Our Sept. 17 meeting was terrific — well attended, with a number of new people and old friends; a terrific African poet whose charm and talent impressed us all; his very kind son, who lives on the South Shore and hopes to fan the fame of his 92-year-old father; and terrific poems by fellow members.
Our guest was Gabriel Okara, 92, a vibrant poet with great imagery that speaks to all people. I didn’t take extensive notes, but one line I happened to write down from his poem “Snow Flakes Sail Gently Down,” is “like white-robed Muslims,” about the trees, and another, perhaps less exactly, “limbs weighed down by the weightless flakes.” (See prior entry for some full-length poems by this very wonderful Nigerian poet.)
Hi son, Ebbie, remembers waking in the night to find his father writing his poems, because, of course, his father had to make a living during the day. Ebbie lives on the South Shore. He, too, writes poetry, but he’s more interested in introducing his father’s poetry to as many people as possible — surely, a good son and a good man.
Among our friends who have been unable to come to the meetings lately is Diane Giardi, a fine artist and a terrific poet. Her teaching schedule has kept her away in recent months.
Chris Coleman, too, isn’t always able to make it, so it was a pleasure, as usual, to have him with us.
New faces include Jane Montecacuo, Maryanne Anderson and Tony Toledo. All in all, it was a wonderful welcoming and reunion, with great poetry and happy feelings all around.
During the meeting we also refined our schedule for the upcoming year. Please see under the MEETINGS tab.
I will leave you with a little poem, by Wordsworth, which is about the sudeness of joy and then the guilt of it because of the death of someone he loved –his daughter.
William Wordsworth : Surprised by Joy |
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb1, That spot which no vicissitude can find? Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind— But how could I forget thee? Through what power, Even for the least division of an hour, Have I been so beguiled as to be blind To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore, Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn, Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more; That neither present time, nor years unborn Could to my sight that heavenly face restore. |
William Wordsworth (1770-1850) 1812 |
North Shore Poets' Forum 