Reminder: Naomi Cherkofsky contest

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The North Shore Poets’ Forum sponsors an annual, national contest in memory of the late Naomi Cherkofsky, a longtime member. She was a big-hearted woman with a great sense of humor and a lust for life. Those of us who knew her still miss her.

The contest attracts entries from across the U.S., although the majority come from Massachusetts. This is a fine thing, since our state has so many fine poets.

Every year the judging is a challenge, since there are many very good poems but only three money prizes, including $50 for first, $30 for second and $20 for third.

The poems must be no more than 40 lines, but they can be in any form and on any subject. The entry fee is $3 each, with a maximum of five poems per poet. The poets must be 18 or more years of age. Deadline is March 1. Contest chair is Jeanette Maes. Her address is here, under the Contest header above.

Include name, address and contact information (preferably an e-mail address) on one copy; leave the other copy without identification, for the judge. Winners will be notified by e-mail or, if they included a self-addressed, stamped envelope, by mail.

The winners will also be posted on the Web site, and they will be invited to read at the Forum’s annual reading in celebration of National Poetry Day, which is held on the Saturday closest to that day, this year on April 17, at the Beverly Public Library, Gordon Room, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.

If you have any questions, you can e-mail me here. (I hope the link worked!) (It didn’t work! what did I do wrong? So, comment here, or e-mail me, ckohare2@yahoo.com)

And now for a little poetic inspiration, about shoveling snow, which many of us have done a lot of lately.

Shoveling Snow With Buddha, by Billy Collins

In the usual iconography of the temple or the local Wok 


you would never see him doing such a thing, 


tossing the dry snow over a mountain 
of his bare, round shoulder, 


his hair tied in a knot, 
a model of concentration. 



……

Sitting is more his speed, if that is the word 


for what he does, or does not do. 



……

Even the season is wrong for him. 


In all his manifestations, is it not warm or slightly humid? 


Is this not implied by his serene expression, 


that smile so wide it wraps itself around the waist of the universe? 


……

But here we are, working our way down the driveway, 


one shovelful at a time. 


We toss the light powder into the clear air. 


We feel the cold mist on our faces. 


And with every heave we disappear 


and become lost to each other

in these sudden clouds of our own making, 


these fountain-bursts of snow. 



……

This is so much better than a sermon in church, 


I say out loud, but Buddha keeps on shoveling. 


This is the true religion, the religion of snow, 


and sunlight and winter geese barking in the sky, 


I say, but he is too busy to hear me. 



……

He has thrown himself into shoveling snow 


as if it were the purpose of existence, 


as if the sign of a perfect life were a clear driveway 


you could back the car down easily 


and drive off into the vanities of the world 


with a broken heater fan and a song on the radio. 



……

All morning long we work side by side, 


me with my commentary 


and he inside his generous pocket of silence, 


until the hour is nearly noon 


and the snow is piled high all around us; 


then, I hear him speak. 



……

After this, he asks, 


can we go inside and play cards? 


……

Certainly, I reply, and I will heat some milk 


and bring cups of hot chocolate to the table 


while you shuffle the deck,

and our boots stand dripping by the door. 



……

Aaah, says the Buddha, lifting his eyes 


and leaning for a moment on his shovel 


before he drives the thin blade again 


deep into the glittering white snow.

The day before a winter meeting

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I’m not sure how many people will join us for the meeting tomorrow, Jan. 16. Some had expressed interest, despite the unpredictability of the weather. But, I suppose I was remiss in making the arrangements and contacting everyone in a timely manner. The buck stops here. If I am alone, it is my fault.

But, then again, I have had so little time to be alone since the holidays struck, bringing with them children, gift buying, gift giving, aunts, uncles, nieces, nephews, girl friends and fellow friends at this event or that. And, still, the pace quickens, as my job requires new templates for the website and, given that I’m in the news business, people who continue to be interesting, or sad, or tragically circumstanced, or happily favored, etc.

So, if I am alone, peace be with me.
And, peace be with all the poor people in Haiti, and with all the people of the wide, wide word.
Goodnight.

And, vote for Martha Coakley!

After Christmas

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I have put away my Christmas tree pin and candle earrings for another year. Christmas is over. Away with red and green, and on to blue and silver, a different sparkling of colors for the New Year celebration.

