Category Archives: general

Poetry reading coming up!

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April is National Poetry Month, and once again the North Shore Poets’ Forum is celebrating with readings by the winners of its annual Naomi Cherkofsky contest followed by open mic on Saturday, April 16, 11 a.m., at the Beverly Public Library.

Just to keep you posted, we had a fantastic meeting last week. Melissa Varnavas presented a program on inspiration which was, well, inspiring! Many of those present came up with some pretty great raw material for polished poems. As Melissa reminded us, quoting Thomas Edison, I think, genius is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent work.

And, all of us at the meeting hope you will join us for the annual Poetry Reading next month, which is National Poetry Month. The Forum’s event is always a great time — a time for sharing poetry, food and friendship.  We look forward to greeting you there.

Updates from the Forum

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 Our next meeting is Saturday, March 19, at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m. to 1 or 2 p.m. Melissa Varnavas will  give a workshop about finding your creative inspiration. 

Melissa received her MFA in poetry last summer and is full of fresh ideas and breadth of knowledge. She had given a terrific program this fall on imagery. Here’s hoping you will all come.

We expect to have time to have gentle critiques of one another’s poetry, so bring along a pesky poem or two to share.

This has been a tough winter, both in terms of raging weather and of personal losses. I offer two poems for contemplation — one that shows anger with, the other acceptance of, the end of things.

The following poem speaks specifically about the poet’s father, but it is universal in its plea…

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

     by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
…
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
…
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

….

This next poem is so quiet, with the repetitions reminiscent of prayer.

Let Evening Come

By Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
…
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
…
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
…
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
…
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
…
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

…

Missing Gertrude

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In addition to our friend Amy Dengler, we recently lost our good friend Gertrude Callis, for whom there will be a memorial service on Saturday, March 12, 2011, at 10 a.m., at the Swampscott Church of Spiritualism, Burrill Street, Swampscott. 

Her family invites you to join them.

The church is next to the Swampscott Public Library and across the street from the Swampscott Fire Station.

Melissa Varnavas is writing a poem to be published soon in this blog in memory of Gertrude, who gave to new poets and new members the encouragement to stand up and be heard. Those of us who knew her feel lucky, even while we miss her.

Gertrude has not been coming to meetings much in the last few years because of failing health. Mostly, she just didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. She hated to talk about her ailments, wanted nothing to do with doctor-talk or health advisories. She was a stubborn, proud, independent, feisty woman with a sweet, soft voice and a huge heart.

When you looked up, there she was — in your corner, smiling and sending good wishes your way.

Thanks, Gertrude.

Remembering Amy

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UPDATE: one more poem added, from Marcia Molay.

The North Shore Poets’ Forum gathered at the Beverly Public Library on Saturday, Feb. 19, for its usual February meeting, but with a different plan than usual: we would spend part of the time remembering our dear friend Amy Dengler, who died the week before.

Some of our members had gone to the Celebration of her Life the prior Thursday morning in Gloucester, and were able to share the beauty of the service, which was planned entirely by Amy.

“I felt as though Amy was my hostess,” said Beverlee Barnes about the care and attention to detail evident throughout, which was typical of the graciousness intrinsic to Amy.

Claire Keyes had felt a tiny bit reconciled to Amy’s death when various people chosen by Amy read some of her poems. Keyes then led Forum members in reading from Amy’s book “Between Leap and Landing,” so that we all would know Amy is always with us — in our memories and in her poems. (See some excerpts from her book on this website under “Introducing Amy Dengler.”)

Amy had also put together another volume of poetry, which we are hoping to receive soon and share with some of you, if her family permits. In the meantime, here is one of Amy’s poems that was read at the celebration of Amy’s life, which Roberta Hung has forwarded.

Valentine

It was only a button, a device

to fasten one side to another yet

it kept reminding me that my winter coat

was missing its middle fastener.  The coat,

still draped over the kitchen chair,

was one button short, brown thread trailing

from the empty space like a memo:

get to this soon.  Instead

I wore the blue jacket with the zipper.

