which Dennis referred to as a "complex psychological drama". Larry pointed out the negative connotations to the word master, which might have contributed to the confusion. Dennis suggested that Tim might benefit by reading the work of Rumi, who wrote poems of love and surrender.

We had a few suggestions for Paul as well. Several thought that some tightening here and there might be useful. We had to explain to Larry what Moving Up Day (the title of the poem) was. There was some discussion of the Norman Rockwell aspect of it, with me disagreeing with Tim's statement that Rockwell did not realistically portray American life.

Noname cracked me up as always with "...on the bumpy road to love Still..." which began with "men are just as jerky" (fill in the blank, I guess). Paul's Rockwellian portrait of life came to a crashing halt here with the white horse dropping large loads behind him. I loved Homo Pinball.

Dan wrote about a moving experience at the Viet Nam memorial, the smooth black wall, and the very personal feelings he felt there. I suggested reworking into consistent couplets. A number of opinions were expressed about separating the crucifixtion analogy into a different poem. Dan seemed determined to stir up some controversy tonight, emphatically putting forth the theory that that are no rules in poetry.

Edie was late, but she made it with a lovely little portrayal of Lucy and Lily intercepting her muse. We discussed enjambment (another subject that Dan brought up) and the use of singular or plural verbs with collective nouns, as in trio.

My Midnight on the Porch was a last minute 20-word, six-line poem, which actually inspired a good bit of dicussion. We talked about the definition of lost children, with Dennis pointing out the multiple levels involved in the poem, which was not meant to be rational, but to recognize an immediate feeling.

We added a couple of questions to the discussion list, one (from Dan!) about the weakness of gerunds as parts of speech. Paul informed us that there are only 4 months per year with a fifth Thursday and the next one is July.

FYI.

Obee is off on his Civil War journeys, Beach Boy is at the lake, Susan and Tom and Mr. Willis and Math Guy and Ally and The Bird were just plain missing. I am limping off on my sore foot for a weekend of introspection and solitude with my dog. I was up at 5 a.m. writing a poem about my toe.

Happy holiday.

Alan Casline (from guest blogger)

2010-05-24T11:25:00.001-05:00

Monday May 24, 2010 10:57 am

Dear Poe-ettes,

Just a little note to say that Alan “the Bird” Casline will be attending a national, international I guess,
conference at Simon Fraser University, Vancouver the first week of June (4th-6th) dedicated to the work of Charles Olson.
The theme is “Charles Olson Centenary Conference.”

Bird is on a panel with John Roche, Michael Boughn, Hoa Nguyen, and Kenneth Warren (Albert Glover as guest)
called “A Curriculum of the Soul: from Buffalo Out.”

I still have big questions about the curriculum which might be answered when the Bird is back. In the meantime
anyone interested in what will be said about “The Kingfisher” there can check out this URL http://olsonconference.com/

By the bye, in addition to being a great poet, Olson ran for an extended period of time Black Mountain College located near Asheville, North Carolina.
Martin Duberman wrote about the experiences there in his much celebrated Black Mountain: Exploration in Community, raising the issue of whether community
arises from education or education from community.

A very interesting book. I have read it several times and bought numerous copies
for folks. For anyone interested in not-heavy-at-all summer reading, I recommend this book highly. A cultural oasis with good drinks to boot.

The reader get insights into the college and the life of many of the greats of the 20th century such as: John Cage, Robert Creeley, Merce Cunningham, Buckminster Fuller, Josef and Anni Albers, Paul Goodman, and Robert Rauschenberg. These were all great cultural transformers. They and the book are gems.

Good luck, Bird. Safe trip. We seek a de-briefing upon your return, good drinks to boot.

La paz,

Dennis

A Birthday Excursion to Margaritaville

2010-05-20T07:59:00.009-05:00

It has taken me a while to get to this post. A trip to NYC intervened. I attended a tattoo convention which was held in the amazing Roseland Ballroom, which made me think of the old Palace Theatre before the rehab. The convention itself was pretty amazing. Should be fodder for some written words.

It was a full house here on the 13th. Ally Cat was here poem-less. I managed to bring one - some lengthy doggerel about Smith's Tavern which Jon McClellan had requested that I write. It rhymed. It was amusing.

Obee started off the evening with an ode to his new iPad, appropriately titled Modern Love. (It is truly a lovable instrument. ) He later offered Advice that included "a boy cannot wag his tail". Not sure I understood it all, but I loved his font.

Art read Axiom and Wisdom for Cathy Anderson's 80th, which, btw, was a big success. Cathy seemed thrilled with the party and the poems and it was fun to make her happy. Great Anderson family, great food and hospitality. Alan presented her with a chapbook of her own poems and I made a little book of poems from the rest of us. Art's addition didn't make it into the booklet, but it was a wise one, complete with cartoon.

Edie's poem worked her passion for dogs into a political statement about our lack of hospital and nursing home care. We liked the relationship with the dog better than the social commentary. The segue was not smooth enough. Tom suggested abandoning the couplets and writing only one thought per line.

Dan wrote again in his new winning style with a gorgeous description of When the Monarchs Came to Town. Again a suggestion from Tom to alter the form.

Art thought that Paul's Ice Storm was "too anthropomorphic". There was some question about the subject of poem being the ice storm or the trees. Tom said it reminded him of Birches.

We were quick to point out to Tom that he had used an unknown person's name in Eating a Footlong in the Car on the Way to Ballet. He defended himself as having introduced the character sufficiently to warrant the familiarity. Larry pointed out that there should be less telling and more sharing about a precocious kid who appeared later in the poem. All in all, it was an amusing and accessible effort (with a denim typo).

Ann sobered us all with a reflection on her grandmother's death and the sweaters she had left unknitted. Suggestion: less tell, more show. Then Susan switched us up with a more sensuous offering that included a wonderful line about the "delight of rolling down the muddy hills of you". Way to go, SJR.

Personally, I found Larry's John "Papa" Phillips very moving, although we had to recap the sad story of John Phillips for those who do not follow the Billboard charts and the gossip rags.

Mackaroniousnaronious Timmy landed a punch with The Stupid Vulture. Great subject matter, powerfully presented. Something about it made me think of Road Runner and Wiley Coyote.

I have started a list of topics for discussion, things which keep coming up without the group having time to explore in regular meetings, such as the significance of titles, definition of prose poems, and other stuff. Edie suggested we utilize the occasional 5th Thursday for a discussion night. Sounds good to me. Who is interested?

Alan is featured this weekend at Sunday Four. I'll be at a Bon Voyage party for my grandson who is leaving for Colorado so you will have to go without me.

Poet Laureate Thoughts

2010-05-07T10:29:00.004-05:00

It was a great day - for Sunday Four, Smith's Tavern, EOTNP and the library, and the now-on-the-map Village of Voorheesville. Dennis and Edie and Mike (and Georgia and Saul and those wonderful judges) did a tremendous job on this and the day went smoothly and profitably for all of us. It truly will be another notch on the bedpost for V'ville poetry. That's not exactly how I should have phrased that, but you know what I'm trying to say. Thank you all for the votes and kudos I received. I was really happy. I am occasionally still sleeping in my wreath.
Barbara

Susan was Silly

2010-04-23T10:57:00.006-05:00

It was a mildly crazy night, with lots of good work, and good critiques. Paul (who tried to trick us by inserting his name into the #2 spot) led off with Stone Boats, a concept which needed to be explained to many of the youngsters present. Good solid historical which we wanted him to send to the (now defunct we learned) Yankee magazine.

Alan's Navajo Butterfly Song sprang from his recent expedition to New Mexico. We all liked the line with outdoor coffe, two musicians, a small black dog and a robin and a little boy in different trees. Obee gave us a soft and gentle bathing experience which Tim compared to "sharing a bath with humanity". Tim also inquired why the OWL should be required to pay rent to live in Larry's nose. Everyone agreed that the OWL should not.

Tim brought us a winner with a stunning picture of his mother, busty and bare-shouldered with black blank eyes. Art called it a brilliant photographic essay, Dennis wanted it published and Alan wanted to know if it was possible to be too personal in a poem. Never really answered that query. There followed some conversation about the projected figure of a woman, and men not knowing their wives.

It's a fairly reliable supposition that Susan was over-fatigued, as she spent half of the evening lounging on the rug and forgetting what she wanted to say. She also ATE HER PROPS, which seemed to give her enough energy to make it through a really nice Meditation on an Orange (minus, of course, the orange).

Mr. Willis dazzled me with his rehab of some 70's work that I find more accessible that his recent pieces. He captured the essence of an 8th grade boy. "I'm beautiful, beautiful me." Love that.

My own poem was a quick one on the days of my life going down like dominoes. Faster and faster. Somewhere along in here, several people broke into song. Ann, who sat beside me, offered a "fabulous" encounter with the realities of breast cancer, including mammograms. Everyone liked this, few suggestions, some questions about squeezing breasts.

Dennis also impressed with an ode to Lydia Tobler's son on his wedding, coming so soon after his mother's death. We all agreed it was a good one. Jim Williams wowwed us with a guitar/poetry presentation. He is a talented guy.

Dan Lawlor, who has been absent for awhile, returned with a whole new approach to his work which was, IMHO, a breakthrough poem about the sea. Best I've heard from him. He also passed out invites to his upcoming concert appearance at the Schenectady Library on May 16.

We talked about Michael Czarnecki's writing workshop here on May 15. Details available in the latest newsletter. I also passed around the poets' list for updating. If any of you have contact info changes, send them to me before I pass out a new list.

The Poet Laureate contest is this Sunday at Smith's Tavern. Sounds like it's going to be HUGE, folks. See you all there, providing I can decide on which poems to read.

Final Instructions

2010-04-22T08:10:00.001-05:00

Dear Participants in the First Annual Smith’s Tavern Poet Laureate Contest,

Ya’ all set! Only four days left depending on how you count them.

Let us remind everyone that we plan to start promptly at noon on Sunday. The tavern will be open at 11:30 for everyone to get in and get settled. We mention for your edification: only soft drinks until noon for those with an interest in something hardy. Some food will be available that early as well..

At several places in the Tavern three sheets will be posted with the order of reading for the three rounds. Please look at where you are situated for each round so you are ready to follow the poet before you without delay. We will not rush in any way but plan to maintain a certain rhythm. Edie Abrams will announce each poet.

When you arrive, look for Edie and please give her four copies of each of your three poems of 25, 35, and 45 lines or fewer for the three rounds. Title does not count as a line. Edie will make ready the poems for the judges. Plus she will have name tags for every participant.

Contestants are advised that there will be NO commentary on the poems read. When you go to the “podium” to recite, simply read the title of the poem and begin reading. The podium will be a music stand at the head of the room in case you wish to use it to hold your sheet or book containing the poem you are reading. There will also be a mic which you may use if you wish. There is no requirement to do so; use or no-use will not affect your score. There will be a small table for a cup of water next to the music stand if you wish to have water while you read. And it may be hard to remember now but we ask that all applause, if you wish to applaud, be held off until the end of each round.

By the bye, there will be a short 10-minute “bathroom break” after the first round in addition to the already-announced 40-minute break after the second. We hope all contestants—when called to order by our little school bell after each round—will assemble without delay. Remember, if you miss your turn, you miss the round and will receive no score for that round. So we urge you to be prompt for each round and watch your turn within it.

After the third round is completed, official scorekeeper Georgia Gray will tally the scores. As soon as they are done (perhaps 10 minutes), the winners will be announced in the bar proper—if you are not familiar with the tavern you will quickly see where’s what—and Honorable Mention, Second Place, and Laureate presented with the cash prizes of $25, $50, and $100 respectively by tavern owners, Jon McClelland and John Mellen.. The score sheets will be made available to the contestants so everyone who wishes can see how each poem fared with each of the judges.

There will be at least one newspaper at the “award ceremony” to take photos of the Laureate with the judges and owners of the tavern.. Area television stations have been notified of the event and may appear as well. We hope the picture-taking will not cause undue uneasiness for anyone.

The name of the Laureate will be engraved on a “trophy” which will be kept in the tavern. The titular honor lasts one year. Finally, our friend Elliott Horvath has made available copies of his creative poster/placard announcing the contest for any participant who would like one.

We wish all of you the very best. Bring your best work, present it with love and care. The three of us will be available to help you in any way we can with “housekeeping” needs.

We remain respectfully,

Edie Abrams
Michael Burke
Dennis Sullivan
(Contest Hosts)

Poet Laureate

2010-04-19T08:22:00.000-05:00

Calling all Poets,

Lotsa poets are signed up for the contest this coming Sunday at Smith’s Tavern beginning at noon. The aim is to become the Smith’s Tavern Poet Laureate. High honor, high honor.

There are three spots left if anyone changes his or her mind and wants to enter. A couple of day left.

To let all poets from the V’ville group know, audience members, spectators are welcome, of course.

There will be two rounds of reading—beginning at noon sharp—and then a 40-minute break during which there will be music, sorta bluegrass, bluesy.

Should be a good time. Maybe see you there.

Edie Abrams
Michael Burke
Dennis Sullivan

Between Larry Grapeful and BBBurke

2010-04-09T07:38:00.011-05:00

That's where I was sitting as Edie and Ann and I tried to hold our own against the men last night. It wasn't easy. There was a lot of eyerolling and groaning as well as laughter.

Brave Ann was back with a very effective poem about chopping Horseradish with her mother. Dennis called it a nice little watercolor. We talked about the repetition of the peel, chop, buzz phrases and Alan wanted her to cut it down by half, but most thought it was tight and reflective of a good memory.

Edie demonstrated her scholarship with Jewish history. We all learned about Bontsha Shvayg whose feet left no mark upon the dust of the streets, in contrast to her protagonist who railed noisily against God and wanted to put him on trial as did Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berdichev. We wanted a name for her character.

Tim wrote beautifully about his parents in his breakthrough style, quite a step for him. Dennis mentioned the "economy of language" being strong. I liked "she spits grapes at you, she likes them seedless". It was not clear to me how much of the poem was going on inside his father's head, but it was not a big problem.

I love it when Alan makes a foray into the world of humanity (as opposed to flora and fauna). This was a great poem, whose beginning set the scene of a poverty and drug-ridden neighborhood down the river, where everyone knows that "meet at the tree," means that you will be buying, selling, consuming drugs. Edie's observation that "just because it happened, it doesn't have to be in (the poem)" I find to be very true in all writing.

Art summed up Dennis' Premonition as a good blend of classicism and modern contemplation. We learned about Baucis and her man who folded their leafy crowns to join as oak and linden side by side. Dennis gave us the five reasons why he had written the poem, but the only one I wrote down was that it is a love poem to Georgia Grey (and that is reason enough.) Dennis took some ribbing on this one. Alan questionned whether the oak and linden shared the same ecosystem. I heard the phrase "beaver in a mudslide" and "totally incomprehensible", but I can't elaborate. The Phrygian ramifications were considerable.

I have reconsidered my harsh reaction to Mike's Yorkies whose owner committed suicide. I loved the poem until he startled us with dramatic climax and I was horrified that those poor little guys were left alone with the dead guy. There were differing opinions on who died and an indentation controversy, but no real critism of a another punchy Burke epistle.

Larry Grapeful is beginning a new career under his assumed name. Art said his poem was filled with terrific energy and Tim had questions about "puffy nipples". (I don't know if we resolved that.) Tom thought it was very clever and Dennis offered "ditto". Oh, yes, I think Larry learned the difference between complimentary and complementary. Maybe not.

I guess I got the point of Tom's Topspin when I observed that I was sidetracked by the breathlessness of the two readers. Droning must have been the object. Art called it a "humming cosmic sound" and Dennis compared it to a "jacked-up Hail Mary". Favorite line may be in here: a half-eaten ham and swiss moldering on the passenger's seat. Tom said, "Line breaks."

Art "tweaked" up a poem from the '60's called Bestiary of Self which addressed the mind, heart and soul. The first two paragraphs were dynamite with a feral boar and a mud puppy. My heart was surprising by the pond's edge, elicited some discussion. Dennis said the poem sings and Alan mentioned its interesting complexity.

Lots of talk about Play at the Plate, beginning with Edie's request for baseball information. The description of the doofy kid who can't play well hit home for some (everyone knows that poets are not athletes) and Paul made the incident totally believable. Dennis wanted immediate imagery, which meant taking out the qualifiers. He also wanted him to avoid inchoate verbs and stressed that prepositions are lawyers' b.s. Paul said, "What the (blank) are you talking about?"
The End.

