Eating An Elephant

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

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

...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

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?

"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

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

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...

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...

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

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.