Category Archives: general

Summer outing included great food

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Someone has said that poets love food, and that was proved true on Saturday when the Mass State Poetry Society met under the trees at the Saugus Iron Works for the annual summer outing. Of course, the poetry was wonderful, as usual. And, I heard the program was terrific. Unfortunately, I arrived too late for that.
But, I arrived just in time for the great food. I love other people’s salads, of which there were a number, from green to various pasta types. Somehow, other people’s salads always taste divine, while mine bore me. And, there were tasty seafood rolls, too, and then dessert, so yummy. Those chocolate brownies that Mary Ellen Letarte baked were my favorites, since I’m a chocolate nut, while she loved someone else’s cookies. She’s probably used to her own goodies.
Anyway, Susan Namet shared a recipe for Broccoli Oriental Cole Slaw, which isn’t hers but which she got from someone else so many years ago she can’t remember.

1 ( 1lb) package broccoli slaw mix

2 packages Ramen Oriental Noodle soup (chicken) uncooked

1 cup toasted slivered almonds

1 cup sunflower seeds (I didn’t use these)

1 bunch scallions, chopped

1 large red pepper, chopped

1 cup cranraisins

Dressing

Mix in blender

3/4  cup canola oil

1/3 cup sugar

1/3 cup cider vinegar

1 packet soup seasoning from Ramen soup package

…

Crush noodles and mix with almonds. Mix slaw ,scallions, and red pepper. About 20 minutes or half hour before serving, mix all together. Everything can be prepared in advance and then assembled

So, here’s hoping this little food for thought engenders a poetic masterpiece.

National Poetry Day Contest

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The deadline is fast approaching for the Mass. State Poetry Society’s annual National Poetry Day Contest. It’s Aug. 1, so hurry up and get your poems typed up and sent by that date.

Maybe some of you entered the National Federal of State Poetry Societies‘ annual contest. I did, and according to its website they will post the winners soon. Can’t wait. I haven’t entered in years and years, because I’ve been so busy and distracted and stressed and lacking in self-confidence. The latter is still true, but I’m happy to say I quit my job at the newspaper after 13 years and look forward to a better, less stressful and more lucrative life! Here’s my goodbye editorial to the readers of the Danvers Herald, in case you’re interested.

It is almost August, which is my favorite month. But, July 4 is  almost my favorite day, with its summer sun high and hot and the day long with seasonal celebrations.

The weather has been glorious, with gusts of wind rippling the leaves into applause for so much beauty. I am very happy, and I hope all the poets and poetry lovers/likers reading this are, too.

Best wishes in the contests! But, you can’t win unless you enter, as the Lottery hawkers say.

Summer outing in Gloucester

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Fitz Hugh Lane House
Fitz Hugh Lane House in Gloucester

At our May meeting, we decided to have a summer outing at the Fitzhugh Lane house in Gloucester. It’s very pretty. Look for the hill on Rogers Street, I think, not too big, but prominent overlooking the harbor. It’s not very far from the center. You’ll find it, and if not right away, I have found the Gloucester folk to be very helpful! Then, just find a parking spot and climb on up.

We are gathering at 11 a.m. on Saturday, June 19. Bring a lawn chair and some poems to share. Then, when we get hungry, we’ll go to the little restaurant nearby for sandwiches.

Hope to see you!

Memorial Day

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It is for me a day of rest, of planting tomatoes, of weeding the flower beds, of relaxing in the warmth of the yellow sun.

But before all that, I may go to Danvers Town Hall to observe Memorial Day, walk along part of the parade route, record the band for a video. I am the editor of the paper. But, since I also have a cold, and since Community Editor Myrna Fearer will also be there, I may not go.

Still, there is something very folksy and old-fashioned about the Danvers Memorial Day Parade. It brings to mind the parades of my youth, when I marched with the Brownies or, after I’d quit, ran alongside my friends who belonged to some other troop. It was a fun time, not at all sombre. I didn’t listen to the speeches. Unfortunately, now I do.