Housekeeping details: the death of a popular teacher has left Mark in a quandry about his art reception on Sunday, but the plan at this moment is to go ahead with it. !:30 pm on the 11th. Mark's photos now in the hall gallery are wonderful.

Art is presenting a book talk/lecture here on Monday night at 6:30 pm. All are invited.

Michael Czarnecki is holding a writing workshop here on May 15 from noon-3 p.m.

Don't forget Sunday Four will hold the Poet Laureate competition at Smitty's on April 25.

Mikveh

2010-03-26T08:22:00.008-05:00

The night began with us all anticipating a conference call on my cell from Jim in NYC which didn't work out. Jim seems anxious that he is missing poetry and sent me a sonnet which he was going to read to the group. We'll save it for next time when he will be back. We miss him.

Philomena brought a friend named Ann, who was brave enough to offer up a two-page poem about the joy of adopting her daughter in China. We were our usual brutal selves but gave her helpful suggestions for revisions. The story in the poem is good and it has some good lines, but it needs to be shortened and made punchier. We talked a couple of times tonight about the concept of "show not tell" which is a tried-and-true that always helps me.

Philomena shared Love's Compass, the poem she wrote for Sam on their 20th anniversary, a fact that did not deter us from critiquing. The poem contained the words enlightenment and Buddha, both of which we ended up removing (only sugggestions!) Edie called it "poetry by committee". The streamlined version read by Susan was appreciated by all, including the author, I think.

Susan's Matters of the Heart, here in its entirety, was one of the saddest one-liners ever: "Almost ready to give up/on love/too many/old toothbrushes/fill the/dirty cup in the bathroom." Big debate on one final line, which Susan ended up deleting.

Art called Larry's Channel 437 a compilation of Ogden Nash, George Carlin, Jules Fieffer and Lewis Carroll. Someone said "don't spend too long enjoying it or you'll miss something good". Very true. It was playful and wonderful (Philomena) and a searing political statement(me) about shredding textbooks, murdering turkeys to celebrate thankfulness, slain evergreens commemorating new malls, and more. Loved it.

We totally took apart the last stanza of Paul's Burning Leaves, wanting to omit the final line and remarking that although it contained some good stuff, with a little work it could be more compelling.

Art brought the heartbreaker of the night and did it well. It was a childhood memory of a "small and wan" playmate who died of leukemia. We talked about both the stigma of cancer back in the 40's, and the capitalization and punctuation of the poem. Art told us that the poem had been "pursuing (him) for over 60 years". He said it "sat in me like a cloud" and that he thought it came out finally due to his participation in our group.

Edie won the evening with her Edie's Mikveh. Not only did we really enjoy it, we all got an education in the Jewish ritual bath and sexual mores. Interestingly, our other Jewish female (Susan) had problems with the poem, including the title, thinking it more full of sexual innuendo than reflective of the holiness of the Jewish tradition. I pointed out that that's why it was "Edie's" special mikveh. Edie had us all smiling with her delicate references to "enhancing her life" on Shabat nights with Saul. Reminder to self: look up the difference between labile and nubile.

Upcoming:
On May 15 poet/traveler Michael Czarnecki will present a writing workshop here at VPL. See Alan for details.
Our Professor Willis is presenting an evening discussion here on April 12 with the co-author of his new book on innovative teaching techniques. 7 p.m. Good for everyone who needs to relate to others.

Florida was fun, sea-watered my cell phone at the dolphin cove and was incommunicado for two weeks. Dennis will be back from Ireland and featuring at Sunday Four this week (3 p.m.) Hosts Edie and Mike will both be out of town, so it's a one man show.

A Plan for the Improvement of English Spelling

2010-03-26T07:53:00.000-05:00

by Mark Twain

For example, in Year 1 that useless letter "c" would be dropped to be replased either by "k" or "s", and likewise "x" would no longer be part of the alphabet. The only kase in which "c" would be retained would be the "ch" formation, which will be dealt with later. Year 2 might reform "w" spelling, so that "which" and "one" would take the same konsonant, wile Year 3 might well abolish "y" replasing it with "i" and Iear 4 might fiks the "g/j" anomali wonse and for all. Jenerally, then, the improvement would kontinue iear bai iear with Iear 5 doing awai with useless double konsonants, and Iears 6-12 or so modifaiing vowlz and the rimeining voist and unvoist konsonants. Bai Iear 15 or sou, it wud fainali bi posibl tu meik ius ov thi ridandant letez "c", "y" and "x" -- bai now jast a memori in the maindz ov ould doderez -- tu riplais "ch", "sh", and "th" rispektivli. Fainali, xen, aafte sam 20 iers ov orxogrefkl riform, wi wud hev a lojikl, kohirnt speling in ius xrewawt xe Ingliy-spiking werld.

The Other Every Other Only Real Men Need Apply Thursday Night Poetry Group

2010-03-12T15:09:00.000-05:00

My task, that I was coerced into doing by the Sunbathing Queen, is to reiterate what happened last night – Thursday, March 11, 1970 – at the site where the new library will be in about 20 years, and down there among the poets who gather in that swamp with the wattles and the Finns to smoke Cubans and go on and on about all their latest poetic conquests.

To wit:

First up was the soggy – from his Florida getaway trip – Dan. I saw him as wearing a ten gallon hat with his britches falling off his hips, but I was already out of it when the meeting began, so don’t take anything I say too seriously, or don’t take it and sell it to someone else before I get a chance to. Dan danced the words to My Old Chair in his tenor legs. We all tried on the Old Chair and liked it for its tilt and tumble. But some of us were distracted by the twittering Thom Frogs outside the window.

Then Larry went to the bathroom!...

followed by Paul who was haunting him and everyone else with his Abandoned Crazy House. Some of us, the schizophrenics, didn’t like this or that, but overall you know it was Paul and we had a little ride ...

finding ... Alan ...

but here, we all took a 30 minute break to passionately fight for whatever side of the participle controversy we were on – it was a knock-down-drag-out brawl that ended in a tie and destroyed the ambitions of all the mosquitoes who happened to see it.

When Alan’s poem first chugged out of the barn I think we were all right there with him riding on the hay wagon but then Rebecca dropped her contact in a field and everything sort of went mystical and hazy. It was Alan in his wizard’s garb and I think (under all the non-existent sexual chemistry and tension in the room) there was a genuine harmony of opinion that the poem was neat and maybe almost all there.

Which brings me to Mark. Mark seemed to be reading from down in the swamp somewhere, but we all know what that’s like. Maybe he dialed the wrong ZIP! Larry said he was going to the bathroom. Again! Mark pulled out his poem. The ditty was called flung by daily penance: its title was italicized, underlined, and all in small letters, beyond that, sane men fear to pee, which is precisely what we love about O B!

Now we retire to a wood with the venerable Tim. His character romps through the woods seeking it. It? Yes, it! The character’s mother is there to recreate a number of imbalances and then they all have an orgy. Bravo, Tim. Daring, provocative, whacky, designed to move the center of attention to himself, etc. Tim is a risk-taker, and that is very cool, I think. (You don’t know who I am, do you? which is why I’m still able to think!)

Ah, tHom, leave it to tHom to make the trivial sublime. tHom at his chit chatterly ironic oh my god best A High of 51, but see it when it plays in your local movie theater as a pre-show short starting this May.

Me llamo Lorenzo!

Baldies and Butts

2010-02-26T20:26:00.022-05:00

Theatre of Her Teeth (Corrado)

2010-02-26T09:36:00.006-05:00

We had a great night last night. Susan returned- I hope her attendance is going to be permanent because she is an asset to the critiques - and got us talking right away about her poem On Love. Larry suggested substituting the pronoun "it" for "love" in much of the poem, because the power of the word love needed to be underplayed for more effectiveness. We wanted to eliminate the first stanza and use the line "I see how love works" for the title.

Philomena professed a sense of indifference in her Perspective about the universe. The suggestion was to get rid of the personal references and make it a more universal comment. Example: Is the universe indifferent (to me)?

We did a lot of talking about Tom's work starting off with a Lewis Carroll quote which led to a discussion of Tim Burton's new movie Alice. We questionned Tom about his technique, how he "loses" his mind - perhaps unleashes would be a better word - to float into disconnected thought and access a part of the brain the rest of us don't usually go to, Larry being the exception to that. Philomena and I may discuss that privately with Larry. Susan said the poem totally took her down the rabbit hole. Tom quoted (somebody) about "distract the watcher at the gate, let the wind come in". I am going to try that. Particularly successful poem for Tom.

The other two women present did not recognize Captain Morgan in Larry's title. Not much of a drinker myself, I know the rum king from my bartending days, but that's another story. Larry was playful as always. We all learned what Gnossiennes are (little piano pieces) and picked out some favorite spots: "is is like a magic wand", "opposites attack," "the party has flopped over a couch". Susan talked about keeping a journal and going back to dog ear poems with "energy" for further exploration. Good idea.

Tom complimented Tim about the enormous strides Tim has made in his poetry recently. Tonight's titleless poem was accompanied by a photo his brother sent him of his parents ashes on the table in their Florida lanai with an absolutely funny line about them, unrepeatable here. The poem was a commentary on their relationship that needed revision only in one small place.

Paul's Business As Usual generated another swell of conversation, regarding Paul's general presentation and practice of guiding the audience safely through his stories to the end. Although Paul's work is always well crafted and finely tuned and accessible, Tom opined that it needed more excitement to be challenging to the reader.

I Always Return My Shopping Cart - Despite my dissembling about throwaway poems, the group liked mine, describing a visit to Hannaford. I questionned the order of the verses - starting with the fat ripe olives and ending with the deaf lady bagging the groceries, the decision being to keep it chronological, and to meditate on a substitute word for "intrusive". Philomena commented that it was beautiful.

Mark's contribution to the evening was visual poetry in the form of manipulated photos that he makes into watercolors in that wonderful way he has. I am looking forward to his art exhibit here in April.

Mr. Willis and Ms. Schreiber are both unable to attend temporarity, but sent wishes. Cathy was missing because of the weather. I am particularly looking forward to seeing Jim Williams' chapbook that Alan is working on. I will be in Florida swimming with the dolphins for the next meeting and Larry will be in charge.

Miriam Axel-Lute is the feature at this Sunday's Four. I don't think I have ever heard her.
See you there.

Just to let you know, I have no valentine

2010-02-15T12:29:00.004-05:00

Tim's dad died today, on the 3 mos. anniversary of his mom's death, and we are all surprised and sad for him. He managed to write out a coherent, although title-less, poem that was very descriptive of his father. We agreed it was excellent and "ginsbergian".

Welcome home, Susan. Our missing Ms. Riback joined us after a lengthy absence, with a strong poem called The Last Anniversary that triggered an "emotional reaction" in Tim, and, I think, others. Susan's voice is distinctive and I've missed her.

Mark's "I sleep with a pile of books now" struck a chord. I (and I hear of others who) sleep the same, turning over in the night to awake to the thump of volumes hitting the floor. I love it. It was also a fun poem, amusing and accurate. Susan read Afraid of my Larrys and liked the feel of Larry's words in her mouth when she read them, and the alliteration. Tom thought it a great performance piece. I just enjoyed the camouflage Larry, contrary Larries, the little Larry who wants to be loved, the fallings apart Larry and the creepy little so and sos. More fun.

Tom and Kafka. What a marriage. The woman. The letters. The dialogue. The black bathing suit. The dog. The email. Dennis and Wallace Stevens, general thought that Midwinter was reminiscent of WS after a distinct change of voice in the middle. It was "chock full of images".

I felt there was a different degree of personalness in Paul's Penny Arcade that is missing in much of his work, although always nostalgic and full of images. It was a poignant commentary on his father. Tom and Alan both commented and Paul may consider the suggestions.

So, ten guys, me and Susan. The End.

BTW, the final word is: Do not ever buy from the food co-op. That's my advice after hearing Alan's Wildlife at the Food Co-op. Unless you don't find worms and bird poop offensive.

The Math Guy and The Chocolate Oranges

2010-02-02T10:41:00.005-05:00

I wonder if EOTNP is unique with respect to the ratio of men to women in the group. Our last meeting started out with ten guys and me until Philomena arrived at the last minute. This is a good group, with a diversity of styles and approaches to poetry and, obviously, heavily weighted toward a masculine point of view, if you you believe in such things, as I do.

My poem of the night award goes to Obee, whose word picture of his brother was colorful and moving. BTW, Mark was also impressive at Sunday Four with a wonderful digital photo presentation along with his poems.

Tim was very clever with his "you know - that she knows - that you know - she just did" phrasing when writing about reaching out unsuccessfully for a hero. We also noted it to be a more universal poem than we usually hear from Tim. Tom disappointed us by having Catherine Deneuve's sweater buttoned almost to her neck, but we chuckled at the green Ford Pacer with the SAME2U license.

Mark opined that Larry's Day at the Lake was successfully done. Dennis said he was reminded of French films. Was it the skimpy bathing suits? BBBurke's poem reminded us of the brevity and unexpectedness of life very effectively in his dependable abrupt-ending style. The Beach Boy is now off on an extended Mexican sojourn. Mr. Willis and Ms. Schreiber are also out of town, I hear. I am out of town in my head, listening to the call of the warm wind and the waves and the sand. That may be where I was during the discussion of Becoming a Poet because I missed most of the conversation and have nothing to write. Sorry, Dennis.

Paul's returning-from-war work was labeled "marvelous", "wonderful" "this will stay with me" "a great indictment" (of war). Perious Frink and the Witch of Limestone Gulley made an appearance accompanied by Alan's drum. Hey-Na, Hey-Na, Hey-Na Ho. One falls over laughing from Philomena was presented with a lovely illustration (in color, too). I like poems with pictures, and poems about teddy bears.

I think I speak for us all when I say that The Math Guy has been a great addition to our family. Hearing Jim's music and poems inspires me to set the bar higher in my own life. With his guitar, he delivered another good one, appropriately called Math Kind of Guy, and made us all smile. Thanks, Jim.

Nothing much on the calendar now that Alan's ColdFest is over. If you weren't there, you missed an abundance of turkey and wine, a round robin of poems, a visit from Stacie, and a platter of out-of-this-world oranges dipped in chocolate. (see photo) Charlie co-hosted in fine form and graciously endured Edie's attentions. Several patient spouses were in attendance and I managed to drive myself without getting lost or spilling the sausage cheese dip. So - all was well.

All good poems

2010-01-15T08:49:00.005-05:00

At last, the women outnumbered the men at last night's session. Of course, there were only five of us, but I was happy to see Joyce and Philomena, as well as Paul and Mark. Joyce brought a copy of the Pyramid Lake poetry collection that she and Steve had edited. It was spiral bound and included colored photos.

The poem she read was the one included in the book and we all liked it. Good thing. Seeing that it was already published, no one wanted to criticize anyway. It was a tribute to her daughter-in-law and consisted of less than 50 words. Very simple and heartfelt.

Philomena had some fantastic lines in her poem called "How do I want to use words? " The best line for me was:

If I enter an antique store

I won't know what period the furniture

but I will know what chair I want to sit in.

In fact, I suggested that she end the poem there, but everyone else seemed to want to keep the last stanza, which did reinforce her point, but I thought weakened the structure by appearing at the end.

Paul offered one of his solid nostalgia poems about a one-room schoolhouse. It was pretty tight and full of good imagery. None of us actually attended a school where we had to carry wood to the stove, but it did revive some other old school memories.

Obeeduid had quite an usual and imaginative work which was a hit with all of us. The way the poem was laid out on the page was a huge part of its success and the presentation was clipped in an effective way. It is rather hard to describe. It is called "The Art of Giving" and he refused to explain the underlying meaning, leaving it to our vivid imaginations.

The only upcoming news is Mark's appearance at Sunday Four on the 24th. Don't forget to party at the Caslines on January 30.

Thanks from me to all of you who made the trek to Saratoga to hear me at Cafe Lena. Great dinner, great company. Great bread pudding (I wore the whiskey sauce.) Great to see Cathy/Ally Cat.