On Wednesday while I was out,

he found the sewing kit, brown thread, a needle,

and reattached the button, size of a quarter

and made of bone or horn or something durable

that didn’t mind fingers, didn’t mind the in and out

of its intention, didn’t mind the simple work

of holding things together.

 

                                                            February 2008

                                                            Amy Dengler

……………………..

 Here is a poem by Roberta that she shared with Amy and the other Forum members at our annual summer outing in Gloucester:

 

Shelf Life

 My bulging bookshelf threatens to mutiny

      against the crowded conditions.

Some amigos will have to go

      where expatriots get sent.

I hope they’ll be valued in their new homes.

 …

A fellow poet recently humbled to Amy Dengler.

He’d paid a pittance at a resale

      for her book, Between Leap and Landing.

His apologia suggested that he rescued it

      from landing in the fire.

 …

Personally, I think it leapt to a new shelf

      to set more hearts aflame.

Good books are like the phoenix.

Amy, mon amie, my copy is a signed keepsake

      of a lovely mentor and friend.

                                                             4/17/10

                                                            Roberta Hung

 

And, we also have the poem to which Roberta is referring, by Lee Eric Freedman:

 
 

 

 

 

AMY AT ANY PRICE
                                          For Amy Dengler

I purchased your book, Amy Dengler.
On Saturday, the final day of             
Swampscott Public Library’s used book sale
when all remaining titles are
reduced to 10¢ apiece.
… 
Shelved in the section “Poetry & Essays”
among copies of Mary Oliver, Charles Simic,
Vincent Ferrini and Czeslaw Milosz,
Between Leap and Landing
lands in my hands.
… 
I shudder, when upon examination
the cover price reveals itself: $8.95.
A sargasso sense of guilt—
should I tell you what I paid?
Will you demand restitution?
Call your lawyer?
 …
Could you please autograph it for me?
I try to laugh it off
but comedy begets tragedy begets fear,
like biting one’s tongue,
that familiar salty blood taste.
 …
Look at it this way my poet friend
I rescued your book.
Snatched it from the fiery furnace
the great maw of death
delivered it from the killing floor.
 …
Please forgive me Amy,
at any price
your poems leap into my hands, enter my heart.
Your skein of geese
going somewhere.

 (© 11/16/2009: Lee Eric Freedman, Tin Box Poets – Swampscott, MA) 

A Remembrance of Amy Dengler
          By Marcia Molay

Amy wrote poetry that made you smile.
There was a message but it never
hammered you; instead it made you aware
of daily tasks as you use simple kitchen tools…
a mixer, a chair, a spoon to lick.
…
She teased that she wrote about
the usual poet’s themes: crows, the moon,
utensils, family.  Despite her persistent,
recurrent illness, she wrote poetry that
delighted and read them with a soft,
soothing voice that made us smile back at her.
…
Her generosity was legend.  Encouraging
less experienced writers was part of her character.
No worry about who would shine,
she helped, based on her long experience with words
and her intuition about what the new poet
could absorb.
 … 

 
 
Amy was a blessing to those of us who knew her. We wish her well on her new journey. CKO


Goodbye to a dear friend

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Amy Dengler is one of our featured poets (see her poems on this blog), and she has proven herself over and over again to be both a wonderful poet and a wonderful woman. Those of us who were lucky enough to share some time on this earth with her are all very sad to learn that Amy died this weekend.

I refer you to her obituary in the Gloucester Times.  We will miss her so much.

Annual contest

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Please. Time is running out to enter the North Shore Poets’ Forum’s annual Naomi Cherkofsky contest. Just click on Contests, above, to get the details.  Deadline is March 1. I can assure you, we always have a great time at the reading in April, listening first to our winners and then proceeding to open mic. Our winners have been such a collection of wonderful poets each year. And open mic participants often become winners in subsequent years. In any event, each and every one of our participants has been wonderful, and so are their poems. Please send in a poem or two or three and join the fun!

