We ate like starving third world children last night. Really. The bill at Smit's was bigger than I've ever seen it and it wasn't from the libations. That said, I will apologize for falling asleep on my couch and missing the beginning of the meeting. You, of course, carried on without me, but Alan (who was also late) and I just weasled our poems in under the time wire.
News first. Ally appeared to say goodbye for the summer as she has chosen to do water aerobics on Thursday nights instead of poetry (!). I concede it is better for her health, but we will miss her. Joyce tells me she is also taking a writing break. Burke has deserted us for the lake house. No Mimi for a couple of sessions. She will be in VA and at Pyramid Lake. Paul was missing last night and I missed the explanation if there was one. Also no Philomena. Still, a dozen of us there and some good, good poems.
Dan had questions about poems that rhyme v. those that don't and expressed his inability to write the others. We might want to spend some time talking about that subject and the subject of gerunds, which also came up. Dennis has suggested that we do an evening outside the library which is devoted to discussions of that nature. Our time is usually so short at meetings that we cannot get into other subjects of interest. We will be planning something.
Okay, the poems. Edie's Sanctum Sanctorum was unmistakeably hers and one of her best. Markle's new language was almost decipherable and very clever. He is making progress. Ally did a DRY LAND SAIL which was not only a great title, but a great poem about an encounter with a bicyclist with "lime green billowing".
Tom had a new technique called "leave extra words in the poem and let the audience choose". It worked admirably and we all had an opinion. It was fun. A small debate ensued about #4 pencils. Willow also prompted quite a discussion with her surprise ending on an "alien" poem which turned out to be litter of puppies. We opined that it needed a new title.
I missed the reading of Art's Targum but picked up on positive remarks about the cadence and the content. Dennis divided us all between those who had heard of Phillip Berrigan (the 60's peace priest) and those who hadn't. Our peace and justice master impressed us (me, anyway) with his personal acquaintance with the man who was an object of my admiration.
I got a little dramatic with Timmy by tearing his poem apart (literally) and did apologize after, but he didn't seem to mind. I found the first two pages confusing so I ripped them off. The final page I loved.
Dennis inspired me to write about my grandmother, who was his neighbor years ago. I was kind of rough on her. I have strong memories of our visits to her in Tennessee and think it was a strong poem.
Alan wrote about Adirondack clouds, ending with the terrific phrase "this weather is too small to hang your hat on". I loved that. He also published a broadside of my poem from last time about my family around the fire. It is adorned with a beautiful woodcut (?) of leaves. I love it and appreciate his effort with it. Thank you, Alan.
And - thank you all for your presence at my birthday and for the very thoughtful gifts and speeches. You are all very special to me.
Some of Us
Dennis Sullivan, Beverly Osborne, Tom Corrado, Edie Abrams, Art Willis, Alan Casline (all seated); Paul Amidon, Mike Burke, Tim Verhaegen, Mark O'Brien, Barbara Vink, Philomena Moriarty
Friday, June 29, 2007
Friday, June 15, 2007
Yeah, right.
All praise and acclamation to Paul who made a hefty contribution (okay, I'm wincing) at the meeting last night. We now have a gavel that can lick its weight in poets and writers. We practiced a little with it (I allowed Mark to take a turn) and it works just fine.
Paul also gave us a good solid poem about tintypes which prompted a lot of conversation. I guess most of us have some and we all have the same thoughts about the people pictured - their lives, their fate, etc. In reference to the poem itself, Dennis made a valuable comment about being able to take out word connectors without damaging the essence of the work. I feel the same about adjectives, as Mimi does about adverbs, and Willow about exclamation points! I just purposely omitted the unneccessary descriptor "old" from in front of tintypes, as of course the nature of the tintype means that it is old.
The Red Menace also prompted discussion about how some of us feel inadequate when faced with a poem that includes literary references that are unfamiliar. His poem contains some magical lines for me about angels ("with a leg, a wing in every world" "to grow wings, will that make us angels"), but I am trying to disgest "angellein" and "pre-valence", words I was not familiar with. Willow suggested stanza breaks to make each idea stand apart.