Food for thought: Instead of our annual April Poetry Brunch, which I have vowed to discontinue, or at least not hold in April, I am wondering if you would like to try a different format at one of the regular April meetings. Perhaps a reading, a performance night, a collaborative poem, obee's harp and Jim's guitar and Tom's sax, food.... ?

The diehards

2009-12-30T15:28:00.003-05:00

Five guys, Edie and I squeezed into Gail's office on 12/29 for a meeting to make up for missing 12/25.

Everyone seemed most interested in Edie's sugar glider, for whom she wrote Goodbye, Lavinia (including photos). Thom surrendered his plates again, after doing it once last Sunday at Sunday Four (which, btw, was truly enjoyable because Mike Burke was the feature). Alan's Victoria Day started a whole conversation about footnotes. Larry's epical tuba note echoing off the porcelain set up a mythical stench. Mr. Amidon met with his muses and Mr. Williams had the best verse of the evening in his suicide poem, complete with illustration.

Nothing from me. My brain was frozen along with my body and I went straight home to my visiting children. It is my understanding that others did elsewise.

2009-12-18T10:48:00.001-05:00

(from) The Fish
by Billy Collins

As soon as the elderly waiter
placed before me the fish I had ordered
it began to stare up at me
with its one flat, iridescent eye.

I feel sorry for you, it seemed to say,
eating alone in this awful restaurant
bathed in such unkindly light
and surrounded by these dreadful murals of Sicily

And I feel sorry for you, too-
yanked from the sea and now lying dead
next to some boiled potatoes in Pittsburgh-
I said back to the fish as I raised my fork......

This is all I have to say

2009-12-11T09:46:00.003-05:00

Two announcements arose since we last spoke (last night:)) Larry reminded me that we are convening on Tuesday, Dec. 29 for a regular meeting here because, inconveniently, the library is closed on Christmas Eve, our next regular date. I will send a reminder email. I also received mail from Jill Crammond (one of our dropouts) announcing a reading/open mic at the Perfect Blend in Delmar on Dec. 20 at 2 p.m. Michael Burke is featured at Sunday Four on December 27, 3 p.m. I am reading at Cafe Lena in Saratoga on January 6. Some people are going and stopping at the Parting Glass prior, if anyone wants to hook up. Well, you know what I mean. Alan is planning our holiday party at his house when the holidays are over. Details to come.

Truth be told, I was a little spaced out of the discussion at this meeting. Too philosophical for me. I was a little hung up on the meaningless of it all. Why do we bother, who cares, etc. And, I wrecked my poem, attempting to change it, couldn't get it fixed, had no offering. I'll get over it.

The highlight of the night for me was JimthemathguyjustbackfromAfrica, who brought his guitar and played background music for his poem. It was all perfect. Good poem, good music.

Meeting on Tuesday

2009-11-23T10:47:00.004-05:00

I have posted Tim's pics from Sunday Four, where Philomena did a beautiful job as the feature, and a good time was had at Smit's following. I am posting to tell you that we are meeting on Tuesday this week because of Thursday being the holiday. The room is occupied until 7, so we will gather in the director's office at 6:30 and move to the community room when it becomes available. You are an extremely dedicated group. The same situation occurs in December when we are closed for Christmas Eve and day, so we may want to talk about another date for next month.

Crazi(ness)

2009-11-13T08:47:00.009-05:00

It was a rowdy night. Talk, talk, talk, giggle, giggle, whisper, uproarious laughter. Lots of gavel banging. There were ten of us, Philomena and I, eight guys, sounded like more. I wish the women would all show up at the same time.

Alan passed out flyers about the 21st Annual Day of Poet contest at the Colonie Town Library on November 28. There are cash prizes, if anyone needs money, I think one of us EOTNP-ers could swoop up the win.

Here's the rundown on the poems.

I had been anticipating Tim's poem and it did not disappoint. We all read and reacted to this powerful, dare I say strident, work about his mother before he quietly passed along the information that his mother Joan had died on Wednesday. The poem include three snapshots of this colorful woman and was begun before her death, worked on after. Several suggested that a collection of Tim's mother portraits would be good. Certainly interesting. To give a hint of Tim's feelings, I will mention the title, which was Are you crazy, or just plain mean? (There will be no local services.)

I like it when Philomena brings her poems on "recycled" paper. The back sides are almost as readable as the front sides. Her teddy bear poem brought us to a playful place with her description of the behavior of stuffed bears, and led us into a "realization of autumn and all it implies." Mentions of Indian Ladder, cider, donuts, trees putting on a show. Tim requested some stanza breaks.

BTW, I will be putting quotes around phrases that were uttered during the course of the evening, but not always attributing them to the speaker (in case I didn't write down who said what.) In any case, the quotes mean it is not original to me.

Tom was nominated for best title with Broom Clean. It appeared to be an excellent reflection of Tom's chaotic life right now, with his usual unique images. "The apostrophe of your face resurfaced on the foreign rack in Hollywood Video..." Oh, yes, I asked and learned that ostinato is a repeated figure in music.

Strangely enough, Paul induced a small controversy over the glorification vs. the reality of war. Called The Nobility of War, it was really a peace poem, which of course, I approved of. I particularly liked the line that pointed out it was a "child of many motives." How true. Paul seemed to be into the spirit of the evening, questionning what the heck Dennis was talking about, not quite politely. Art had uttered almost the same phrase regarding Alan's comments on Mark's poem earlier in the evening. Lots of babbling going on.

The converation about Art's Such a Niche did get a little beyond simple. Consciousness vs. awareness, terminal niche, origin of species, genesis poems. "With reason can you touch awareness?" Art says no. On the surface, which is where I mostly stayed, it was a refrain with the exact same number of syllables in each line and verse. Very clever. Very Loki-ish. Also brough forth mentions of Alfred North Whitehead, who is a favorite of several of the guys.

Philomena gave a noteworthy 2nd reading of Dennis' Core of the Apple. In the general silliness, Alan took issue with the overuse of -ness ( as in silliness). Art mentioned Gertrude Stein's intention to "destroy all rules". I like that. The author noted that "the origin of choice comes right behind the origin of sin." I won't even try to go there.

Larry had a hard time believing in Alan's title: Give to Vitaminangels.org. Alan insists it is a real organization, which solicits at the Honest Weight Food Co-op for quarters to save children's lives (in an already overpopulated world). The poem was "a tribute to the distance and fragmentation in the name of activism." Okay, maybe I didn't write that down correctly, because it made sense to me when Art said it, but it doesn't now.

Mark wants a t-shirt that says: I hope I have enough Satie left to get through the afterlife, which was the final line of Larry's poem A Bipedal Disorder. Poem contained a couple of words I need to look up, but I did think it was remarkable. Larry has an incredible mind. Dennis called him a "philosophical anarchist". Alas, war is me.

Mark is still in Celtic mode and gave us a "magical" work of "mood and sensibility" called The Cooper's Grave. We all learned the story of the serpent biting its tail, in an airy poem with good imagery, "the imaginary dolour of women weeping."

As usual, I was feeling inadequate in the face of so many good writers, and was reinforced by lovely comments from Mr. Willis on the quality of my writing and ease with language. Thank you, Art. My poem was, to me, a throw-away piece called Ghouls, about the spidery fingers of brown, dead leaves falling on my shoulders. Dennis noted that I shudder from the chill actually shuddered. I hate autumn for the way it presages winter. Oddly, I don't mind winter as much as I dislike the fall.

The meeting adjourned to Smitty's, which I can talk about because I was there this time. Poetry conversation continued, naturally, and lots eating; I was totally starving, pizza, fries, hamburgers, asparagas soup, yum. I told tattoo stories from my recent stint at The Tattoo Learning Center. Tim was not with us at Smit's, but he called me this morning to say what a terrific night he thought it was.

Note: Cathy is in Texas, so I am passing along that the Lifelines group has changed meeting nights to first Mondays. Larry and the philos are still going strong on first Thursdays.

We never got around to talking about the long break ahead, with Thanksgiving falling on our next meeting date. Happy holiday. Eats lots.

from the President Pro Tem (thanks, Mr. P.)

2009-10-26T19:00:00.000-05:00

Gathering of 10/22: Art, Philomena, Mark, Dennis, Paul, Larry, Jim and Cathy

Art’s poem Joey was much appreciated as a character study of a creative but underappreciated student. There seemed to be general agreement that the first stanza who be better placed at the end. The poem reflected the concerns and sensitivity of a master teacher.

Philomena’s poem my husband had a procedure was also very well received. It considers the question of indispensability in a humorous and thoughtful way. There was some discussion of the wording of the middle stanza, and fisticuffs were threatened over whether “I am replaced” should be “I could be replaced.” What the right answer is we may never know. (This is an aside from Larry to Philomena: What is the relationship between Rights & Responsibilities? i.e. If I am behaving irresponsibly, am I not in danger of forfeiting some or all of my rights?)

Mark’s poem Hoops was enjoyed immensely. The conceit in which barrel hoops are compared with love was sensitively portrayed. The last line of the poem was stolen from Yeats with impunity.

El Poeta’s poem REFLECTIONS ON A BODAL MOON doubles as an imaginative entering into the reality of newlyweds and a lovely rendering of a romantic reconnection of the poet with his own mate. The war between Spain and France ended with a pyrrhic victory for Dennis. We also wound up with about 5 different pronunciations of the word “mien.”

Paul’s poem ROADHOUSE OF SHADOWS was a wonderfully realized portrait of an old speakeasy and its characters, both then when they were young and in their present dotage. It was suggested that the title be changed to ROADHOUSE so as not to make its later appearance in the poem anticlimactic and some specific examples of minor paring down were suggested.

Mr. Polanski’s poem MEN ARE MORE WATERY THAN WOMEN (“Fat molecules are very hydrophobic and so fat tissue, containing fat cells full of fat molecules, have a lower water concentration than other tissues. As women in general have a higher body fat percentage (partly due to the presence of breasts) they have more tissue that has little water and the so the total body has less water per weight.”) was favorably received. The war between Pinky & The Blue Notes lyrically drags on. It was suggested that the title might not be helpful as is.

Jim’s poem(s) SEVEN KINDS OF SUICIDE was (were) mightily (and cruelly?) encouraged. It was agreed that the beginning three stanzas, aka the early years, were extraordinarily vivid and wonderful. The suicides themselves didn’t always succeed, at least to those of us who were left behind so to speak. I thought the highlight of the discussion was the comment by Dennis to change “Lenny Bruce OD’ed” to Lenny Bruce got needled. We are all happy that Jim is still writing poetry.

Cathy’s poem Arlington was a poignant reminder of the overwhelming sorrow and absurdity of war. After which there was nothing to do but slit our wrists or gather together for Bloody Marys at Smith’s Tavern.

As president pro tem, let me just say it was an honor and a privilege and I didn’t deserve it based on the little I have accomplished so far but I will fight extradition to my dying breath. Larry

BTW, Dennis hates exclamation points

2009-10-09T12:22:00.003-05:00

Quiet night, people straggling in. Not even one gaveling.

Joyce seemed delighted with the suggestions we offered about her poem Notes (the best of which was to change the title). Omitting "pre-dawn" and "definite" made this whole simple poem more powerful.

The Health Care Debate was quite satisfying. Who could go wrong with "I want to honor the dead who have died because they had no insurance"? Although there was some ambiguity in the fourth stanza over the placement of "red as blood", Philomena took kudos for this.

Obeduid had a funny and appropriate, entertaining and usually formatted work called Bipolar Stroller. Everyone seemed happy with it.

Dennis' Early Morning Dream... and Paul's opining on hording stuff both got us into rather lengthy commentary. I felt that Paul had not put the usual care and thought into his, (me) not being able to relate to a young single man who can't throw anything away. My fault, I'm sure. Dennis had a great section about Adam & Eve barring God from Eden which everyone liked.

Timmy, Timmy is possibly the best offering of the night. Larry said that the "words are beating each other to death". I felt that I could read it over and over and keep getting new interpretations. "What if I said I don't know?...What if I said I love you?" Good stuff. Again, not great title.

Larry filled three pages with Why Men Have Sex. The apparent reason is for any and every reason. I had planned to write a response, but could think of no good reasons why women have sex. No poem from me, the coughing person.

Two Blobs in One

2009-09-28T09:47:00.003-05:00

I begin with Benevolent Bird's beautiful homage to the ghost bird heron, white wings, crescendo in a strange clear light. It was a mellifluous masterpiece.

Cap'n O'Sullivan captured me immediately with the wonderful title - My Mind I Traded for the Moon.* As I mentioned, it brought to mind the illustratons from my Childcraft books, of stars and fairies in the moonlight, golden apples, downy beds. It also gave me what I thought was a glimpse into an aspect of Dennis I hadn't seen before. Just an opinion.

Dennis joined us just in time to hear Obeeduid's poem with him in the title, appearing at 2:44 a.m., carrying a little red basket filled with broccoli and, what else, Guinness.

Speaking of green vegetables, someone suggested an old growth of asparagus, rhubarb or roses would add specificity to Paul's description of the abandoned farm returning to nature. The marble jar in the yard was a great touch.

Tim's poem generated much conversation, as usual. A nearly-abandoned building, inhabited with the remains of a couple, one long gone, one almost gone. We debated line breaks and adjectives, the "rule" being: if you have to use two (adjectives), neither is good. And no multiple choices for the reader. Pick one and stick with it.

Edie's work called Courage was a hit, one of her very best, it "rises to a level of serious poetry".

Art opined that "profound observations were embedded in" Larry's poem No Hope or Crosby. Syntactically speaking (Larry says) I am continuously bumping into myself. Also, on the road to enlightenment, the first step is peanut butter - which with I emphaticaly concur.

Jim Williams wrote a tercet, appropriately called Tercet. It contained "katabasis", which is now on my list of words to look up. (I have a short list after every meeting. ) The poem was very powerful and Jim related the story for us of Hera, Zeus, Pan and Xion's wheel. I liked this: Pray, do tell the hanging man how of my clay is made the hangman's lime.

Philomena incorporated a segment of her job into her poem about talking with a parole officer: righteous indignation ...my teeth clench, holding on to the knob of argument's door.

Art addressed a problem that all of us face at times in our writing lives: I've been barren of late, waiting for Prattle's fuller notes. Know full well what prattle means, I foolishly waited for someone to explain to me who Prattle was, thinking perhaps he was a famous philosopher or a colonel in the game of Clue. Sigh.

I redeemed my stupidity with a good poem, tho, that Dennis thought was "marketable". Marvelous mood, gently mocking, were comments on Protest Rally - the protest being the leaves leaving the trees.

So, it was a strong turnout, with Art bringing a friend named Dick, who seemed to enjoy us, but may live too far away to become a regular visitor.

Between September 10 and 24, many of us attended Tom's feature at the Justice Center. He pulled off a really great stunt, flipping through page after page of his own poems and reading just one line from each. Very effective technique, particularly in Tom's style. Dinner first at Salsa Latina was also noteworthy.

Now, stretch back to the meeting on the 10th that I missed blobbing. Briefly.

Tim's Perfect Stranger was a sparse, "stripped down version of too perfect for sex." One word, one-liners of an encouter.

It was nice to have Joyce with us with a rumination about a Skeleton Key. Joyce needed to "murder her darlings" - cut out some lines or phrases she liked, but which the group felt could be edited.

Lots of talk about Tom's Just Out of Reach. Tom's penchant for saying something original using cliches was obvious here. Joyce called it a mundane vehicle to reach such a depth of feeling and Jim called it a slit-your-wrist kind of poem, both accurate descriptions Tim said it showed terrific technique, with the cliches bringing out terrifying bitterness.

Also lots of talk about Jim's Math Kind of Guy, which we all know he is. I really liked the kind of sing-song quality of the poem, the repetion of the title. Leonard Cohen-ish, according to Larry. Art wanted more mathematical meat and Joyce just wanted to hear more.

I really liked Rachael's Full Moon/Slapping at Mosquitoes September 2. Great line: Moon pulls Ocean's protest right out of her wet, blue boots. "The longer I look (at it), the more I see", Jim said. It painted a great picture.

Larry's A Throwaway was, according to Art "electric, alive, a hot wire". My poem was a sarcastic throwaway about Eli humping my arm like a real man. Art had a clever technique himself in Off Beat in Quatrains, a rhyming effort that was in ruins, in ruins.

Paul wrote about an Antique Shop, a suggestion being that he write in the singular rather than plural form. The second Alan (Siegel) showed a great change in style with Waiting to be Filled, that we all appreciated.