After all, you are probably spending a good deal of time indoors, hiding out from storm after storm, taking well-deserved rest from shoveling walks and driveways, clearing off cars and even roofs. So, put on a pot of tea, or maybe cook up some hot chocolate, pull out your pen and paper and create!

Perhaps this winter, with storm begetting storm, it seems, will become a topic for your creativity. Or, maybe you’ll choose sunnier topics while waiting out what might be a winter for the record books. In any case, it will be one to remember.

I must say, one of the nice parts of the winter for me has been, unbelievable as it may seem, the ride to work. I happen to take the scenic route to Lowell, where I have a new job, a route that takes me through Topsfield, Boxford, North Andover, Andover and Tyngsboro. The roads are graced with these snow draped trees. God, they are so gorgeous, with snow snuggling in the crooks of their arms and nestling comfortably in the laps formed by their main branches. The white highlights the limbs. It highlights broken things, too – large branches cracked and waiting for a big wind to toss them to the ground. The trees speak of hardship and death, for sure. But, they are so old, so full of grace and forbearance, they speak of everlasting things, they speak of eternity. I love my drive. Maybe I’ll try to write a little poem about it.

Best wishes to you all. Keep writing, and send in your poems!

Another slight rewrite

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My friend Melissa Varnavas and I got together for a little poetry the other evening, and she pointed out a problem I have a lot — how to end it! The poem, “Advice to the Cat …,” which you can find in the prior post, is a perfect example. I like to wrap things up somehow — have a slowdown, a kaput, an ending. And, I overdo it. I overdid it in this one.

Melissa thought I should just end it at “abeyance.” I now think I could get away with just the word, “Hush,” on  a line of its own, separated from the prior stanza by a space.

I do like an ending. …

Any other thoughts? Other flaws? I know I am not a super poet. I would like to get to be a semi-decent one, so I am open to constructive criticism, with a reason why one thinks that way.

Go to it!

And remember, the Forum meets on Saturday, Jan. 22, 11 a.m. at the Beverly Public Library.

Also, we are again sponsoring our national Naomi Cherkofsky contest, any form, any subject, 40 line limit, due by March 1. For details, simply click on the tab at the top that tells you about contests. In general, however, it is open to poets 18 and older, and the poem should not have been published previously.  There is a $3 per poem entry fee, payable to the North Shore Poets’ Forum, with a maximum of 5 poems per poet. There will be a first prize of $50, a second prize of $30, and a third prize of $20. No one poet can win more than one monied prize. There will also be 7 to 10 honorable mentions, depending on the judge.

Our April meeting features the winning poets, who are then followed by anyone who would like to read. It is always a great time, and here’s hoping you can make it. Again, it is at the Beverly Public Library, beginning at 11 a.m. See Meetings tab.

Please e-mail me, ckohare2@yahoo.com, if you have any questions. Since we are a volunteer group, you could help out by spreading the word about the contest to all your poetic friends.

Cheers… and peace

Come to the meeting!

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The North Shore Poets’ Forum meets tomorrow at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m. to 1 ish. Melissa Varnavas is presenting a program on imagery, which she will illustrate with Rilke’s poem “Bowl of Roses.”  Come!

BOWL OF ROSES

You saw angry ones fume, saw two boys
clump themselves together into a something
that was pure hate, t in the dirt
actors, piled-up exaggerators
careening horses crashed to the ground
their gazes discarded, baring their teeth
as if the skull peeled itself out through the mouth. 

And now you know how these things are discarded
for here before you stands a full bowl of rose
which is unforgettable and brimming
with ultimate instances of being, of bowing down,
of offering, of being unable to give, of standing there,
almost as a part of us: ultimate for us too.

Noiseless living, opening without end
filling space without taking space from the space
that all the other things in it diminish
almost as if an outline, like something omitted
and pure inwardness with much curious softness
shining into itself right up to the brim
is anything as know to us as this?

