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
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
Monday, October 26, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
BTW, Dennis hates exclamation points
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.
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.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Two Blobs in One
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
This is gonna be short
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.
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.
Monday, August 17, 2009
The Ant, part II
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.
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.
Friday, August 14, 2009
My Ant
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.
Monday, August 10, 2009
from Philomena
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
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
Friday, July 24, 2009
Sarabande
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?
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?
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
More from Dennis
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
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
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