Okay I am left with a couple of odd poems floating around that I am not sure belong with this group. If I omitted you, my apologies.

Alan reminds us that Rootdrinker dues are due. Next Sunday Four features Jay Rogoff, a professor from Saratoga Springs on October 25. Whew, I hope I am caught up.

*When I am done blobbing, I will attempt to link to this poem for you.

This is gonna be short

2009-09-01T09:39:00.006-05:00

I am still swamped with festival work in addition to my regular, which is why it has taken me so long to get to this blob. If any of you local artists are bringing work for the art show, get it here now as we are hanging on Thursday. We have a wealth of crafters signed up to vend their wares at the festival on September 12, and all-day music, including a classical string quartet and Joyce's husband's traditional Irish music. If any of this interests you, stop by. I will be here most of the day.

Last Thursday began with Joyce's art reception at 4:30 which I was not here for but several of you were. We probably agree that her intaglios are brilliant. And, she left us some brownies and yogurt-covered pretzels to eat at the meeting.

On to poetry - small group of eight (well, seven and a hit and run) allowed us some freedom for conversation. We relaxed the rules - sorry, Thom - and were able to explore some topics at greater length than usual.

It was object night. Rachael's velveteen pouch poem was full of lovely images disguising a lover's quarrel. All good. The poems from Rachael and Art started the talk about rhyming, off-rhyme, internal slant, dissonant rhyme and on through aboriginal music. Art took off running with the fabric sunflower Medallion that was his object, indeed, indeed.

Alan Siegel's The Starman's Message provoked a lot of talk, hopefully helpful to Alan, about vague generalities and the difficulty of translating the abstract into language.

Tim listened to some bad advice and almost wrecked a great poem about death and cemeteries. I know this because he sent me the original later and it was one of, if not the, best he had written. New version had too much telling, not showing, which was more subtly and effectively done in the original.

The Assignment - Tim called Larry's prose poem "totally courageous", Art thought it "concise and bold". I just plain old loved it, especially Nayleesa DeBerry's big black bubble butt. He was inspired by my clay sculpture of a naked purple woman. I also loved Mark's There is a Sight I Must Have Looked. Eight short lines of heart-piercing sadness.

I wrote The Prowler in response Tim's tiger towel and because I had a real prowler at my house one night this summer. Tigers, prowlers, shining eyes in the darkness, fine-honed blades, etc.

Some of the topics we touched on, aside from our own work, were Hafiz, Rumi, prose poems, Ginsberg on rhyming, Auden, aboriginal music, Emily Dickenson on rhyming, William the Conqueror, use of the word bastard, Coleman Barks (?) and William Robert Foltin. Rachael contributed an intriguing remark about poets "falling into a pit of navel lint", but I did not get the context.

Summer is over. Take cover.

The Ant, part II

2009-08-17T14:09:00.004-05:00

Boy, it has been crazy around here, getting ready for our September festival (more about that to come), among other things. So, I'm finally back to finish last week's blob.

It was good to see Mr. Willis who has been vacationing without us. As usual, I learned something from his poem, called Definitions - that flarf has been used in poetry circles since c2000. It means, well...it's hard to define and I can't repeat the word Art used to describe it. I guess I can paraphrase: FLARF is poetry that rolls around in excrement and picks up anything. Paul called it airborne barf. Google calls it an avant garde poetry movement of the early 21st century, a edgy representation of our culture by poets and artists, exploration of the inappropriate, deliberately bad poetry, and more. Look it up if you care.

Mark wrote in a "bardic" genre, lyrical, singsong observations about aging. An interesting aspect of the poem was pointed out - the stanzas can be rearranged without loss of coherence. Very nice. Paul remarked about his own work Audition that "revisions don't arrive right away", which meant, I guess, that our suggestions, few that there are, have to be digested and considered carefully.Everyone wanted Joyce to remove the word "awesome" ("awesome is irksome" :)) from her quietly beautiful description of mist rising on Pyramid Lake.

Alan's Tour of John Roche's Poem 'Exchange' Art called "free association on the subject of money". It was a little beyond me, I admit. I don't even know John Roche. Rachel wrote of an old collie, a front porch and bike ride. We all liked it a lot. Good line: "the spit of dried dread on your lips." Dan Lawlor was back from his travels as well, with a good, cleanly written prayer called Wherefore God? which addressed some of the eternal questions. Dan was singing on Sunday at the 3rd Reformed Church.

On looking things over I'm voting for Mark for best line: "we cling to the trash and tinsel of our hides." Or maybe Tom's conceit as used as a substitute for salt. Or maybe Rachael's "what of your naked leg, all smooth calf and thigh..." Or Larry's blood returning softly, without apologies. Heck , I can't pick one.

Check out the announcement about Tom and the Justice Center, dinner first. Dennis is keeping a head count.

My Ant

2009-08-14T08:39:00.031-05:00

Here is my ant. Poor, lonely, lost and, as the subject of my poem, with the exception of Rachael and Joyce, totally misunderstood. The guys were out in left field somewhere. The poem was ambiguous, deliberately so, but was definitely not sarcastic or about the homeless. Btw, O'bee, a morning survey shows that either "past" or "passed" is correct depending on my intent. So, I guess I scored a miss with this one, although everyone liked my photo.

That reminds me, we had a surreptitious photographer in our midst last night, as demonstrated by the following photos:

Good job, mysterious photographer.

I guess I'll work backwards today, starting with Edie's "beatific and blissful"-ly maternal offering re Caesar and Petey, her cat and dog children, and a thunderstorm. It was one of her best and I particularly like it. I also learned that algid means cool.

For reasons not too clear to me, the always entertaining Mr. Williams ripped his poem in half before passing it. I really enjoyed this one, too, and Art called it brilliant. I found out later that even Jim's twelve-year-old realized it was about sex - "watermarks of bliss" (at the laundromat with the bedsheets). Aha, lots of bliss and choirs tonight. Another word I didn't really know - palimpsest.

Lots of opinions on Tom's conceit and the definition of the word. He repeated "My conceit" in the same position all down the one side of the page, and the pro and cons opined. I offered that I thought some of the conceits were clever and some less so and should be worked on. One of the really good ones was the first: my conceit can be used as a substitute for salt.

THE BODY: Jim was ready to steal this from Larry- at least his ideas; Philomena called it incredible and everybody seemed to find it pretty perfect. As for me, Larry lights up my life.

Tim wrote a "really gothic" (Paul) poem and Tom said he really nailed it. I was a little unclear about the status of the father - I thought he was dead. We wanted to eliminate the eyeballs and replace with simply "vibrant blue eyes". Other than that, it was quite a lovely work.

Philomena is a high maintenance kind of gal, we found. Rachael complimented her on her economy of words. It was a funny and timely poem with a good humorous ending.

Okay, I don't have time to finish blogging today, so I will post this and the rest on Monday. We had a real full house with 14 of us in attendance. In case anyone wondered why I disappeared from Smitty's, I boxed up my chicken wings to eat at home in order to avoid a couple of drunks I knew :)).

Remember Philomena's picnic this Sunday and the Arboretum tonight.

from Philomena

2009-08-10T08:02:00.000-05:00

I am having a potluck/barbecue at my house (instead of Bozenkill) on
Sunday August 2pm. All poetry folk are welcome. Marian Ct. is off of Gun
Club Rd. which is off of Rt. 146 in Altamont - it is near the Altamont
Fair Grounds, there is a new SEFCU bank on the corner of Gun Club.
Marian Ct. is the first right after that. My drive way goes onto Gun
Club. and is the house right across from the Bozenkill park. I think it
is very light green in color but others differ. Please RSVP so we know
how much meat to barbecue.
Philomena

Sarabande

2009-07-24T08:25:00.005-05:00

A sarabande is a dance of Spanish origins dating back to the 1500s. It is the title of Tom's poem, which I will be saving forever because it references my attention-getting fall at the arboretum and my aspirations to become a tattoo artist. Thank you, Mr. C.

We were tres heureux (so there, all you language droppers) to welcome Stacy back after a long hiatus. She has new curly hair and brought a very good poem. Brief, in lines and words. Wave - "frozen in an impossible arc of time". Nice.

Jim was here - is soccer season over? - with a political statement about living in the suburbs (of Delmar). Included some good rhymes and a few bad ones which can be easily fixed. Tim, by the way, thought Midas was only a muffler shop, but I won't laugh because he brought me a beautiful sweatshirt jacket from Cape Cod and I love him.

Tim's poem oozed sensuality with his description of men playing baseball. It was so rich in detail we marveled that he could have observed so much during a traffic stop. Thought it might be tightened up by the elimination of the fourth verse; Stacy suggested expanding to story form.

Who was "The Iron Horse of Baseball"? In fifth grade we were playing King of the Hill in class one Friday. I was in the hot seat, and had been for a long time, when Bobby Bergman, the most gorgeous boy in the whole elementary school, raised his hand, drilled me with his blue, blue eyes, asked me that question. I had just finished a biography of this guy and knew the answer as well as I knew my own name. Somehow the gaze from those eyes dried my throat up like the Sahara and my brain as well, and I just sat there with my mouth gaping open while Bobby Bergman took my chair. 50 years later it is still one of the great humiliations of my life.

Which brings me in a roundabout way to Philomena's poem about going to blackboard and besting some bright boy with a right answer a girl should not know. It was a good statement about audience which needed some tweaking. Mark made an appropriate remark about the ability to go "pfft" - he had better sound effects - at the not good stuff and lose it when you need to. Oh, yeah, Philomena's artwork is still in my office from the exhibit, and the Iron Horse was Lou Gehrig.

Mark's poem had my best line of the night: "opening great veins and white rivers to its soul. " He then taught us the typography tip of squinting your eyes at a page of text and finding the white rivers. I loved it.

We talked a little about Paul's habit of writing with no stanza breaks. Generally his work is short (this one is 19 lines) and so economical with words that there is no need for breaks. The topic of junk spurred some conversation and the suggestion that the title might be changed to Junkman instead of Junkyard as it was really a character study of the man not the location.

Joyce broke my heart with Life Measured in Cat Time, which was Cleo's obituary. Very nicely done. It was rather like prose written in poetic sentences and our only suggestion was to try a rewrite into a more traditional poem form.

Larry's Confessional Poem is walking away with My Favorite of the Night. It was laden with unacceptable-in-polite-society language and references, but totally, hysterically funny and I love it. I had no poem, having been embracing my arty self recently. Alan had no poem because he misunderstood the directions.

At the beginning of the meeting, we exchanged our inspirational trinkets to write about for August 27. Tom and Larry both brought safety pins. What does that mean?

More from Dennis

2009-07-15T07:41:00.000-05:00

Many thanks to those who responded to “Giving Voice to the Vatic.” I will add one note in appreciation.

Always-thoughtful Larry is right in that a poetry group might benefit from thinking about poetry sometimes, and all that that entails. In the Voorheesville group we tried that once—instigated by me—and, for my money, it did not fare well. I still remember the angry and exclusionary remarks most.

I am appreciative of Tim’s enthusiasm and his telephone call to discuss briefly the monograph—I did make a very pretty [sic] monograph of the tractatus and sent it to some folks for review [limited edition of 25]—a very comely pic of the Sneem River in Sneem, Co Kerry, whence one side of the O’Sullivans hails, on the cover.

But I might point out that the statement that I made about poetry is filled with maybe 100 assumptions beginning in the first paragraph and going to the last.

For example, in paragraph one: in what way is the poetic tradition vatic and in what way is poetry a pracitce of the body; which suggests questions about how the body might be related to the imagination. And then a practice that begins WITH but DOES NOT END in death!

This kind of statement suggests that poetry has the power of a religion; can poetry transcend death? It might begin with the death of the beautiful but to say that it can put us in the mind/body of the beautiful and forever, that is a mighty big statement that I would not swallow so quickly. Though I have said that that is my ever-present aim—is to live in poetic consciousness always. It is where I am, feel happiest.

And in the last paragraph, for another example, w/r/t “the construction of self,” is the “self” constructed? Is life constructed? And if life is constructed, can it be constructed or in some way affected through the poem—but I had spoken earlier in the essay of how I viewed the poem.

Then it says: what can we ask of the poet? Well, anything? Allen Ginsberg always said the poet has no fixed role, so don’t go laying expectations on the poet—so what can we ask of the poet, the poem then? To bandage wounds!!! Some folks would say bullshit to that, thus I raise the question of: if we do that, do we hobble the poet, the poem?

My answer is yes, I say “more than likely” we would. But I add that poetry, the poet, the poem, is not about bandaging, anything, but about preventing. But preventing what? Like a police officer on patrol preventing street crime? Poets’d say they got better things to do.

I do not say so directly, but I say so, that poetry, through its affiliation with silence perhaps, prevents blows from being thrown that later require bandaging, that poetry structurally, through the power of imagination, prevents acts of violence—like death?—the kind of life designed to take us away from truth and beauty and enjoying the gift of life, that is, poetic consciousness?

Again for my money, anyone who reads and meditates on Wallace Stevens’ poem “The Snow Man,” [see below] for example—I can’t but think that she/he would be hard pressed to raise a hand at another in anger, the thought of a blow struck emptied of its vim, rather the spirit in openness.

The Snow Man

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
 In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

As you see, we could go on. This is all I will say here re: the comments and the essay. Thank you to those who responded, especially to Tim and Larry.

And I did send out an erratum page saying—for the monograph—page 2, para 2, line 1, for “Dickerson” read “Dickinson.”

Sincerely,

Dennis

2009-07-14T12:58:00.002-05:00

There are some excellent responses being posted to Dennis' remarks. Check them out and add your own.
bv

THE DOLLAR STORE SUMMER TOUR

2009-07-13T11:21:00.004-05:00

An email from Dan Wilcox led me to suggest a writing exercise which everyone seemed to like. So, you have an assignment for the next meeting: Bring an object from home to lend to another writer for a month's inspiration. We will exchange items at the next meeting and write about them. You can include it in a poem or devote a whole poem to it. Try and be creative when picking the object to bring in, and don't bring something you will need before the month is up.

I didn't take many notes at the last meeting, so this blog will be skimpy. I passed out new member lists. The mistake on this one is that Rachael's email needs an "e" added after rach. Please add it. I also passed around an article from the Schen Gazette about Art Willis (not as poet, but town historian). Nice photo.

Alan says there is still available space at the Aery for Obie's scheduled reading on July 13.
Call Alan at 475-7781.

I brought in a painting for Alan to take to the Pine Hollow arboretum art show. Several of us will be there on July 19 between 2 - 5. Stop by.

We welcomed absent Joyce who appeared with a poem dedicated to her mom and grandmother. It was accompanied by a great quote from Adrienne Rich: Until a strong line of love, confirmation and example stretches from mother to daughter, from woman to woman across the generations, women will still be wandering in the wilderness. Joyce did some re-writing on her poem with Alan's guidance.

Sticking with the women, Edie's poem told a wonderful story about a woman liberated by the death of her husband. Most of us were confused by the title "I met my mother at 42", but that is easily fixed. Rachael's "Question With No Answer" left me still questioning, but everybody else got it. Duh.

My own personal ton of bricks fell on Mike Burke (instead of poor Bird, for a change). He wrote about the demise of a local roadhouse and our picnic at his camp. Great beginning but I thought the second stanza was a big disappointment.

Larry wrote a clever piece about STUPID SHEWS which I was trying to call dialect but others preferred to refer to as "word play". Obeeduid was his new self again with a descriptive (and aromatic) work about remembered childhood - "there being no hedge or fence 'round time".

A small argument ensued over Paul's poem "The Old Ones" about be able to see a negative, which I couldn't see (is that a pun?). I guess I lost.

Tim was a big success for his couplets and the accompanying photo which totally made the whole poem. Not for the children, as it was of an adult nature, but effectively so.

I was happy with my "Felling The Willow" (no, not the willow at the pond, one of several others. Did you know that you could stick a willow twig in the ground and it will grow into a monstrous tree with only nature's assistance? ) - "they wrapped the giant in chains and beheaded it". Paul didn't like my semi-colons. (Paul just corrected me via comments: it was Alan who didn't like the semi-colons and Paul gave me a nice compliment on the poem. Thanks, Paul)

There follows this blog a rather lengthy guest post from Dennis, preceded by an intro to it. It was prompted by recent comments about the value of self-publishing. I have a much shorter answer, which I will keep to myself. Please respond to Dennis' article in the comments so we can all hear them. He has obviously given this serious thought.