And this: that a feeling arises
because petals are being touched by petals?
And this: that one opens itself like a lid,
and beneath lie many more eyelids,
all closed, as if, tenfold asleep, they
must damp down an inner power to see.
And above all this: that through these petals
light has to pass. Slowly they filter out
from a thousand skies the drop of darkness
in whose fiery glow the jumbled bundle
of stamens becomes aroused and rears up.

And look, what activity in the roses:
gestures with angles of deflection so small
no one would notice them, were it not for
infinite space where their rays diverge.

See this white one, so blissfully opened,
standing among its huge spreading petals
Like a Venus upright in her shell,
And look how that blushing one turns,
as if confused, toward the cooler one,
and how the cooler one, impassive, draws back,
and the cold one stands tightly wrapped in itself
among these opened ones, that shed everything.
And what they shed, how it can be
at once light and heavy, a cloak, a burden,
A wing, and a mask, it all depends,
and how they shed it: as before a lover.

Is there anything they can’t be: wasn’t this yellow one
that lies here hollow and open, the rind
of a fruit of which the same yellow,
more intense, more orange-red, was the juice?
And this one, could opening have been too much for it,
since, touched by air, its indescribable pink
has picked up the bitter aftertaste of lilac?

And isn’t this batiste one a dress, with
the chemise still inside it, soft and breath-warm,
both garments flung off together
in morning shade at the bathing pool in the woods?
And this opalescent porcelain,
fragile, a shallow china cup
filled with little lighted butterflies,—
and this, containing nothing but itself.

And aren’t’ they all doing the same: simply containing themselves,
if to contain oneself means: to transform the world outside
and wind and rain and patience of spring
and guilt and restlessness and disguised fat
and darkness of earth at evening
all the way to the errancy, flight, and coming on of clouds,
all the way to the vague influence of the distant stars
into a hand full of inwardness.

Now it lies free of cares in the open roses.

Part of the process

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Web administrator’s note: Thanks, Melissa, for this great essay.


By Melissa Varnavas

An MFA teaches you the mechanics of good writing, sure. But just as important are the lessons learned regarding one’s own creative process. In Drawing on the Artist Within (Simon & Schuster, Inc., 1987), author Betty Edwards outlines five essential stages of creativity: “first insight;” “saturation;” “incubation;” “realization” (indicated as the “ah-ha!” moment); and “verification”.

When I sent my application to Pine Manor College’s (PMC) MFA program, I was firmly in the “realization” stage of Edwards’ creativity curve. I’d “incubated” in my professional career, and come to the conclusion that I could begin another career, a career I always wanted, a career as a writer. The idea was like an epiphany. The letter of acceptance from PMC Director Meg Kearney was my verification. A month later, however, I was back at “first insight” learning how much I actually did not know about poetry and the craft of writing.

Those first months were full of self-indulgent sobbing: “What am I doing here?” (I’m a bit of a drama queen.) Until my former professor, poet Ray Gonzales, offered the seemingly simplistic pearl of wisdom—“What do you mean? You’re here to write, aren’t you? So, write.”

Of course I headed off to get my MFA to learn how to write, to become a better poet, to learn (perhaps most importantly) what makes a poem a poem.  And I did learn these things under the tutelage of numerous kind and patient poets, much as I learned over the years from the kind and patient tutelage of the wonderful community of poets we have in the North Shore Poets’ Forum, the Massachusetts State Poetry Society, the Tin Box Poets and so many more.

The quest to become a better poet and discern what makes a poem a poem is still the subject of my creative search.

As I approach the year anniversary of my graduation I continue to answer the skeptical regarding the worth of my degree. “So,” the vaguely interested ask, “what have you done with your degree?”

I have not published a poem, or penned a thrilling essay, or begun a fictional treatise of the ills of believing in an ill-fated world. But I am sure that at any moment one of the 15 or so perfectly-formed poems currently out in the world will find a home. Any minute now my phone is going to ring. Any. Minute. Now.