Willow gave her audience a little rap on the knuckles with a witty presentation about the angel Gabriel trying to locate a virgin mother for Christ. Yeah, right. Dan Lawlor made a good rhyming poem about movie-watching on the couch. Alan was still in his Christman reverie and wrote a poem in half-Christman, half-Casline style which I can't quite describe. It was a lovely nature portrait but I found the structure and rhyme scheme of the poem disconcerting.
Obeedude was totally incomprehensible and if you missed it you will have to have him explain it to you. Something about making up the language. Check out his blog today, he does have a wonderful growler thing-y on it. Which reminds me, Alan's new broadside has Mark's growler poem on it.
Philomena had a popular offering about the erosion of relationships: "...I remember that perfect sunset and you the kind of car you drove..."
Personal pick of the week was a close call between Tim and Mimi, both of whom I thought were top notch. Tim continues to grow by giant steps and Mimi keeps fine tuning her already sensitive and funny voice. Tim was doing things his own way in a gay nightclub. Mimi wrote a stinging commentary on the "Pope Discredits the Theology of Limbo". Both winners.
It was a learning meeting for me as I picked up a few pointers. Oh, yeah, I had a quiet and simpleminded little poem about two Bambis beside the road. Made me feel like I didn't belong in the company of great thinkers either.
I am going home to write thank you notes in the rain.
Paul also gave us a good solid poem about tintypes which prompted a lot of conversation. I guess most of us have some and we all have the same thoughts about the people pictured - their lives, their fate, etc. In reference to the poem itself, Dennis made a valuable comment about being able to take out word connectors without damaging the essence of the work. I feel the same about adjectives, as Mimi does about adverbs, and Willow about exclamation points! I just purposely omitted the unneccessary descriptor "old" from in front of tintypes, as of course the nature of the tintype means that it is old.
The Red Menace also prompted discussion about how some of us feel inadequate when faced with a poem that includes literary references that are unfamiliar. His poem contains some magical lines for me about angels ("with a leg, a wing in every world" "to grow wings, will that make us angels"), but I am trying to disgest "angellein" and "pre-valence", words I was not familiar with. Willow suggested stanza breaks to make each idea stand apart.
Willow gave her audience a little rap on the knuckles with a witty presentation about the angel Gabriel trying to locate a virgin mother for Christ. Yeah, right. Dan Lawlor made a good rhyming poem about movie-watching on the couch. Alan was still in his Christman reverie and wrote a poem in half-Christman, half-Casline style which I can't quite describe. It was a lovely nature portrait but I found the structure and rhyme scheme of the poem disconcerting.
Obeedude was totally incomprehensible and if you missed it you will have to have him explain it to you. Something about making up the language. Check out his blog today, he does have a wonderful growler thing-y on it. Which reminds me, Alan's new broadside has Mark's growler poem on it.
Philomena had a popular offering about the erosion of relationships: "...I remember that perfect sunset and you the kind of car you drove..."
Personal pick of the week was a close call between Tim and Mimi, both of whom I thought were top notch. Tim continues to grow by giant steps and Mimi keeps fine tuning her already sensitive and funny voice. Tim was doing things his own way in a gay nightclub. Mimi wrote a stinging commentary on the "Pope Discredits the Theology of Limbo". Both winners.
It was a learning meeting for me as I picked up a few pointers. Oh, yeah, I had a quiet and simpleminded little poem about two Bambis beside the road. Made me feel like I didn't belong in the company of great thinkers either.
I am going home to write thank you notes in the rain.
Monday, June 11, 2007
We meet again at last
Thank you, all my faithful ones, for your presence at my party, your wonderful words and gifts. I will be posting pictures and sending notes when I get "organized", as my mother used to say. She never did get organized, but it was a promising idea. It has been a long barren stretch but we finally meet this week.
Monday, June 4, 2007
Dennis O'Sullivan Day (guest post)
Dear Dead Poets oh excuse me Dear members of the Dead Poets Society!!
What a wonderful time Georgia, our peerless leader Benevolent Bird, our esteemed and
venerable magister
Arthur, and Artisto Marco O’Briano—he said he likes O’s—and I had reading poems by Will
Christman, Hewitt [i
think was O’B’s poet], and ourselves on a variety of nature and non-nature subjects.