2009-07-13T11:19:00.002-05:00

Dear Poe-ettes,

For the past several years, at our Thursday group, open mics, and at social gatherings of poets in our region, I have heard a sizable number of poets speak about
the value of self-published work or work published by local publishers.

In private and in public some folks have been quite vocal about this matter, remarking on the large number of such publications some poets in the area have. I even heard several people raise questions about the little confab of local publishers held at UAG [I think it was] last year, where local presses “showed off” their work.

In response to questions, statements sent my way directly or indirectly, I told some folks in our Thursday group and elswhere that I wanted to think about the matter a bit. When I was in Ireland last March I sat down one day and wrote the following notes.

These notes address not only this matter but also the qualities of some small poetry groups and, maybe more importantly, what it means to be a poet, what the poem is [its purpose], and several other items of interest—or disinterest depending on one’s own interests. The nature of the poem, its purpose, and limitations and who or what a poet is I think are worthy of discussion.

Anyway, I share what I wrote, having just finished typing it up a few days ago. The Irish in me!

I put the essay into a little booklet as well, a very, very limited edition with a picture of the beautiful Sneem River on the cover; it runs through one of my home towns. Hopefully the notes will facilitate some reflection about the ideas, if they are of any value to anyone other than myself. I am happy with my part in the process regardless.

I will not discuss the matter through e-mail if there are responses to the thoughts here—I just cannot type that much in response—but will be happy to read what folks add to the blog and to discuss such matters face-to-face when I meet poets in the future.

I hope the writing of everyone progresses well.

Sincerely,
Dennis

Giving Voice to the Vatic:
The Poet and Locality
by
Dennis Sullivan

The poetic tradition is vatic, a tradition of vision and prophesy, and thus a practice of the body beginning with but not ending in death.

Poetry begins with the breakdown of boundaries, with cracks in the wall, where light pours in, filling the soul to overflowing. The poet is born in the person who sings ecstatic: “Rock o'my soul in de bosom of Abraham!”

While prose may be poetic, it is comprised of the leftovers of vatic chants, the construction of stories about before, during, and after, and is essentially, in construction of the flood—the how we fare, hope to fare, and fear we may not fare—narrative, though of course there is narrative poetry, poetry at its weakest link. This despite the assessment that all poetry is at heart narrative.

Regardless, not because of the poet’s intentions (poetry has no ax to grind) but because of how the light (lightening) strikes, the poem is a shared space in which all comers can speak about their dreams, every ilk and permutation. The poem, even though poets personally are not necessarily so, is truly democratic, anarchic, an oracle with structure but not necessarily logic, the farthest thing from linear, hence the remarks about narrative.

Poets do not choose to speak but are carried away by the flow or flash of light, a bacchanalian rite, the value of the poet and any particular poem being her/his/its drawing attention to the unsettling of the old and the creation of the new thereby engendering appreciation for life, the expressional joy of being alive, followed by steps to create, re-create that life anew. The poet is a personal demonstration project; look at Denise Levertov shining her light within a cave.

The publication of the poem then is not the poem (like you see in the store); the poem is the felt-expressed experience of new light, life, but the handing down of vatic praise, chant, warning, ecstatic babble, is made sense of only with great difficulty. There are some who worry about the audience of a poem which is foolishness at its core because the poet is the audience, the taker-in of the experience; the written-down or orally-transmitted expression of that experience is the after-thought of the poetic-act or after-act of poetic-thought, if you like.

There are some creatures who worry about the means by which the felt-expressed finds the light of day, its market value and distribution properties—it is a frame of mind—and thus are drawn from entering the sacred (I use this term with great trepidation and all due apology to anarchists, i. e., poets) and thus are drawn away from entering into the sacred space of the published poem and discovering or discovering anew their own life within it, life within.

How many poems did Emily Dickerson see published in her (bodily) lifetime but she was the living presence of poetry throughout it. In the early Christian church bishops (επίσκοποi) rose out of the commons; the community recognized what they had to say as vatic, prophetic, as having to do with the continuing life of community, the conditions of life and took the liberty to make that life public.

Vates were selected to minister, serve, the needs of community, to help the community understand and identify those needs and steps to take to meet them, acts that violated neither the individual nor collective will, through which the community of persons expressed its commitment to mutual aid, cooperation, love, selflessness, reconciliation, any quality or practice (both means and ends) that fostered the survival and enjoyable well-being of life.

Within the context of the poetic community—which is a contradiction in terms because the poet is a person of the whole community—vatic souls join together to understand the vatic experience and ways to keep it pure as possible, the least self-seeking. But a community that refuses to hieraticize itself (despite hieratic involvement) tends to lord it over the larger community thereby creating a rabblish poloi—the poet, the poem is there to dismantle, eradicate disable distinctions, not an aim but as a result of felt-lightening.

There arises at times within the community (large or small) individuals who give their lives to making public, giving voice to, the words, expressions, experiences regarding the lifeline-light (sometimes at the most local of local levels, where this all starts) giving voice to the vatic experience. Those who jump into this stream are not eagle eyes but eagle hearts and ears, “Look, the light! I will tell it on the mountain!” When John Work penned "Go tell it on the mountain, over the hills and everywhere" he was telling how the community had been struck by lightening anew.

The publisher, the making public-er, becomes a mountain (socialist soapbox) from which the vatic experience can be expressed and heard—a benevolent act—leaving it to the listener to decide: life-affirming or not? Those who go to the mountain to give voice, though connected to the market, sell wares of collectivity. The manufacture, sale, and distribution of poems are tied to the interests, needs, concerns, hopes, and fears of the community. Poets, like life itself, want life to continue and so aspire to mountaintops from which to speak the delight of experience, Rilke’s under any circumstances, “I praise!”

Big book little book, pamphlet, broadside tacked to the side of a bare-wood barn—no difference, the format immaterial to the felt-experienced-expressed word/poet of life. Essential is what the reader/listener/other-feeler experiences. Are they alive to the life-force, maybe moved to build a mountain to proclaim life from a peak themselves, become poets themselves.

Little poetry groups, workgroups, and the like, exist ad infinitum and, regardless of stated aims and purposes, sometimes stand in the way of life, ordaining themselves with rites that are solely self-directed. Their interest may be seeing poems published—with which there is no intrinsic problem—but sometimes (I’d like to see a study) the group stands in the way of the light seen.

There is nothing wrong with having a night out—who’s to say?—in the interest of sociality (a good 19th century moniker) and conviviality with seemingly like-minded persons (however measured) that is, persons interested in words, human expression, the appreciation of read and published poems and the implications of same for, well, we already said for what, but the “aim” is well worth exploring.

That is, the question persists: to what extent is a person in a work/study group and the group as a whole (its stated and practiced purpose) committed to understanding and appreciating (valuing) the vatic enterprise, which includes making known other vatic experiences that tell the truth (of life, of life’s requirements, human needs, survival, joy at the realization of the gift of life, etc.).

As stated, there are indeed judges and assessors of the truthful experience high and low. A publisher works with works regarded as reflecting the true vatic experience and fostering vividness in others. Who’s to say that person should not engage in joy, gratitude, and appreciation? Who’s to say only corporate/market-certified work is the truest or true reflection of life-engendering vatic experience, that capital credentials bolster the validity of the felt-experience?

While assessment of the vatic experience that leads to publication is welcome at all levels—welcomed or not it will take place—it is the community, the individuals within the community who are the ultimate and paradoxically the first-level assessors. Do we worry less, issue wistful sighs, covet relaxation? By reading, listening to, studying, explicating, divining, digging into, even with a pick ax, the experimenter is more alive, more connected, feels driven to share life with others or, at the very least, not deprive others of that experience—which includes slamming non-market-certified publishers from engaging in publicizing.

I might add that, while the vatic experience is ecstatic in nature, over which one, the poet, has no control (being hit with lightening is as good as any definition of being called) the poet has techniques, methods, structures, which clear away the debris which inserts itself into the light, so poems can remain as clear as first experienced. There is no such thing as “polishing” a poem—God forbid!—only opening up—whatever that is, that is a treatise in itself—to the originally-experienced inspiration, breath, light, spirit, from which the words, chant, poem, song, arose.

This is a process in which the poet tries to get out of the way of the prophetic experience. The felt-joy of the experience is too great to compromise through meddling, joined by a rabid fear that dissembling will lead to a loss of joy. Cynics will say the poet is engaging in a kind of hexing, in magical skullduggery—“The bard of Thrace drew the trees, held beasts enthralled and constrained stones to follow him” Metamorphoses XI, 1-2—but such statements are a projection of ill-seated paranoia and hucksterism, a disbelief in one’s own essential light to make an informed assessment of: am I alive? Let me count the ways. Is your math the same?

Thus the vates, called, chosen, wishes to be true to the vatic/prophetic. Of course the poet wishes her or his work known and when self-interest plays a role in the enterprise, we speak of true vates and false vates, true prophets and false prophets. The Greek Scriptures say it all: by our poetry we know our true selves; the effects of the practices preached tell the magicians, hucksters, tricksters from the healers, those who stack the deck versus those who bandage wounds.

In the construction of self, the construction of life in the form of the poem, the poet . . . well, is it too much to ask a poet to bandage wounds, does that not lame art at the outset—more than likely—but poetry is not about bandaging anything, it’s about preventing before the thought of a blow is struck.

An Oatmeal Named Jonah

2009-06-26T10:19:00.003-05:00

A very personal observation from me: it felt good to have Larry Rapant join us last night. Larry has been a huge part of my poetry life. He and Tom and I "toured" the open mics in the 1990s, performing as a group, sometimes with Brian Kennedy and Tom's musical accompaniment. I doubt how good my poetry was then, but I had fun. It felt like old times to have him with us, and at my age, old times are very meaningful. I am not going to attempt to critique Larry's poem or Tom's today. They have been my teachers and mentors and frankly, I consider them perfect in every way. The blog title is my favorite phrase from Larry's poem.

BTW, my research into Merovingian Dynasty shows it to be the Satanic Bloodline of the Antichrist or False Prophet. Or, a Frankish dynasty that ruled in Gaul and Germany circa 500 a.d. Your choice.

Couple of other poems received little or no critique. Everyone loved Mimi's Parked on Pavement. Great title. Amusing. Jim Williams, who slipped in at the last moment in his soccer ref's uniform (quite green) had us laughing with three versions of his Comely young woman from Wiesbaden, one in German, one French, final in English.

Paul (who was in charge of the gavel for a portion of the evening until he fell down on the job) was pretty much letter perfect as usual with Cookies and Cakes. Some quibbling over "dolls and bicycles". Paul had assisted Ally with a successful rewrite of Toxic Silence. I love it when people actually put into practice the advice they are given.

The Bird wrote a Perious Frink adventure with a surprise ending and a pretty good rhyme scheme, which could be made excellent with a little closer editing. Alan Other rhymed not quite so successfully but musically. I was proud of him, too, for revising last week's poem and bringing it for a return appearance. He is striving to become a good poet.

Rachael was back with another of her thoughtful works, with good tone and feeling. Someone suggested better lines breaks and relocating the first stanza. Several people were enlightened by the idea of a phone cradle. Ah, you babies.

Philomena equated true poetry to a juicy peach. It is hard to avoid cliches, I opine, when describing peaches, but here the addition of the ripe young woman and the heroin addict led it out of the realm of the mundane. To carotid or not to carotid.

Personally, I thought Tim's poem had transition problems. I liked both halves - the office crowd and the big ugly woman - but wanted the way smoothed or made into two poems. His characters sketches were right on, as always.

Saving Markle-Farkle until last as my favorite. Just great imagery. Interspersed with conversation. Nice font. Ditched the title. Whole last verse is dyn-o-mite.

Lots of events going on. Check out post-ettes.
Sunday Four is this weekend, with Mimi and her brother. 3 p.m. with food.

Okay, it's fixed

2009-06-15T14:56:00.002-05:00

Tom helped. Just click the link, then click on the first picture to see them all.

2009-06-14T13:50:00.000-05:00

2009-06-14T13:43:00.000-05:00

SCREAM

2009-06-14T13:23:00.008-05:00

Okay, I made a web album of yesterday's pics and succeeded in linking it to the blog. If you follow the link, however, it tells you it can't find it. Don't know what I'm doing. Mark tried to help me over the phone, but it obviously didn't work. I'll try again from the office. It is giving me a headache.

Yesterday was lovely and wet. The food was great. Everyone was jolly. Mike and Donna were good hosts. I forgot to take a photo of the parrot plates. I brought Tony. Significant others were present (Ginny Rapant, Dr. Jennifer, Dan M., Steve Schreiber, Georgia, Donna and her dog Annie) - about 20 of us, and some dogs, including Susie The Summer Dog. I ate a lot, got soaked, was particularly happy to see Dee and Larry who make rare appearances. Georgia took pictures of feet. Ron and Edie and Tim and Ally Cat were no-shows. Dennis ate a lot, Mark made Black and Tans with his turtle thingy - there's a photo if you ever get to see them. Mike made good burgers, sausage, hot dogs. I shared with Susie.

It was a trip down Memory Lane for those of us who used to frequent Lil and Bill's in our youth, including Dan Moriarty. Sad to see it in disrepair. Fun times there. Made me want to dance. Jack, the owner, hauled out old photos and we saw young Mikey Burke.

I left before any poetry happened. Don't know if it did. Wasn't in a poetic mood and felt bad that Eli was home alone most of the day.
Also, half drowned.

Another Oops

2009-06-12T19:07:00.005-05:00

I was having a very hectic day and in my confusion, I forgot to blog Tim's wonderful poem. In fact it was my favorite of the night and I was saving it for last, ended up leaving it out altogether. I felt that it was kind of a breakthrough poem for Tim - no repetition. Great sea, fog imagery, a real lonely feeling. Everyone liked it. Only suggestion was to save the last few lines for another poem and he seemed receptive to that idea. My apologies.

Monday - I can't believe it. When I got to work this am I found Alan C.'s poem, forgotten, forlorn and unblogged. It was another favorite of mine. Called Surface Ice is Walkable, includes plunging a foot into the semi - frozen creek. Beautiful: "stone heads all found wearing imperfect icy halos". So, if there 's anyone else I need to apologize to, consider it done.

Paul Perfect is Dead

2009-06-12T11:22:00.003-05:00

...killed by his own hand, acknowledged by his own lips. "Old George" was less than perfect. Tim and the Bird and the BlogGoddess were all disappointed that George lacked the emotional punch that we expect from Paul. Philomena contributed "Consistency is the hobgoblin of little minds" and Mimi lauded it for its clarity and cleanliness. Tim suggested that the comic element of the old guy burying his drinking money should be pushed.

Alan Siegel strove and succeeded in attaining clarity in The Eternal One. There was some discussion over the repetition of "moment to moment" and Mimi brought up some weird thing about counting syllables, which didn't seem to matter to anyone else, but thanks, Mimi.

Mimi's poem From the Attic was a masterpiece in my view. Great imagery, emotion, a message. Led to a discussion on enjambment (leaving a deliberate pause to let your mind change direction).

Mark was brimming with emotion in a two-titled poem about his mother. I think we talked him into The Keening. He confessed a phrase pillage from Yeats - "decked and altered" but had a lot of his own good stuff in it - "extravagance of breath", "lost to a notbook on the bedstead of a lifetime".

The M sisters thought that Edie's Surprise was the best she had ever written. Paul said "it could have been trite but it's not because of the way it is done." "Ah, but friends..."

"Zen up" was a phrase applied to Philomena in a good poem called Perspective, but her specific intention passed right by us (the same as another recent work). I suggested ending the poem at "death's foot hovering", following the popular ant stanza. The final verse was a great one, but misplaced.

No poem from me. Short blog because I am busy. Visit the HVWG website for guidelines for a current poetry contest. Hope you got the directions to Thompson's Lake.

The Great Honkers Mystery

2009-05-29T10:03:00.004-05:00

I am naming names: Paul, Mike B., Kathy and Cathy, Tim and Jim, Art and Dennis, and taking numbers, whatever that means, of those of you who have not shown up with artwork yet. Edie and Obee have contacted me and made arrangements, but I am expecting the DELINQUENTS to drop work off before Sunday when the show goes up. Thanks, Moriartys and Alan, for being so prompt. I am particularly impressed with Alan's great effort with Chutes and Ladders.