They’re not eloquent. After all, there aren’t very many Abraham Lincolns in the world who can hit the absolute perfect pitch of sadness, regret, and respect for the sacrifices made by those who serve and by  those whose sons, fathers, brothers — and today, daughters, mothers, sisters — are maimed or killed.

I am in general a pacifist. So, sometimes it is difficult for me to listen to these annual, hometown speeches, since they tend to include a little glorification of war along with honor for those who serve. War is not glorious. It is the greatest failure of human beings, no matter how heroic its participants are individually and collectively. It is an abomination.

Wilfred Owen, an English soldier and poet, died a few days before the end of World War I. He was 25, I think. He is one of the greatest anti-war poets ever. Just think, had he lived, what he might have achieved!

ANTHEM FOR DOOMED YOUTH

What passing-bells for these who die as cattle?

Only the monstrous anger of the guns.

Only the stuttering rifles’ rapid rattle

Can patter out their hasty orisons.

No mockeries now for them; no prayers nor bells;

Nor any voice of mourning save the choirs, –

The shrill, demented choirs of wailing shells;

And bugles calling for them from sad shires.

What candles may be held to speed them all?

Not in the hands of boys but in their eyes

Shall shine the holy glimmers of goodbyes.

The pallor of girls’ brows shall be their pall;

Their flowers the tenderness of patient minds,

And each slow dusk a drawing-down of blinds.


Sorry, but as the song says…

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Spring can really hang you up the most. Those words were in a song on a record by Jackie and Roy ( I think that was the name of the very talented duo) that my parents used to play. It was a love song, of course. Spring and love do seem to go together. It was also a bit of a melancholy love song, which also seem to go together all too often.

Which is all an introduction to an apology for being lax about the blog! Spring hung me up with this and that… none of which had to do with sad love songs, just a general malaise when my work was done, or a bit of gardening when the sun shone, and other excuses.

So, I am going to share a great and silly poem (although probably quite pithy, too) by Edward Lear.

For your reading pleasure, then …

The Owl and the Pussycat

I

The Owl and the Pussy-cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea green boat,

They took some honey, and plenty of money,

Wrapped up in a five pound note.

The Owl looked up to the stars above,

And sang to a small guitar,

‘O lovely Pussy! O Pussy my love,

What a beautiful Pussy you are,

You are,

You are!

What a beautiful Pussy you are!’

II

Pussy said to the Owl, ‘You elegant fowl!

How charmingly sweet you sing!

O let us be married! too long we have tarried:

But what shall we do for a ring?’

They sailed away, for a year and a day,

To the land where the Bong-tree grows

And there in a wood a Piggy-wig stood

With a ring at the end of his nose,

His nose,

His nose,

With a ring at the end of his nose.

III

‘Dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling

Your ring?’ Said the Piggy, ‘I will.’

So they took it away, and were married next day

By the Turkey who lives on the hill.

They dined on mince, and slices of quince,

Which they ate with a runcible spoon;

And hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,

They danced by the light of the moon,

The moon,

The moon,

They danced by the light of the moon.

Naomi Cherkofsky contest winners

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They have been chosen, and as usual, the choosing among so many good entries was not easy. There were 89 entries in all, and I have begun informing the winners who they are. Those with e-mail addresses will be first, for obvious reasons. I’ll try to call others tomorrow. And, one will have to wait for snail mail, since I don’t have either an e-mail address or telephone number.

In any case, I hope all the winners, and in fact all those who entered and all those who didn’t enter, will join the forum members on Saturday, April 17, for a reading in celebration of National Poetry Month, at the Beverly Public Library. It begins at 11 a.m. and usually lasts about two hours. We have light refreshments available to keep anyone from keeling over.  Winners are asked to read first, then the floor is open for other poets to share their work.

Well, drum roll, please, as we announce our winners, and congratulations to all.

