Loggerhead Rises from a Swamp

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dear Poe-ettes,

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

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

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

Dennis





AN EARLY MORNING MIDNIGHT RUN

(For Helen V.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

1st Night November

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

Comment on Comment

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

working backwards

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

No Difference Between Living and Dying

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5th Night

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vive Le Professeur

September 24, 2010

I TUCKED MY FRIEND IN BED TODAY

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

Sexaholic Pajamas

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

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

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

I am barren of poems. Gushing tattoos.