I passed out invitations to be taken to friends and rels for the show reception here on June 18. Ask me for some. We will have refreshments between 6 - 8 p.m. and hang around to impress the art critics who will be swarming to review our exhibit. Wearing black is de riguer and cigarette holders are acceptable as long as they are not holding actual cigarettes.

The Moriarty girls seem to be thinking along similar lines if their poems were any indication. Philomena wrote about "her" saint - Philomena, of course - guarding the gates of her womanhood. It was an assault on the universal theme of the value of female chastity. Paul suggested reversing the final two verses, which was a good idea. The intrusion of the saint made it a little confusing and someone suggested a title change to what worth woman. Mimi wrote a prose poem about women taking charge of their sexuality, also with "gate" references. Weird coincidence. Mimi's ended on a triumphant note and a laugh.

Strangely, Paul Perfect's Gold Star Mother took a little heat last night, with some wanting lines to be eliminated. It was powerful subject matter and, as usual, Paul stuck to his Big Berthas.

Alan must have expended all his creative energy on painting because his poetic efforts were a little on the lazy side: LAST LINES OF THE POETRY GROUP ON THE FOURTH THURSDAY IN MAY by The Every Other Thursday Night Poetry Group. The poem was not much longer than the title.

We entertained (at least I think we did) another Alan in the person of first-timer Alan Siegel. He jumped right in and took our criticism of his poem with good humor. It was another philosophical concept womb poem with some good lines, but some glaring faults which detracted from it the message. (written in all caps, quotation marks, underlines). Mimi reminded us all: "It doesn't matter if you know what you mean if you are not communicating it to the audience." Best advice.

Ally Cat communicated very well with Toxic Silence, about a 14 year-old boy who was shielded from his father's illness and subsequent death and the effect it had on his whole life.

Tim presented a clean, powerful poem we all liked. It turned out that we did not get the message from it that Tim intended, but the audience felt it was very effective with the message we heard. Good controlled repetition, Mimi suggested couplets. Tim thought he should write another version.

I dragged out a poem I had written in April that I wasn't crazy about but people pretended to like it. Called it Leaving Without Luggage re my father's death. In response to a query I just said I thought it was not bad, but mediocre. I still think so.

Okay, on to the honkers debate. To sum up, Obee used the word in a great poem - "upon my honkers as I lie" - and refused to tell us what it meant, so we all guessed and I promised to look it up. I guessed "butt" but Merriam-Webster said "nose". Today Obee caved and told me look in a neat site called the urban dictionary, where it describes honkers as haunches, which is close to butt, and also something Alan mentioned. Now I have forgotten how it was used in the poem, but the mystery part is put to rest. The poem, called Travelers, read like a prayer or a lullaby and we liked "dipping (the) ladle into sleep."

On to the news and gossip: Mimi asked that I report that HVWG is having a picnic on Sunday afternoon, August 2, in the Paint Mine area of Thacher Park. It is a "bring a dish to pass" type party and it sounds like fun to me. Details to come. Also, remember poetry extravaganza on June 1 at Smitty's. Larry's philosophers meet June 4. Lifelines is on vacaton until September. There was a good turnout for Sunday Four and Mimi is the feature in June.

Tom is out of town, the Beach Boy has moved to the lake, and Obee just called with news of a computer disaster. I have a headache, if anyone cares.

The Deadline Looms

2009-05-15T08:43:00.007-05:00

Art show masterpieces must be here before May 31. Tom and I will be hanging the show that day. Feel free to stop in and criticize. I'm joking. I thought O'Bee would be helping, but no! We are meeting again on May 28, if you want to bring your stuff then.

Congrats to Rachael who had a short story accepted for publication (for money!) and promised to share the address of a good website for submissions.

Several EOTNPs are reading at the Oriel Cafe at Philomena's church on the 15th - that's tonight - at 7 p.m. 405 Washington Ave, with good music and cafe food.

Reminder: Will Christman reading at Smitty's on June 1. On to this evening...

My nominations for best line/phrase of the night:
Philomena: Dislodge this hot rock from my throat
Rachael: ...he swears to love it longer than the cats will live.
O'Bee: ...as he will never have enough of women's love.
Tim: ...reluctant little ponds
Jim: Now the muck and sponge of peat where once a forest stood...

Best entire poem (my opinion only!):
Tom's Screen Dump: In Perugia;Tim's Still Here; Alan's Rhea saved Zeus
Rhea saved Zeus, which began with a surprise gift to the monstrous Kronos, was a gift to all of us from Alan. He captured the mythical story in an airy and humorous poem we all enjoyed, and was kind enough to capsulize the tragic story for us as an addendum. Excellent stuff. I thought Screen Dump was clever and it carried me right along, but Art commented that it was in danger of becoming epigrammatic, which can be tedious, said his attention flagged. We talked about being an artist vs a craftsperson, but tabled the discussion for another occasion. Tim was complemented on both the story line and the presentation, with short, terse, Hemingway-like sentences and no -ing endings, which it seems no one likes much.

Musth - with an "h" - is "a state of violent frenzy occurring in rutting season in male elephants, accompanied by exudation of an oily substance from the eye and mouth glands." And that settles that - Professor Willis prevails, misspellings don't count. (Paul suggested substituting "elephant sex"). Tim remarked that it is still a bad odor, either must or musk, and Art wittily replied "Not to the elephants." I also looked up opprobrium. Oh, Tom wanted the poem broken into 4 stanzas is a good idea.

Tom had another good idea for Jim's work, which began with the Shakespearean-sounding line quoted above. Tom suggesting moving the first stanza to the end to solve a transition problem that Mark pointed out between stanza 1 and 2. Jim had some good alliteration in this Golfing in Northern Ireland saga in which he compared it to love, golfing and love both being psychoses. I mistook the 12D & E reference as apartment numbers rather than airplane seats.

Philomena wrote some terrific lines citing her desire to be a better person in Meditation on the St. Francis Prayer. We had to explain to Ms. Abrams, our little Jewish poet, who St. Francis was (the guy from Assisi who befriends animals, much like Edie does herself.) The Prayer is also a work worth reading.

Mr. Amidon, who will in the future be referred to as Paul Perfect, brought another faultless poem about Drought. I don't know what was the matter with everyone tonight, but we wasted a lot of time quibbling about verb tenses in a number of poems, including this one.

Edie claims to have heard Paul's voice as she was writing her Spring poem, which began with a recitation of green shades and a reference to the Hudson River School, and ended with she and Caesar stumping through the preserve. Nice one, despite more controversy over verb tenses.

Rachael told us she had halved her leather couch poem and it was still a work in progress. Not realizing this room/couch actually existed, I inadvertently insulted her interior decorating abilities - sorry, Rachael - and she likened poets to navel lint experts. We talked in general about what details to include, what details to leave out. Thanks, Mark, for LTD. I was not familiar with that phrase.

Great title nomination:
O'Bee's The events that were soon on top of him:
Neolethean - O'Bee's new river Styx. Love that. Alan mentioned that this reflection on women and aging was autobiographical and not only did we all agree, we all related. You "never have enough of women's love" (or men's either). Art helpfully contributed a line on "finding your body seeking friendship with gravity". Ha.

Who am I forgetting? Only myself, I guess, cause we ran out of time, but that's okay - after the critics flapping their jaws tonight, I need to check my verb tenses before I offer it for inspection.

A few photos follow. Good alliteration, Barbara.

2009-05-14T10:24:00.011-05:00

A Few Brunch Photos

Art eats.

Techies Triumph

Foster Grant and the Professor

His Honor reads.

Don't just sit there, ladies...Ron needs
the Heimlich maneuver!

Art eats again. Or still.

Miscellany Again

2009-05-06T12:23:00.004-05:00

MISTAKE: Mimi is at Sunday Four on JUNE 28.

Sorry, I haven't had a chance to blog the brunch yet. Good food, excellent poetry. Next year we are NOT doing it in National Poetry Month. Too much competition.

Paul has taken 1st prize in the All Arts Matter contest and will be accepting his prize on May 17. Congratulations, hope some of you can go to the presentation (in Greene County), gang.

I am featured at the Gay/Lesbian center on May 13 at 7 pm, I guess. I need directions. I've been there but...

Alan is planning Will Christman reading on June 1 at Smitty's - 8 pm. Let him know if you are going to attend/read.

Get ready for the art show! I planned the art reception for June 18 from 6 - 8 pm.

I seem to have lost track of time and missed Sunday Four. Mimi will be the feature on May 24.

Chatting with Grandma W. & Adolph K.

2009-04-26T10:15:00.001-05:00

No big fanfare tonight, no rockets into the sky, just the usual pack of poets quietly casting off to sail the waters of imagination. We were not disappointed.

Alan’s “Modest Journey Through” took us through a series of images of mother earth in the peace of a warm night. The peaceful, soothing tone rose above contentious specifics of philosophy to conclude “balanced on the fullness of a heart.”

Rachael presented “At the Farm Stand; Grandma W. Talks about a Customer with Her Daughter,” a poem with obvious merit as a performance piece. It succeeds admirably in what it sets out to do: bring Grandma W. to life on the printed page through a monologue in Grandma’s heavily-accented American English. Accented from the standpoint of someone from the northeast, that is. It sounds like Grandma W. could be from anywhere between Arkansas or Oklahoma to Appalachian Virginia. The proof that the accent is captured on the page was that the second reader read it as effectively as Rachael’s first reading. The poem, as Dan and Art pointed out, reads like part of a script, but stands as a poem.

A review of any written work should, I believe, be done by someone other than the author of that work. Novelists don’t write reviews of their own novels; artists don’t write reviews of their own exhibitions. I am not the one to review “Seeing The Light,” my poem about a kid getting bombed on a cup of communion wine at church. Anyone else that attended the meeting is welcome to review it. This blog gives readers the option of submitting comments, an option that is little used. Use it. It’s a free country.

Kathy McCabe’s “The Wrong Side” did a good job stating its theme of social status being influenced by where you live. Comments centered around how to improve its poetic qualities without losing the message. Alan noted the first two verses leaned toward a prose style, while several people offered ideas to strengthen the last verse. After the initial muse arrives, as it has in this case, the revision muses often take their own sweet time coming around, and we never know what comment will spark the arrival of one in the poet’s mind.

A poem that elicits no comments is usually one that is excellent or one that fails to communicate. When a poem gets a lot of comments, the poet can safely conclude he or she is on to something. Dan’s “The Power Within” generated much discussion, ranging from genetics to use of the passive voice. Barbara felt this poem was too instructional, that it should have more of a personal touch. Alan thought voice was the key, and its use needed more consistency. Well supplied with musings on science and thought-provoking questions, this work succeeds in stimulating the mind, but for me would benefit from sounding less objective and scientific. Content was not the question here, delivery of the idea was.

Coincidence worked to the advantage of all who attended this meeting. It is the only way to explain the appearance of Grandma W. and Adolph K. on the same Thursday night, but that’s exactly what happened. Art’s “Homage to A Chest Thumper,” a two and a half page poem about a Polish immigrant, relied heavily on the technique of the man telling his own story in heavily-accented English. Enhanced by a skilled theatrical reading from the author, it could have been ten pages and held my interest. Adolph, who lived a life most people only read about in novels, escaped from the Nazis, then the Soviets, before arriving in the United States. Crammed with interesting details that bring out his personality, the poem leaves the reader or listener wanting to know more about a man who was born to succeed in life. This poem was a hit; with any luck those who missed it will hear Art read it sometime in the future. Catch Art and Rachael reading tonight’s poems at the same open mic and you’ll be doubly lucky.

Tim likes to put his poems in the crucible of criticism very soon after getting them on paper. He did it again with “The Last Time I Saw Kookie,” a poem about his cat. It wasn’t at all clear it was about a cat, or even an animal, until we combed the verses for the few clues given about the subject’s identity. Mimi thought it was vague, lacking in vitality. The fact that many of us couldn’t identify the subject cat with certainty demonstrates the need for more clarity. With more specific references this poem will improve considerably; it already has a strong ending. Much of what Tim was alluding to came to light after his explanatory comments, but as Lawrence Ferlinghetti once said: “Like a bowl of roses, a poem should not have to be explained.”

Mimi brought “Man, 44, Announces Engagement,” a piece that effectively showcases both her happiness and annoyance when she received the news of the engagement. I would be annoyed too if someone close to me delivered a heavyweight piece of news through the commonplace, often tacky medium of email, rather than calling to tell me personally. An apparently unintended hard edge crept into the poem with the reference to his handing over “our mother’s ring” to his fiancé. Nearly everybody picked up on this, so obvious was it, but Mimi said no, there was no such hard feeling. Maybe there’s something subconscious going on here, to have such an effective miscommunication appear in a poem. My opinion is to leave it in. It makes a better poem. We’re not dealing in court testimony here. Bend the truth if a better poem results.

Cathy Anderson’s “Anniversary” is a meditative reflection on the sadness of anniversaries that can no longer be celebrated with the joy of former days because someone who figures prominently in the memories is gone. This poem, as Barbara said, has much feeling, and says a lot in a few lines. Comments centered on the third verse, which Mimi felt tended too much toward prose after the poetic first two verses. What stays with me about this piece was the static Cathy took for using “ribbon of blue” as a description of the Hudson River. Several people criticized its use as too much of a cliché, while “wrong side of the tracks” in Kathy’s poem drew no comments about clichés at all. My feeling is that criticism of the “ribbon of blue” was overdone. I agree with Samuel Goldwyn, who said: “Let’s have some new clichés,” but many of the old ones still have their place.

Jim got the whole group talking with an untitled piece of concrete poetry, a type of poetry which has to be seen to appreciate its artistic merits. Reactions varied considerably. Alan, Rachael, and Tim didn’t warm to the art form, while Barbara found it “utterly fascinating. There’s more here than meets the eye.” There is nothing here that meets the ear, as it can’t be read without making the reader sound like a babbling idiot, but that’s the nature of this type of artistry. Mimi observed that it “has a better chance of being published in a literary journal than anything else presented tonight.” Art is art, but art that sells is published. Sounds real to me.

There are five Thursdays in April this year. We hold a fifth Thursday meeting every so often, and one next week is a possibility. Watch this blog, email too, for a final decision. If it happens, I’ll be there. Be there or be square. Be there and be square. Either way, we don’t care. As long as it happens, as long as you’re there.

Post by Paul

Things You Might Want to Know

2009-04-14T08:31:00.004-05:00

April 25 BRUNCH
anticipated timeline:

10:30 set up, help appreciated
We have a new audio system which I may need assistance with

11 a.m. Poets arrive with food
If you need suggestions about simple food, bring juice or soda, or fresh strawberries or brown'n'serve sausage we can cook here

11:15 a.m. EATING BEGINS!

NOON-ish - Poetry begins when eating diminishes and ends sometime before 4:30 so we can clean up. Help needed here, too.

Notes:
There will be a signup sheet for the open mic on the desk in the hall.
If you can bring an electric frypan, we need one or more.
Roaming photographers are encouraged.
Musical performances also welcome.
Spouses and friends should be encouraged to come.
Bring poems we can read to each other if no one else shows up.

PS - Brunch is not in Cincinnati.

JUNE ART SHOW

I am expecting everyone to contribute something. The show will be hung by Tom, Obee and me on Sunday, May 31.

Your work must be ready for hanging when you bring it, when means it MUST have hooks or holes or some other arrangement to be suspended on the wall. If you are doing a sculpture or found art piece, let me know ahead of time so I can find a spot for it. (Mike Burke's beer can sculpture is an example of this.)

If you are not a serious artist, you are encouraged to be imaginative and unusual - fingerpainting and collages are easy. If you can incorporate one of your poems into your work, that is great.

The earliest convenient time available for a reception is Thursday, June 18 from 6 - 8 p.m. (The FOL Booksale has taken a whole week out of the June schedule and the library will be closed on Sundays for the summer.) Mark your calendars and invite your friends.

See you all I hope on April 23.

War Stories

2009-04-10T13:47:00.003-05:00

The math genius me had everyone scratching their heads with eleven people in the room and only ten on the list. Baffled everyone for a while, especially me. Everything was a little bizarre tonight. The setup team left a gaping chasm (is that redundant?) in between the tables for an unknown reason and I wanted Ron to crawl under the tables and pop up in the middle. Looking his normal GQ self, he declined.