——————————————–

First prize: Lee Eric Freedman, “Reflected Figs – four Meditations”

Second: Margaret Eckman, “Oldsquaws”

Third: Brad Pettingell, “only child”

Eight honorable mentions were also awarded, without specific ranking:

Claire Keyes, “Landscape with Bats”

Amy Dengler, “Take Only What You Can Carry”

Olivia Clove, untitled (first line, “Glistening, glittering snow”)

Francis Alix, “The Former Planet”

C.H. Coleman, “With a Waggle Comes a Gaggle”

Ann Staffeld, “Family Fun”

Jill Jackson, “Crow Church”

Melanie J. Lanzo, “Autumn is My Muse”

Forum reading coming up

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Hi,

This is just a quick  note to say that the winners of the North Shore Poets’ Forum annual Naomi Cherkofsky contest will be notified this week.

Look here for their names. And, please remember to join the Forum on Saturday, April 17, at the Beverly Public Library, 1 p.m., for the annual reading of the winners’ poems and open mic in honor of National Poetry Month.

Here’s to poetry! Keep writing!

come to the meeting

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The North Shore Poets’ Forum will meet this Saturday, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. (about), at the Beverly Public Library in the Program Room.

I am supposed to do a brief program on rhymed poetry. .. Please help! Bring a rhymed poem by a favorite write to share.

Also, bring a poem or two for gentle critique.

In the meantime, and in the spirit still of St. Patrick’s Day, here’s another poem by an Irish writer.

THE RAM’S HORN

By John Hewitt

I have turned to the landscape because men disappoint me:

the trunk of a tree is proud; when the woodmen fell it,

it still has a contained ionic solemnity:

it is a rounded event without the need to tell it.

….

I have never been compelled to turn away from the dawn

because it carries treason behind its wakened face:

even the horned ram, glowering over the bog hole,

though symbol of evil, will step through the blown grass with grace.

….

Animal, plant or insect, stone or water,

are, every minute, themselves; they behave by law.

I am not required to discover motives for them,

or strip my heart to forgive the rat in the straw.

….

I live my best in the landscape, being at ease there;

the only trouble I find I have brought in my hand.

See, I let it fall with a rustle of stems in the nettles,

and never for a moment suppose that they understand.

And now for some Yeats

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William Butler Yeats was born in 1865 and died in 1939, and he is considered one of the leaders of the Irish Renaissance – perhaps the most important. One of my favorite of his poems is The Second Coming. If you’re not familiar with it, just jump onto google and you’re bound to find it. Here are a couple of others, the first very anti-war and the latter full of the woe of the Irish who suffered so much under Cromwell that his memory is a horror.

The Great Day

W. B. Yeats

Hurrah for revolution and more cannon-shot!

A beggar upon horseback lashes a beggar on foot.

Hurrah for revolution and cannon come again!

The beggars have changed places, but the lash goes on.

The Curse of Cromwell

You ask what I have found, and far and wide I go:

Nothing but Cromwell’s house and Cromwell’s murderous crew,

The lovers and the dancers are beaten into the clay,

And the tall men and the swordsmen and the horsemen, where are they?

And there is an old beggar wandering in his pride – –

His fathers served their fathers before Christ was crucified.

O what of that, O what of that,

What is there left to say?

All neighbourly content and easy talk are gone,

But there’s no good complaining, for money’s rant is on.

He that’s mounting up must on his neighbour mount,

And we and all the Muses are things of no account.

They have schooling of their own, but I pass their schooling by,

What can they know that we know that know the time to die?

O what of that, O what of that,

What is there left to say?

But there’s another knowledge that my heart destroys,

As the fox in the old fable destroyed the Spartan boy’s

Because it proves that things both can and cannot be;

That the swordsmen and the ladies can still keep company,

Can pay the poet for a verse and hear the fiddle sound,

That I am still their servant though all are underground.

O what of that, O what of that,

What is there left to say?

I came on a great house in the middle of the night,

Its open lighted doorway and its windows all alight,

And all my friends were there and made me welcome too;

But I woke in an old ruin that the winds howled through;

And when I pay attention I must out and walk

Among the dogs and horses that understand my talk.

O what of that, O what of that,

What is there left to say?