I had a wonderful Christmas, with my three children home and, as my father often joked, mimicking a would-be daughter-in-law’s grandfather, “Nice party, no fights!”

In fact, we had lots of laughter and chatter and food and wine and egg nog and a bottle of Proseco to celebrate the return, after a year, of my daughter from her teaching job in Korea.

All of which is entirely too much personal  information for a poetry blog, but some of it may wind up in a poem someday. In the meantime, I offer one by Jane Kenyon, who is truly a marvelous poet. It is called “Taking Down the Tree,” which, as you can guess, is about that last act of the season, something I won’t do until after the New Year, but still, in anticipation, here is her tribute to the past, to the dark of winter, and to extravagance.

Taking Down the Tree

By Jane Kenyon

“Give me some light!” cries Hamlet’s

uncle midway through the murder

of Gonzago. “Light! Light!” cry scattering

courtesans. Here, as in Denmark,

it’s dark at four, and even the moon

shines with only half a heart.

…

The ornaments go down into the box:

the silver spaniel, My Darling

on its collar, from Mother’s childhood

in Illinois; the balsa jumping jack

my brother and I fought over,

pulling limb from limb. Mother

drew it together again with thread

while I watched, feeling depraved

at the age of ten.

…

With something more than caution

I handle them, and the lights, with their

tin star-shaped reflectors, brought along

from house to house, their pasteboard

toy suitcases increasingly flimsy.

Tick, tick, the desiccated needles drop.

…

By suppertime all that remains is the scent

of balsam fir. If it’s darkness

we’re having, let it be extravagant.

A photo and poem …

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Anthony Majahad is a member of the Massachusetts State Poetry Society and good friend to all poets. He is also very patient, since he gave me this for the blog a few weeks ago. I do get distracted.

In any case, he happened to be driving by a place familiar to those of us who live on the North Shore and took a photo, which he admits to manipulating in photo shop.  Here it is, and his poem.

(Again, please remember that for some reason I can’t get this program to allow stanza breaks, so I distinguish with three dots on a separating line.)

Drive-by―Rumney Marsh

By Anthony M. Majahad

Just before the long steep hill on United States Route 1,

the same US Rt 1 that runs from northern Maine

south to the Florida Keys, where salt marshes

nudged-up against the Revere-Saugus town lines:

…

Glimpse quickly, as you speed by at 55 mph,

and act like a human camera with snapping

shutter, automatic film advance, flash recharge…

…

If you can do this, you might see

an almost Impressionistic landscape

of the once untouched, unadulterated marshlands,

the urban incinerator Photshopped-out of the skyline.

Thanksgiving is super

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Thanksgiving is, next to Halloween, my favorite holiday. It is so simple. It’s food. It’s love. It’s singing songs — at least in my family — old songs, like Gershwin’s The Man I love or A Foggy Day in Londontown.

And, there’s Tea for Two (by whomever), which the big boys in my family love, because it is so “Mad Men” (have you seen that TV show?) and not at all about the women they married, while the young men can’t even fathom what the heck is so funny about it. (Long sentence there. Oh well.)

It’s Thanksgiving.  Some people gather around for whatever big game is on TV. They might go to their own hometown football game in the morning, then go home for the food festivities.

In my family, we begin by  singing the silly song, “Thanksgiving Day is Coming, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble, gobble”  (I don’t know the name of the song, but it ‘s utterly silly!).

Thanksgiving is wonderful for all its simple traditions, none of which is written in stone. We don’t have to do anything except serve turkey — and surely, if someone hated turkey, there would be forgiveness for even bypassing this tradition. Some people eat lasagna, salad, and peas.

It’s just about getting together and giving thanks…. for whatever … life, family, sun, rain, the great goddamn beauty of this world, if only we can manage not to destroy it.

And, chances are, as someone said to me , Mother Earth will take care of herself. She’ll get us in the end, if it comes to it and if we’re not careful. So, given all the beauty she has bestowed, thanks for her, too.

Thank you all, for being here, for caring, for sharing.  Happy Thanksgiving.

Poets’ Forum welcomes two to meeting

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We had a very interesting and entertaining meeting on Saturday, Nov. 21, at the Beverly Public Library, particularly because two new people joined us. They are Mary Miceli of Wenham and Gladys Rydstrom of Hamilton. They shared their poems with us, and in general added greatly to our gathering.