Cathy got a little testy with me when I criticized her spelling - I still think I'm right - but we don't hold grudges. It was nice to see her after her hiatus. Her poem was a childhood memory of fearing the hiss of the vaporizer. We had to explain what "croup" was to the younger folks.

Paul shocked and dismayed me with his variation from pattern. No nostalgia for him this time, but a piece called Half Truth which I say was droning. Ron said it "will become a poem eventually". Others leapt to Paul's defense, saying his change in direction was Fresh and current. Tom liked the imagery and metaphors. I like it when he tells a story.

Ron chastised his own Camera Obscura, saying his third stanza- well, I'd won't print what he actually said, but it means was not up to his high standards. Tom called it Charles Simic-ian, if that's a word. We all agree the first stanza with "memory dialing its shady accountant to balance the books" was the best.

Art found Tom's poem very kinetic, into movement, into imagination. It was a well constructed effort with a good exit strategy and left both readers rather breathless with its pace. I particularly enjoyed "dear departed Winnie - comes clomping in". Good stuff.

Tim was Too Perfect for Sex. The 41/21 business confused most people, as well as the end. I found it very emotional - men hunting in smoky darkness, crazed, enslaved. Paul wants you to lose the "tippy-toes".

I learned something from Art, as I often do: a comma in a poem counts for one beat and a dash is used to represent at least two beats, so the use of them contributes to the timing of the poem. His Counterpoint was concise and staccato. Mimi mentioned the success of the assonance. Tom pointed out it was bereft of transitionals, to its benefit.

Dan presented I Walk Among the Stars, a heavenly kind of poem, with very effective spacing on the page. It was rather existential and quoted both Nietzche and Conrad. Tim didn't like the quotes. BTW, when you are doing this...use only three dots unless it is the end of a sentence, in which case, use four. One is the period.

Mimi tackled a great subject - middle aged people reflecting on their teen years. I enjoy almost anything that mentions Buddy Holly and the Big Bopper, but I didn't get the part that they were watching impersonators instead of the real deal. Other people got it, I think. I also liked the repetition...the break, the break, last night, last night.

Our first-timer Kevin Duffy, who is a renegade from Larry's philosophy group, attempted to read two poems, but we ungraciously wouldn't allow him to break the rules, even if he was a guest. His poem would have benefited from a better format which would have clarified a big misconception regarding the word "first" which we all made. I wanted it neater. Then Mimi lectured him on the importance of titles. Hope he didn't think we were too rude to come back.

REFRIGERATOR POEM ALERT! This was the poem of the night, which the author Jim Williams insisted was not as good as we thought it was. He said we were influenced by the subject matter, which was anarchy, rebellion against authority, hatred of the establishment, etc. He may be right. But we totally loved the poem anyway. Mimi and I were cheering.

Tom and Jim and Cathy and Just Me had pleasant conversation at the Tavern.

Afterthought: Write out the numbers one - ten, then use numerals for higher.

There is one more meeting before the brunch. See you in Cincinnati.

2009-03-28T15:34:00.011-05:00

An Analgesic Night

With the captain halfway to the tropics and the ship about to sail, one might expect the crew to hold together on precedent alone, but wait, is that a whiff of mutiny in the air? Maybe not; once under sail the night’s voyage was normal, even quieter than usual in some quarters. Once back in port, the usual tars headed out on the straight-line road to grog, and a drink to go with it. In a realm where bands of poets sail the dark hours, the shoals of boredom are especially dreaded.

Alan brought something different from many of his recent poems. “To Comprehend A Gaze Outward” turned our attention inward with a meditative musing set in the early morning hours. Comments were limited, which is often the case with a poem best savored slowly, allowed to steep like a cup of tea in the mind.

Jim Williams, a poet who strikes me as someone who belongs in our group, gave us “Love-feast,” a statement about love in the “shadow of self-interest” that ended up centering discussion on one line: “agape stuff.” That’s agape with an accent on the e, a Greek word. I’ve forgotten what it means. By his own admission it’s a line he has given much thought to already; more might be needed. It said what it wanted to say, but seemed out of sync with the poetic smoothness of the other lines. Also lurking at the edge of this is the concept of using foreign words in English poetry, an idea we’ve taken up more than once.

Reminiscent of Alan’s style in many of his poems, wherein he writes with few articles, is the beginning of Rachael Ikins’ “As Spring Approaches the First Year, The Tribe.” It then starts including more articles as it takes us along to share the comradarie of two poets. With good poetic images and a scenario local poets can picture easily, it did, as Philomena said, let us “be part of the experience of the poem.” Mimi pointed out the punctuation was inconsistent, but I’m not jumping off the punctuation cliff today. As we all know, anything goes in the punctuation of poetry (all, some, or none), but whichever choice you make, be consistent about it.

Dennis did it again, gave us a beautiful poem, thoughtful, filled with the sensitivity of a genuine poet, and polluted it near the end with one word like a cup of toxic waste in a mountain lake. Mimi voiced my sentiments, and probably those of others, when she landed with both feet on “analgesic,” a word that belongs on medicine bottles, not in poems. Change that one line and “Beware” is a winner of a poem. Still, I shouldn’t complain too much. “Analgesic” isn’t as bad as “hendecasyllabically,” a seven-syllable eyesore parked on a line of his previous poem like a toad on the dinner table. This, from the poet who won the Rip Van Winkle Poetry Competition last year. (Hendecasyllable --- a metrical line of eleven syllables)

Mark’s “Matchmaking” successfully captures the flavor of a group of local gossips gathering and spreading news and rumors. This too is a winner. His presentation and layout on the printed page is excellent. If a chapbook consisted of a single poem on a single sheet of paper, this would be it.

Anyone who has seen a few of his other poems would read “The Final Exit” and say: “This is a Mike Burke poem.” As is often the case with Mike, the ending puts the poem over the top with a wham—bang wrap-up. I loved it. As good as it is, though, Rachael had a few suggestions to make it even better. Don’t stay away so long next time, Mike.

Kathy McCabe’s “This Memory” is a touching, sympathetic tribute to a woman who suffered much in the hard school of her life. Alan made the comment that the poem gives little glimpses that make you want to know more about the woman, a comment right on the money. Mimi, who had a lot of good observations this evening, noted the last eight lines were iambic but not the rest, and suggested making the whole poem iambic. Either way, the poem works.

Dan gave us new lyrics to the religious standard “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” lyrics he has sung to a congregational audience. Parody songs are often light, humorous, or ridiculous, but this is none of those. It is a straight-out religious rewrite, skillfully done, that probably was very well received when he sang it. I wish I had been there.

Some people love squirrels and some people, particularly those who want to feed birds only, can’t stand the fat gray freeloaders. All right, so now you know where I stand, but Mimi sees it differently and says so in “On My Deck.” This poem is so effective it makes me feel sorry for the squirrel crying on her deck, but I know if I saw it wrapped around a bird feeder, munching away, my sympathy would melt. A change of person might improve the last verse, but only if the ideas and imagery it currently has are retained.

Philomena’s “Drowning,” described by Mimi as “poignant and sympathetic,” is a strong poem that will be stronger if the intent is made clearer and the speakers better identified. That the intent was not clear enough came through to me when Philomena made her own comments. Tom came to life on this poem, suggesting several of the line rearrangements he is locally famous for. I’m not a fan of repetition, but here the repetition of the lines “underneath, the silent plea, help me” adds to the poem’s power, driving home the idea that the bottom line of all that goes on in this poem is to help people. I hope we get to see this one again.

Last but never least, Tom continued in his collage-of-images style with “Ezra in Exile.” Fans of Ezra Pound’s poetry will especially like this, indeed, a lot of it will no doubt be lost on those who know little of Pound, as a knowledge of his life is necessary to fully appreciate this poem. It is another of those poems that gives you glimpses and leaves you wanting to know more.

Do YOU want to know more? Show up at the next meeting, April 9.

Post by Paul

Eating An Elephant

2009-03-13T08:09:00.008-05:00

Tom came with a masterpiece which everyone liked. It exhibited Tom's usual cleverness and wry sense of humor throughout, but also flowed in a cohesive sequence and intensified as it moved along. Art coined an appropriate phrase about it - "diddling with your digital" which described the act of having your computer plundered for personal informaton. Very relatable.

BTW, Dr. Willis dropped the remark that he was once a paramedic at a rock festival and I look forward to quizzing him more on that topic. His poem Overlap was a quiet success, striking a chord about youngsters in Africa being kidnapped and sold for profit.

Kathy McCabe mainly needed to reformat, and the conversation focused on how she could redo the lines to strengthen the tale of twins, who chose between death and therapy.

I got a couple of suggestions for Trying to Sleep (with Satan yammering in your head). The idea had been floating around for a couple of months and I finally got it down on paper in a conversational tone which someone called "a beautiful way of sitting with your sins".

Alan wants to do a broadside of Paul's Stock Car Racer which was near perfect in Paul's inimitable style, recounting the happiness of a man flying around the race track.

Dan Lawlor is back from Florida with a rhyming poem about nameless Longings in a cemetery. Poem needed some details to make it "grounded". General impression was that it was too "otherworldly."

Mark was also a winner tonight with one Tim picked as his favorite of the evening. Art called it musical, Tom suggested a list near the end and switching two stanzas at the top, both of which were good ideas. I mentioned how much I prefered it when Mark did not write in dialect.

Tim and Linda was a great triumph according to to Art, and I wholeheartedly agreed. It was accompanied by a picture of studly Verhaegen around the time of his high school prom and the poem was a heartstopper. It led to a discussion of centering poetry on the page and why you should not do it (it makes it look Hallmarkian). And amateurish. Tim's great line - "you've come to the calm now".

Barbara's Rant of the Night was unleashed on Dennis whose truly lyric and lovely Evening Prayer with lines like "oh pearl white egg of night" was utterly discombobulated by the intrusion of hendecasyllabically. Beats me what he was thinking and he wouldn't tell us.

For a more exciting ride, we suggested that Philomena take out the qualifiers in her work about the horrors of high cholesterol - "we are all on this Titanic together".

Jim Williams made a return visit in a sunny yellow shirt with a poem about a woman in a park feeding the pigeons. It reminded me of a poem I had written years ago after seeing a woman in Central Park with pigeons perched all over her. (As Dan remarked, "there is nothing new under the sun".) There is nothing you can say or think that has not been done before. We can only strive to say it in new and better way. Jim had an unusual rhyme scheme which needed a little work.

I met Rachael Ikins who had been to a meeting that I missed. She is from Menands and rides here with Alan. She brought a prose poem which of course inspired questions about prose poetry. Group liked the wording of the poem - "He lay with his breath in his mouth wishing it hers"- lovely-but it seemed to lend itself more to a regular form.

Bringing up the end is Alan, dear Alan, who, I opine, has suddenly brought back his inner poet with an emotional offering about a tree in Crack Alley. He also chose to rib me with some Google statistics about historic, scientific and romantic poetry, but that was of no consequence compared to his personal revival.

I had a great time last night, lots of good and some outstanding poems.

Dennis is organizing a group for WordFest on April 17, with dinner prior to 7 pm reading. Contact him to sign up. I have contact info for Rachel and Jim if anyone needs it.

Remember also Sunday Four is March 22, with Mary Panza featured. Mary is a little too colorful for some, but I enjoy her. And, she is a great massage therapist! I hope I'll see you there before I leave for Florida on the 23rd. Paul is taking charge of the next meeting.

I passed out invitations to the potluck brunch on April 25. Everyone should be thinking about their artwork for the June show. Obie is taking donations for his art fund.

DUTCH TREAT

2009-02-27T09:33:00.010-05:00

The two Moriartys were the opening acts last night. Philomena wrote I only know exceptional people, the title being a line from a conversation with her husband. Suggestion: revise to 3-line stanzas. We all like the cast-iron skillet. Mimi was on point, both with her own poem Crying Baby and with her critiques. There were different interpretations of the meaning of "crimson age". Everybody agreed about the effectiveness of "Crap." Standing tall and proud.

Obeedude produced one of his finest, reflecting on lost childhood, complete with an elementary school photo of himself as a blond (!) necktied sweetie. "...was your life left at the bottom of a shoebox filled with Kodachrome and light?" Aren't we all there?

What is a poem? Benevolent Bird inspired yet more talk about what poetry is with Tyman Bouwensen, Dutch Soldier 1626 - an historical piece about the hostilities between the Dutch and the two indian tribes near Fort Amsterdam. Tim V. kicked off the discussion by pointing our that the "poem" read like a news release, with an aura of detachment between the event and author. Mark said it had no beautiful language and Mimi said the clunky lines needed air.

Bird's style to me (and I am only speaking for myself here) usually presents more as a science or history lecture than a poem. Very factual, very straightforward. Very prose. Leaving me with this question - if a writer presents something as a poem, should we just accept it as a poem even if we don't think it is? I dunno. How can anyone offer helpful commentary when they are coming from such opposing viewpoints? I guess I can't. The consensus seemed to be that this Dutch piece was a good story, but had no music to it that would make it poetic. Mimi's final suggestion was to make it a ballad with a refrain. There's an idea.

Alan sometimes has great rushes of inspired writing. I have a snippet from one of his poems tacked on my bulletin board. "...I imagined I was a poet writing you a poem made of wind when I'm the wind." That touched me. That's poetry.

Two, not one, but two, newcomers sat through and contributed to our brutal observations. Timothy Lake and Jim Williams joined us, both bravely bringing a poem to share. We now have a Tim, Tim and Jim, if we haven't frightened the new guys away.

TL picked a wonderful subject for his work - the demolition of an old house. It made me want to write about the same thing, which is always good. He had one phrase that I loved: "ample space for urban ghosts". The advice we gave was that he clean it up, take out unneccessary adjectives and substitute more descriptive words for less specific ones such as "part" and "form".

Jim got a resounding thumbs up for Arrivals---Departures, a terse two column snapshot of a middle-aged couple at an airport,
bags weighing them
d
o
w
n.
Looked like he knew what he was doing.

More visual aids from Tim V. (hey, we could have a TeeVee and a TeeEll). Tim brought photos he had taken of a mystery 17th century cemetery he found on his travels. It was accompanied by a rather haunting poem, for which only minor suggestions for change were offered. I am a fan of old cemeteries and was particularly intrigued.

Another winner from Mister Willis, brief snapshots of an American high school girl and an elderly Russian peasant woman. Either stanza could have been a complete poem in itself, but meshed admirably through the idea of men being jerks. (Art said that, not me!)

Paul produced another flawless effort about a small boy and a lost coin, which Mimi observed was "wonderful before we started messing with it".

I did have a poem, about Eli and I visiting a house where no one answered the door. I thought my best line was the dog "yellowing the snow with impatience". Art pronounced it the "prologue to a novella".

I actually think that we are becoming quite adept at our critiques, and I am becoming an advocate of not pussyfooting around with our comments. (See New Year's Resolution.)

On to business: brunch date is Saturday, April 25, I'll go over details when it gets closer.

Remember the June art show! Bring your pieces to the regular meeting on May 28 and we will hang the show that night or the next day. Anything goes as long as you excercise reasonably good taste. Sculpture, collage, found art, painting or drawings (must be framed for hanging). Outre is in - evidence Mark's shoes descending from the hall ceiling. I just had an epiphany - how about a tromphe l'oeil in the hallway? We'll talk...

Jay Rogoff

2009-02-18T12:01:00.002-05:00

...is the featured poet at Sunday Four this week (22nd). I worked with Jay in the early '90s when I was Charlie Rossiter's assistant with the Poets In Person grant. Should be a good show and I hope a good turnout. Sorry that I will be in NYC and will miss it.

Barbara's Dress Test

2009-02-13T11:55:00.002-05:00

I flunked the dress test and it gave me a wicked headache. So, I settled for a pair of jeans at Macy's which was having great sales, btw. Here's is last night's blog by our ghost blogger, although I guess he can't be a ghost blogger if we can see him. Anyway, it's Paul, who leapt in first thing with his offer of a recap. Thanks, Paul. Dennis also had comments this a.m. which I wish he would publish on the blog instead of emailing, but he never does.