We drank small flutes of Mead sitting by the edge of a precipice overlooking the falls at the
sanctuary. It
certainly felt as if we were some resurrected dead poets society from a mighty prep school in
east-central
Massachusetts. Or maybe we were sprites at home for ever.
Thanks to Alan for organizing the event; he has added so much to our group by his interest
in producing
memorized poems contests, readings along the Bozenkill, broadsides, and little books of
poems—Catullus
would say libelli—whose spines are hand-stitched for security and art’s sake.
In between our readings we spoke about—some of us eloquently—that was a joke son!!—the
nature of religion,
the daimon, the spirit of the woods, the world, life, and how structured religions as practiced
by many
somewhere failed to invigorate, give the life they promised to those who need to live.
Mark and Art waxed eloquently on these subjects to such an extent that I rode over to SUNY
to ask for three
credits toward a docorate—which was antithetical to the purpose of the discussion which was
that there was no
external institution or being which/who could certify our experiences and give them greater
or even any
validity. If it were the Sixties I’d’a said: Heavy dude.
What a wonderful time Georgia, our peerless leader Benevolent Bird, our esteemed and
venerable magister
Arthur, and Artisto Marco O’Briano—he said he likes O’s—and I had reading poems by Will
Christman, Hewitt [i
think was O’B’s poet], and ourselves on a variety of nature and non-nature subjects.
We drank small flutes of Mead sitting by the edge of a precipice overlooking the falls at the
sanctuary. It
certainly felt as if we were some resurrected dead poets society from a mighty prep school in
east-central
Massachusetts. Or maybe we were sprites at home for ever.
Thanks to Alan for organizing the event; he has added so much to our group by his interest
in producing
memorized poems contests, readings along the Bozenkill, broadsides, and little books of
poems—Catullus
would say libelli—whose spines are hand-stitched for security and art’s sake.
In between our readings we spoke about—some of us eloquently—that was a joke son!!—the
nature of religion,
the daimon, the spirit of the woods, the world, life, and how structured religions as practiced
by many
somewhere failed to invigorate, give the life they promised to those who need to live.
Mark and Art waxed eloquently on these subjects to such an extent that I rode over to SUNY
to ask for three
credits toward a docorate—which was antithetical to the purpose of the discussion which was
that there was no
external institution or being which/who could certify our experiences and give them greater
or even any
validity. If it were the Sixties I’d’a said: Heavy dude.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
near Washington 23 July 1861
A sketch of the battle of Bulls Run when we met the enimy and they oferd fire on us:
(by special correspondence to the Sunday Mercury from the battlefield.)
*
While the Artillery seemed
to be assembling for conference
amid the sun-dried bowlders,
fishwives scolded and nagged
railing excitedly into
an unspeakable jumble
a rising of din over battle.
*
An Officer waved his
gauntleted hand sweeping
wildly at the air
of unwilling curses
despite being dragged at heals
by a besplashed charger
the western sky along.
*
Partly smothered in red
as a blue haze of evening
settled upon the field
he was loosed to the ground
rising to the level of his feet
twisting with the movement
plunged he deep into earth.
Pressing his hands
through the wound
a single afflicted groan
wrenched from him
causing him to expire
his face, then painted
stupefied with a smile.
obeedude/03/may/07
Note: This poem is an impression and a fiction of my imagination. It is based on the letters I have read ,as well as the recent novels that I have consumed such as the Red Badge of Courage. I tookArt's suggestion and added what seemed like period language that I created. It is dated after the actual battle, as if it were a letter written from Washington, when the New York State Militia would have been straggling back to their camps, and writing home to describe what had transpired in thisdisastrous battle and its aftermath. The actual event described here-in may well have taken place at any battle during the civil war. I chose Bull Run (or Bulls Run as many of the participants called it)because it was a battle of confusion and tragic blunders on both sides. The Confederates won but muchto their surprise, the Union lost miserably and to their surprise were so devastated that many injuries and losses took place in the stampede from the battlefield. As I said, there were Débutantes and Senators out for a picnic to watch on a lark. Before they knew it, they went from picnic to panic.
(by special correspondence to the Sunday Mercury from the battlefield.)