Our theme was Thanksgiving, and we brought poems by others and by ourselves dealing with the subject.

Amy Dengler read a terrific poem of hers that had been published some time ago by Ideal magazine, I think it was. It might be out of print, which would be  shame, since it was wonderful, with talk of little “buttons” of candlewax on the damask tablecloth, the kitchen window becoming a mirror as darkness falls and they wash dishes, and other such great images. Amy is a terrific poet, which you can tell by just checking out some of her other poems under the Introducing Amy Dengler tab to the right.

Jeanette Maes also brought a wonderful poem to share, and even Ellie Latawiec, who is always so self-deprecating, shared a poem.

We were a bit frazzled, or at least I was, meeting in the Fogg Room rather than as usual in the Program room. It took me a while to figure out how to get coffee into our little room. But we had the added benefit of the library’s books sale to take advantage of when we adjourned.

Don’t forget the holiday party, which we host with the Massachusetts State Poetry Society, on Saturday, Dec. 5, at the Beverly Public Library, at 11 a.m. Bring some goodies to share and join in the fun of the Yankee Swap. Spend less than $5, wrap the present, but don’t sign anything! Instead, attach an unsigned poem that describes the contents, and the person who is judged to have best described the contents of his or her package will win the Most Apt Poem contest and $10. The glory is great! (Just kidding…. this is meant to be a fun, light contest, and one mustn’t fret over it.)

Well, until another post, best wishes all.

November Poem… by CKO

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I’ve decided to share a little poem that I wrote about November.  Somehow, I actually like November, even though it’s full of talk about the end of Fall and the beginning of Winter. But, it is still warmish, and it is so brave somehow, those last leaves clinging so gorgeously. Well, maybe I’ll elaborate on that some other time. Here’s my poem, simply called,

A November Poem

— Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

November trees

bare secrets now

through openings

in forest walls

and starlings swoop

on a stage of sky

so blue the white

clouds swarm while

ruddy leaves rustle,

and fall to the ground,

astounded.

And, one more from Diane Giardi

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This poem makes me envious of the two people and their wonderful summer.

And We Will Make Silence

The deer outside our bedroom window

is inches from the screen.

We hunch, whispering, close and still.

We have grown on this island

like seeds under cotton mesh,

bulbs under glass.

We play in this terrarium of sun, moisture and heat.

Cycling paths – strengthening our legs.

Rowing creeks – building shoulders.

Strokes in warm ocean waters – stretching our backs.

And hearts coddled with open-ended time we spend together.

We have few amenities,

but all the peace of mind

our creative souls take hold of.

He will make a boat, a graceful chair.

I will make a teabag print, a sculpture from clay.

And we will make dinner.

And we will make silence.

And we will make love.

Another by Giardi

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I am sorry, but I again became consumed in work and forgot my real life, and I forgot to finish what I’d started when I introduced Diane Giardi last week. Forgive me. I know you will have enjoyed her poems that I’ve already posted here. She won won four awards in the recent Massachusetts State Poetry Soceity’s national contest, that had some 25 categories and hundreds of entries. Here is another of her winning poems.

92 Dreams Deferred

Langston knew

In gut, in soul

Feels the bottom

Feels the whole

…

Wrenching longing

To be

To do

One dream, ten dreams

Ninety-two

…

Unwrapped talents

Unused skills

Passions passing

Dropped

In sills

…

Deflate, debunk

Denounce, deprive

Straight-jacketed ambition

Cobwebbed drive

…

Deaf ears turned

Curtain drawn

Ninety-two dreams

Left unspawned

A satisfying poem from Giardi

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Here’s another of the winning poems by Diane Giardi. Enjoy, and if you get hungry, eat!

Lasagna Layers

You laid down the simmered sauce

of elephant garlic and large-leafed basil,

blended with parsley and plum tomatoes,

setting down a strong foundation.

…

With care you lifted the sheets of

egg-rich pasta

and tucked in the edges neatly

like the corners of a well-made bed.

…

Next, garden spinach, fennel sausage

and aged Pecorina Romano.

After spices

you paused to set the right temperature.

…

Gathering shavings of smoked mozzarella

your fingers slowly sprinkled

a very even, ample blanket,

leaving no corner, no section

in need.

…

It has all it needs.

You have all you need.

It will be delicious.

You are delicious.

Mangia, Figlia Bella