Okay, so the phone’s not ringing off the hook, and I haven’t become an international success. Still, I am not discouraged. I believe in the creative process. I believe in the craft lessons learned during my graduate work. I believe in the old “ass-in-chair” adage which implies that being a writer means saturating oneself in the continuous process of reading, writing, and living.

That’s not to say I didn’t take some time off after completing my degree. Of course I did. I spent about two months in hibernation. I’d never seen the TV show Lost before then and fell into nearly a month of continuous viewing. And I spent some time simply living.

Come March, I attacked poetry again like a beset warrior (armed with only a broken sword), and sent out poems from my creative thesis. I got back to writing.

In the spring, I returned to my garden after two years to find it overgrown; I opened my eyes to a mess of unfinished house projects. In the summer, I helped my niece plan her wedding. We celebrated my husband’s birthday with a trip to Las Vegas. I spent some more time simply living.

This fall, I re-entered the local literary community, rejoining groups like the Forum, and I recently joined the Thursday Theatre of Words & Music and the Salem Writers Group. I’ve also returned to the collection of notebooks steadily accumulating on my shelves to find some not-so-perfectly formed poems waiting for my attention. I am back to writing, again.

The best part of being on the other side of graduate schooling is that not only do you not have a 40-page paper due at the end of every month but you can have another glass of wine and read another book and write some more and read some more and not worry so much about the end product.

But here I am again. Writing again. Back at the beginning of the process, somewhere between the incubation of a poem(s) and the realization of its completion. After an essay is written or a poem poured out, I lapse into the day-to-day rigors of home and family and work, overwhelmed by the question I had that first month of my schooling: What am I doing here? Why should we bother writing poems?

While I joke about the millions poetry will miraculously procure for me in royalties from my first book, I know that I am simply continuing to do what I have always done, what Ray Gonzales so aptly pointed out that first semester—I am a writer so I’m writing.

So, don’t worry if life gets hectic and you step away from your poems for a bit of life “saturation” before finding poetic “inspiration”; you’ll keep writing too. It’s all part of the process.


Poets’ Forum schedule

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Meetings are held at the Beverly Public Library, usually on the third Saturday (see the following schedule for deviations), from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. Members are asked to bring a little bit of food to share (cookies, cheese, whatever), and after a program, they are also encouraged to bring a poem for gentle critique. It is best to bring copies of the poem(s) so members can write suggestions, praise, etc.

Sept. 18: Poets bring poems by a favorite poet to discuss and share. Gentle critiques of individual poems follow; program set for year.

Oct. 16: David Kristin will present a performance of his poetry. (See earlier blog entry for more information about David.)

Nov. 20: Melissa Varnarvas will present a program on imagery

Dec. 4: Holiday Party. The forum convenes with the full Massachusetts State Poetry Society for a program and  Yankee Swap. The forum awards a $10 prize to the poet who write the “most apt” poem, one that best describes the present he or she brought for the Yankee Swap. Neither the present  nor the poem are signed. All is revealed when the winner is declared.

Jan. 22: Elva Nelson will present a program on the sonnet. In the event of a snow storm, the meeting will be canceled.

Feb. 19:  Claire Keyes will present a program on D.H. Lawrence.

March 19: Melissa Varnarvas will present a program on inspiration. Fresh from her MFA, Melissa is enthusiastic, which is terrific! So, two programs from her this year.

April 16: The annual Poetry Reading, with winners of the annual Naomi Cherkofsky national contest asked to read, followed by open mic. Always a great time, everyone is invited.

May 21: Jeanette Maes, president of the Mass State Society and treasurer of NSPF, will give a program, topic to be determined.

June 18: The NSPF holds an annual outing, usually in Gloucester, during which we enjoy the scenery and one another’s poems. We lunch afterward at a local eatery.

Summer recess … See you in September