*
While the Artillery seemed
to be assembling for conference
amid the sun-dried bowlders,
fishwives scolded and nagged
railing excitedly into
an unspeakable jumble
a rising of din over battle.
*
An Officer waved his
gauntleted hand sweeping
wildly at the air
of unwilling curses
despite being dragged at heals
by a besplashed charger
the western sky along.
*
Partly smothered in red
as a blue haze of evening
settled upon the field
he was loosed to the ground
rising to the level of his feet
twisting with the movement
plunged he deep into earth.
Pressing his hands
through the wound
a single afflicted groan
wrenched from him
causing him to expire
his face, then painted
stupefied with a smile.
obeedude/03/may/07
Note: This poem is an impression and a fiction of my imagination. It is based on the letters I have read ,as well as the recent novels that I have consumed such as the Red Badge of Courage. I tookArt's suggestion and added what seemed like period language that I created. It is dated after the actual battle, as if it were a letter written from Washington, when the New York State Militia would have been straggling back to their camps, and writing home to describe what had transpired in thisdisastrous battle and its aftermath. The actual event described here-in may well have taken place at any battle during the civil war. I chose Bull Run (or Bulls Run as many of the participants called it)because it was a battle of confusion and tragic blunders on both sides. The Confederates won but muchto their surprise, the Union lost miserably and to their surprise were so devastated that many injuries and losses took place in the stampede from the battlefield. As I said, there were Débutantes and Senators out for a picnic to watch on a lark. Before they knew it, they went from picnic to panic.
Friday, May 25, 2007
Ricochets and Echoes (borrowed from Tim)
Wow, last night was quite a circus with 16 poets, including a guest appearance by Willow, an longtime member who moved to Cambridge a while ago. We had a visitor named Yvette who came all the way from Saratoga. She and the late Mr. Casline did not get to read because we ran out of time.
I was limiting everyone to ten minutes instead of the usual 15, but still was not enough. I need to remind you that we cannot digress into personal viewpoints on the issues presented in the poems whether it is religious, political or other. We simply 1) do not have the time and 2) are there to critique the structure and efficacy of the poems not debate the contents.
The meeting was very rowdy . We have a lot to talk about and enjoy each other's company, but unless we want to consider splitting up into smaller groups (which no one does), we have to concentrate on the matters at hand. The discussion group, as such, convenes at Smitty's after the meeting and everyone is welcome. Those who came last night were very hungry and we all consumed cheeseburgers and fries and other goodies with our beer and iced tea.
Art's poem, btw, was the shortest and sweetest. Two good performance pieces by Willow and Tim.
Miscellaneous:
God, I hate sounding like God.
Cathy fell asleep and was too groggy to make the meeting.
Tim is going to Montreal for a wild weekend.
Mike is heading off to the lake for the summer and leaving us.
There was a lot of conversation that I missed.
My real birthday was last Sunday. The party is no longer a surprise, as I caught on. Remember to RSVP to my daughter.
Thank you, Larry, for the present.
I will be back at work next Tuesday and will post the comments that are waiting and Mark's poem from the last meeting.
I was limiting everyone to ten minutes instead of the usual 15, but still was not enough. I need to remind you that we cannot digress into personal viewpoints on the issues presented in the poems whether it is religious, political or other. We simply 1) do not have the time and 2) are there to critique the structure and efficacy of the poems not debate the contents.
The meeting was very rowdy . We have a lot to talk about and enjoy each other's company, but unless we want to consider splitting up into smaller groups (which no one does), we have to concentrate on the matters at hand. The discussion group, as such, convenes at Smitty's after the meeting and everyone is welcome. Those who came last night were very hungry and we all consumed cheeseburgers and fries and other goodies with our beer and iced tea.
Art's poem, btw, was the shortest and sweetest. Two good performance pieces by Willow and Tim.
Miscellaneous:
God, I hate sounding like God.
Cathy fell asleep and was too groggy to make the meeting.
Tim is going to Montreal for a wild weekend.
Mike is heading off to the lake for the summer and leaving us.
There was a lot of conversation that I missed.
My real birthday was last Sunday. The party is no longer a surprise, as I caught on. Remember to RSVP to my daughter.