THE MECHANICS OF POETRY

An annoying wind was at work Thursday night, pestering the trees, making short work of the few leaves that had gotten loose from the frozen ground during the day. On the road to Voorheesville, only homeward-bound commuters, a few poets. The workshop crew was assembling, the mechanics of poetry preparing to turn the wrenches, tighten the screws.

Alan’s “Want the Warrior Not the Wound,” a poem by turns graceful images and cryptic references, came with a short Italian phrase as an aside that launched a discussion about the use of foreign languages in poems written for English-speaking audiences. The discussion trailed off without reaching a conclusion; maybe there is no conclusion, poets being what they are.

Dennis, no stranger to foreign languages, had nothing but English in his “Early Morning Psalm,” a meditative work that achieved its high point in the poetic humility of the fourth verse. The poem demonstrates how far religious ideas in the proper hands can rise above the preach religious rubbish that writers long on zeal and short on talent routinely produce.

Newcomer Rachael Ikins gave us “The Flea Market,” a title that didn’t seem to fit, probably because it conjures an image different from the place the poem took us. As Alan pointed out, the poem goes in a different direction from the one we expected. All the same, “mirrors collecting dusty faces” is the kind of line poetry is all about.

Philomena’s “Settling,” described by Alan as “Robert Creeley-like in its simplicity,” somehow managed to start a discussion that gave gerunds quite a beating. Various meetings of this group have witnessed the maligning of adjectives and adverbs; last night gerunds got worked over. If people start trashing nouns and verbs, we could end up walking around with targets on our backs, the word “poet” written in the bulls-eye.

Mark arrived with “And Rue, Sweet Rue, For You,” a three and a half page ballad skillfully written in Ulster-Scot dialect. I personally need more time than is provided by one reading to assimilate a poem of this type and length. On the first reading, intent and meaning become secondary to understanding the language. Tim felt it would be better sung than spoken, and Mark’s notation that it is a ballad gives weight to this idea. Mimi wants it performed at the April Poetry Brunch – from memory. Ten weeks, Mark. How about it?

Mimi’s “Diner” was a wonderful collage of images and musings that did justice to the uniquely American eatery known as a diner. As discussion of this poem moved along, ideas fed on each other to create new ideas in a chain reaction that gave the poet so much input there’s no telling how this piece will look in revised form. Good, that’s how it will look, but in what way?

“Group Think,” by Tim, is two poems in one, or maybe it isn’t. Depends on who you ask. The scenario of the chased woman is one part, the observations are another. The pithy and insightful “observations” verses, part rant, part humor, pack a lot of food for thought in their lines. I thought they were great; they spared no one.

Poem of the night (if anyone should ask me) was Ron Pavoldi’s “Boilermaker.” Strong graphic imagery from start to finish succeeds in giving the listener or reader a powerful portrait of hard-drinking men leading dead-end lives as workers in a varnish manufacturing plant, stuck in jobs that kill them faster than their alcoholism does. This poem does not leave its audience wondering what it is trying to say. Its impact comes from leaving little doubt about what it is saying.

Edie’s well-titled “A Walk In the Park” did indeed take us for a walk in the park, but not in the way the most common use of the phrase (meaning something is easy) would suggest. Used in its literal sense, it fit a poem that centers on two people walking in a park held firmly in the grip of winter. Its descriptive quality, as Alan noted, “captures the natural world.” Mimi voiced a creative idea that would leave it as good or better by contracting each stanza by one line, one of those ideas that often gets the subconscious coming back for another look.

Cathy Anderson finally came back, and presented a timely poem called “Valentine.” It is a fine illustration of the truism that there is poetry in everyday things and everyday occurrences. The whole piece is a scene, a memory, given to us as a picture painted with details, made warmer still with a touching last verse. Quite effective.

Next meeting is February 26. Write what you think. Bring what you dare.

Anyone we know?

2009-02-10T14:17:00.002-05:00

"Some American writers who have known each other for years have never met in the daytime or when both were sober."
-James Thurber

I have changed our brunch date to April 25th. There are many poetry events taking place in April. There is one at Cafe Lena on the 11th which is hosting some notable names and will be in competition with ours, so just in case it would affect our turnout, I decided to postpone. Same deal, different day. See you all this week (except for the Beach Boy, who is lolling on a Mexican beach for a few weeks.)

with permission from Mr. W

2009-01-27T14:12:00.001-05:00

Dandelion

Ted leapt from the end of his bed
Trimmed down the stairs
And ran full-bore
In an endless lope
Toward an horizon only he could see.
His right foot caught a noteworthy rock
And forward he went as his chin
Cut a narrow furrow in the grass.
Chest, arms, waist and knees
Bounced along in a rude clap of earth and bone.
The three-year-old opened his mouth
In rehearsal of an outraged howl
As he came face to face with a dandelion
In full yellow-butter bloom
Blasting light and green:
A dandelion monument shined out
In the magnificent rise of glowing eyes
And a smile of utter, final surprise.
He made a sound somewhere between
O and Ow and Wow.

A.Willis, Jan. 21, 2009

Not Barb

2009-01-26T10:28:00.002-05:00

Okay, I don't usually make a big deal out of this, but as more and more of you are becoming guilty of this crime against person (me), the time has come to announce: DON'T BARB ME. A barb is a fishhook, a sharp curving metal object that is used to injure and capture slimy and disgusting fish. It is not my name. Although I will answer to almost anything else, I am no longer responding to "Barb".

Incidentally, at Smitty's yesterday after Sunday Four, me an' the guys talked about that sing-songy voice that is used by many performers reciting their poetry. I guess it is a style that is falling out of fashion. At least, I hope it is. I hate it.

Our poetry brunch is on the board for April 11. If anyone has any great ideas to improve the day, let me know soon. Just don't call me Barb.

I have a lot to say...

2009-01-23T10:30:00.010-05:00

I had what I considered to be a brilliant idea before I fell asleep last night. I have those frequently, but they don't always hold up in the light of day. This one is still okay. In keeping with Alan's efforts to promote poetry to the unwashed masses, I am thinking of compiling an email list of my friends and acquaintances who do not read poetry or who never hear my poems. I would ask if they would mind if I sent them occasional poems that I have written (not anyone else's!).

If I got asked to be on such a list, I would think: well, I don't care much about poetry, but I like this person and don't want to hurt her feelings by saying no. And it's better than ordinary Spam, so sure.

You may steal this idea if you like it. You would have to be prepared for rejection with no hard feelings, and the poems would have to be only your best and only occasionally. If the poems are well received, I plan to give others permission to "re-gift" them to their own friends and - my poems might be set loose to travel the world! (And no, it is not important to me to protect my "rights" to my work.) Enough on that.

I have booked us for June for an art show so you can start thinking about your project. We can use the hall and the community room walls if necessary. If you want to do an assemblage or other three dimensional piece or sculpture, we'll have to talk about how and where it will be placed, so give me some advance notice. Don't give me the excuse that you are not an artist. It is a given that all writers are not visual artists and nobody expects show quality pieces. We are first word artists, which means we are clever. It is your imagination and creativity that will be on display here and our two previous shows have been much fun.

Last night I learned (or re-learned) that the little reference a writer might place under the title of a work is called an epigraph. Tom had one on Is That You? that talked about the use of the second person offering the reader a feeling of being connected to the poem and the poet. O'Bee equated Tom's poem to "an abstract painting with words". It began:
The funhouse has been rehabbed by an avatar
who was fingered by the mob
for selling love seats door-to-door.

R. A. Pavoldi has pretty much cleared his Thursday nights to include us in his groove again. He was inside tonight and not standing outside in the snow (old joke) looking in the window. (He did that once and we didn't find out he had been there until much later.) His poem was a little mysterious, not as grounded in Italian moms and uncles and friends as we are accustomed to from him. Mapping the Gnome Gene Human was pretty clever - he started with the title and built the poem around it. Not everybody got it on the first or second read, which I guess it what made it clever.

Stacie's poem called new republic was word perfect, very spare, with some words she picked for no significant reason. Good explanation. It was a view of the inaugural that combined some midwifery.

Kathy M., who btw will be in Florida for our next two meetings and assures me she is not deserting us because of our shenanigans, graciously considered our suggestions about chopping extraneous words and phrases. Her poem about a broken relationship with a friend prompted me to remember wanting to write about a similar situation. Tim and I were talking this week about being inspired by other poets and this was a perfect example. We agreed that when inspiration hits, you must go home and write immediately or you will lose your impetus. Happens to me all the time.

I am in love with Alan this week - you know what I mean - with his style, which is so different in The Quality of Light than the style I harshly criticized the last time. I commented that he must have two little guys in his head warring over who gets to express himself. This poem was thoughtful, sensitive, human, and was a pleasure( for me) to read. Mimi said that any woman would appreciate receiving this poem and I certainly am on board with that. Bravo. "His story became the story of the train." Love it. (Note to Alan: don't forget to send me a revised copy to save, please.)

Mimi was a poem of the night candidate with Mummers Parade - January 1, 2009. It was a terrific marriage of abstract and concrete concepts about dealing with death and the ensuing grief. " I am flying with my father. Together we keep the beat with knees high, jacket flapping the breeze." To me, who lost my father a year ago, it kinda "crack(ed) my chest apart."

I know this is going on forever, but gosh, we had some good stuff.

Tim painted "an impressionist portrait" of an old life in East Hampton which was not as literal as he usually is. Ron and Alan both mentioned it as a "tight" and "finished" poem. Everyone praised the final stanza which was a fine character description.

I'm sorry, I forgot who mentioned that they appreciated Edie's introduction of the "Jewish cultural voice" into her work, but it is accurate. The poem began with her colorful description of three cats which led to quite some debate over the old question of is this one poem or two, but no conclusion. The title was "the rest is silence", which were Hamlet's last words and it was followed by the musings of what comes after death. My favorite line: "The heart is like a hotel, Margo's mother said. "

In keeping with my resolution, it was Mark's turn to bear the brunt of my brutal tongue. His poem incorporated a multitude of words such as distress with the "dis" omitted. Art compared it to the playfulness of Finnegan's Wake and Edie mentioned Jabberwocky (which I love and we can all quote). Others agreed with me that it more of a writing exercise than a poem.

Tom made an interesting comment about Paul's Grandfather. He said that when he reads work that is extremely good (and this was), he gets "fidgety" waiting for the writer to screw it up before the end. Veddy interrresting.

Art left us all laughing with a truly joyous poem about his grandson Ted taking a header on the lawn full of Dandelions. It was delightful and for me, Art's most memorable. It also prompted a discussion of the use of a or an in front of "h" words.

In conclusion, it pleases me to report, because I admire Art greatly, that he said my poem about a murder was "masterfully crafted". It was a poem I had been carrying in my head for months and was finally able to write in a way that I was satisfied with. Thanks.

For your consideration...

2009-01-13T12:31:00.002-05:00

another poets' art show this summer. Mimi and Art have both answered yes. I would like this time to link your work to one of your poems or vice versa, have the poem framed and hung with the art.

Think about it.

Queen Mildred

2009-01-09T11:04:00.004-05:00

Few of you remember, I know, but for those of you who do, I rec'd holiday greetings in the form of poems, pictures and a drawing from Mildred Kerr. She is obviously missing Donald, her life partner since they were 5 years old together. Mildred is 91 and still writing and sketching. Charlie Rossiter also sent new year's greeting from Chicago.

Italy ruled last night. I proclaimed my impatience with all things Irish and fortunately Mr. Pavoldi arrived with the Poem of the Evening to trump those silly green sheep and shamrocks. Ron was true to (his much-missed at EOTNP) form, echoing his mother's voice and wisdom during a recession. Comments on cast iron and canaries particularly capturing.

Joyce was back (after a trip to Ireland) and with memories of her grandmother. There was a little quibbling over the use of the word magic. Everyone like her grandfather in his rocking chair. Suggested a title changed.

On Being Irish - that Irish Philomena took us deep into the countryside with every Irish image one could conjure up. They were all quite lovely. Some suggestions were made regarding rearranging lines. Green, green, green. Thanks goodness, Mark was here, but had no Irish poem. I was also poem-less, btw.

Kathy McCabe took our previous comments to heart and came in with a very spare and successful offering called "Aging Faces" about sisters. Suggestions: break into stanzas and drop the last line. Tim's pick of the evening.

Edie, Edie, Edie surprised us all with a serious poem called "The Laying of Hands". We discussed the word "blowzed" and agreed it was one of her best. Dennis was rather subdued, but brought a good poem about the new year which brought us some questioned for which he didn't offer much explanation. Paul took us on a first trip to Vegas with a young gambler who seemed pretty sophisticated to me. How do you spell bettors?

I must tell you now that my new year's resolution was to be a nastier person and I admit I tried my new attitude out on Alan, who took my criticism very graciously and didn't un-invite me to his party, as I feared he might. I said his poem read like a science/weather report rather than a poem. He had one wonderful section about his friend Steve plunging over a hill and hitting the snow like "a third grader on a lunch tray". That was a great section. BTW, it looks like I will not be at the party because Josh and Amy are coming for the weekend and we are celebrating my mother's 89th birthday on Saturday.

I am nominating for my second favorite of the night Tim's "Marijuana Cookie", which was spot on with cadence and humor. His feverish desire for the cookie was wonderfully expressed.

Larry and the philosophers met in the other room. They seem to be going strong and are very enthusiastic. I think he's got a good group going. They are having an extra meeting next Thursday.

Hope you all have a great party at Alan's. It was lovely to see Ron. We meet again on the 22nd.

PS-Dennis just stopped in and in the course of our talk, suggested we have a "5 O'clock Poem" night, where everyone churns out a poem at that time and rushes with it to the group. Could be fun. Also heard that I missed a chatty time at Smitty's after the meeting.

A few things

2008-12-29T10:11:00.003-05:00

It was a good turnout yesterday and I was impressed with Tom's presentation. That voice was mesmerizing. Too bad you can't just talk that way, TC. My only problem was wanting to see the pictures while you were speaking. Dennis and Georgia, thanks for having us over. Dr. Jarus seemed to enjoy himself and the pumpkin pie was superb.

I want to remind you all about Steve Lewandowski being here at the lib on Sunday at 2 pm. I guess Alan will be emceeing that one.

Dan Lawlor sends goodbyes on his departure for FL.

My weekend was lovely in New York with Josh and Amy and the boys.

Peace.
bv

Holiday Miscellany

2008-12-22T15:03:00.005-05:00

Yo, and ho-ho...it has been a long time since a meeting and will be longer still as things continue to interfere with our lives, weather, ersatz heart attacks, dinners at Ichiban and now, of all things, those darned holidays. I cannot come up with a date to reschedule our lost meeting(s), so the next time we will be together is on January 8.

I remind you that our Tom is the featured reader at Sunday Four, here at the Old Songs venue in V'ville this Sunday the 28th at 3 pm. I will be there (if the creek don't rise, and so forth) and hope to see lots of you then. Nots lots of you, but many of you, although I wouldn't mind seeing more of you if the weather was warmer. I was hoping Dennis would arrange a little snow-trudging carol singing, but I haven't heard anything along those lines. Oh well, sing to yourselves.

Dan Wilcox's annual open house is on New Year's Day. You can probably check his blog for details.

A friend of Alan's named Steve Lewandowski is giving a poetry reading here at VPL on January 4 (Sunday) at 2 p.m. if you would like to put that on your calendars. Probably AC will be reminding us. Alan's January party sounds good and I hope to be there.

BTW, in case any of you are new digital camera owners, VPL is having two camera programs that might interest you - one in January on the basics of the settings, operations, et al. and a second on options for processing and saving the photos. I plan to attend them, too. More about all of these programs will be in the Jan/Feb Bookworm which comes out next week. Ya gotta sign up for these.

Well, my shopping is done, my wrapping is done, my body is bruised and sticky from a short hospital stay which turned out to be a not-heart-attack-only-a-separated-shoulder. I am asking the Great Claus to bring me a lime green dog stroller, a pedometer, a Persian kitten and a 3-disc Rod Stewart collection, and I will try not to be disappointed when none of this arrives.

This time of year leaves me melancholy, lonely, sad, repentent, weepy, nostalgic and ruminating on Life. To say nothing of grumpy because my arm hurts.

So, have a touch o' the grape for me, hope for peace and toast to poetry.
And don't forget to sing.

MC,
Barbara