Thank you, Larry, for the present.
I will be back at work next Tuesday and will post the comments that are waiting and Mark's poem from the last meeting.
Monday, May 21, 2007
Sunday, May 20, 2007
A Crowd of Cows
Under a tree in a Florida pasture, they are jostling for space in the shade. They are brown suede and black velvet, sleek and soft-skinned. We glide by in our red Mustang. My cheeks are getting sunburned. The wind makes a snarl of my hair. I am holding a straw visor on my head with one hand.The cows have a tree and they all want it. I want the sun and the wind and to go so fast I leave my life behind. I can almost hear the cows politely asking one another to move over a little. No one says anything to me.
How long do they let cows live before they eat them?
Not longer than 60 years I'm thinking.
My birthday 2007
Friday, May 11, 2007
I'm leaving, really
Some very strange emails have been flying around the last couple of days. I don't know as I really understood all of them, but no matter. My thoughts are elsewhere. This time tomorrow I should be winging my way over Georgia (or Guantanamo - they always stop me at the check in for having metal knees.) I really, really, REALLY need this trip. It has been an awful year.
Okay, only ten in attendance last night with the name O'Sullivan on the sign in sheet with no accompanying personnel and a very poor showing from the females.
Art's Blanche was a portrait of his maiden "white" aunt who died young during the war (the BIG ONE) , played the piano and smelled of forest mold. Paul followed up with another boyhood tale about catching a gallon that fell off the ice cream truck It reminded me of my trips to see Mr. Mudge at our ice cream store when I was a tot. Mike was counting urination among his the things his day had taught him. Alan also mention fathers in recounting a Key Bank anecdote. My poem sucked (thanks again for that, Tim) about the fire gods and snakes coming out the flames. Tom and I both mentioned hemlock boughs, he more successfully than I, and he managed to work in gargoyles and flowered codpieces besides. Ally made a good point about the media pursuing the Anna Nicole and Imus stories instead of the coffins. Tim did a nice job telling his trip to Montreal and Mark brought us to the finish with a good Bull Run. (I will post). Gary was there for the first time in a while, but passed on reciting.
I did not join the troops at Smit's, so i don't know how the recitation contest went, but hope to hear about it. I went home to pay bills and pack the dog stuff, etc. before leaving. Managed to fall on my butt (don't ask) and twisted a knee, neither of which are very good to begin with, so I will be limping to the beach. By hook or by crook, I WILL be at the beach, however.
Morgan, thanks for stopping to say goodbye.
Okay, only ten in attendance last night with the name O'Sullivan on the sign in sheet with no accompanying personnel and a very poor showing from the females.
Art's Blanche was a portrait of his maiden "white" aunt who died young during the war (the BIG ONE) , played the piano and smelled of forest mold. Paul followed up with another boyhood tale about catching a gallon that fell off the ice cream truck It reminded me of my trips to see Mr. Mudge at our ice cream store when I was a tot. Mike was counting urination among his the things his day had taught him. Alan also mention fathers in recounting a Key Bank anecdote. My poem sucked (thanks again for that, Tim) about the fire gods and snakes coming out the flames. Tom and I both mentioned hemlock boughs, he more successfully than I, and he managed to work in gargoyles and flowered codpieces besides. Ally made a good point about the media pursuing the Anna Nicole and Imus stories instead of the coffins. Tim did a nice job telling his trip to Montreal and Mark brought us to the finish with a good Bull Run. (I will post). Gary was there for the first time in a while, but passed on reciting.
I did not join the troops at Smit's, so i don't know how the recitation contest went, but hope to hear about it. I went home to pay bills and pack the dog stuff, etc. before leaving. Managed to fall on my butt (don't ask) and twisted a knee, neither of which are very good to begin with, so I will be limping to the beach. By hook or by crook, I WILL be at the beach, however.
Morgan, thanks for stopping to say goodbye.
Friday, May 4, 2007
Another oops...
Gosh, this blog stuff is strange. Beneath is a poem I worked on last night and thought I posted to my personal blog at home. I have no idea how it turned up here. I am Grandma Charley (GC).
Nevermind, I removed it.
Nevermind, I removed it.
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