And, the winners are…..

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We are excited to announce the winners of the Naomi Cherkofsky Memorial Contest and invite them and you to our annual reading in celebration of National Poetry Month, on Saturday, April 21, 11 a.m., at the Beverly Public Library.

They are:

1st. “Poem for Hilda,” by Catherine Stavrakas

2nd. “A Night-Time Long Ago,” by Yamilee Craven

3rd. “Let My Soul Blossom Like the Night Blooming Jasmine,” by Richard Samuel Davis

Honorable Mentions, in no particular order, are:

“Jack’s Pumpkin,” as well as “Revelations,” both by Diane Giardi

“Walking in the Arboretum,” as well as “The Commuter,” by Mickey Coburn

“Azure,” by Lee Lewis

“On a Budget,” by Johanna Maria Donovan

“Aftertaste,” by Megan Ouellet

“Going,” as well as “Storm,” by Catherine Stavrakas

We will first hear our winning poets read and then open it up to others in attendance. This annual event is always a lot of fun. We have light refreshments, and we encourage socializing as well as good poetry!

Please join us at the library, and tell your friends and family, 11 a.m. to about 1 p.m. Let’s celebrate National Poetry Month!

Beware the Ides of March

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Today’s the day we should look for betrayal, as in poor old Julius Caesar’s story, since this is the anniversary of the day Brutus took a dagger from his cloak and joined his fellow Senators to stab his emperor – his friend – in the back.

But, we don’t have to as troubled by ancient fates as all that! It’s a not too shabby March day here in Massachusetts, with promises of better ones in the days ahead. So, we should celebrate the anticipation of Spring rather than cower with the fear of Spring’s betrayal….something that happens all too often in these parts. A late snow storm is not uncommon. Rain, chill, and gray days often accompany the forsythia and daffodils. Forget that! This year will be perfect!

So, to get you in the mood, I offer a lovely poem by Peter Davison (1928-2004), from his 2000 collection, “Breathing Room,” which won the Massachusetts Book Award. But first, I will clarify something in my last post. Our Poetry Reading celebrating the Naomi Cherkofsky contest winners and National Poetry Month will be Saturday, April 21, 11 a.m. to about 1 p.m., at the Beverly Public Library. (The April 14 date was just a mistake, and the library is already booked for some other event that day, so there’s no choice.)

On with the poem, The Level Path, by Peter Davison

The Level Path

Descend here along a shower of
             shallow steps past the potting shed with
                           its half-rotted ironbound door

to reach the level path. It winds
             northward, high hat, girdling
                           the waist of a limestone cliff

beyond earshot of the clamorous village below. The
             squeezed access bears us vaguely along
                           shifting digressions of the compass, past

eye-level seductions of violet, periwinkle, primrose, and petals
             like lisping yellow butterflies. Naked limbs
                           of beech, haggard liftings of pine,

a hairy upthrust of cedar beside a
             curving stone bench, all hint at eruptions
                           into Eros. Yet another seat displays

a cushion of undisturbed luxuriant moss around its clefts and
             edges. Thick harsh leaves
                           of holly, ivy, even of palmetto

thrust up, pathside, between tender new petals,
             while other friendly shrubs reach down
                           from overhead to fondle our faces.

There is no escape from the dreadful beauty of
             this narrow path. It leads nowhere
                           except to itself and
                           the black water below.

It must be Spring!

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The weather is beyond belief, and Spring is in the air. We can now look forward to the pot of gold that the Leprachauns are hiding, as well as spring flowers and showers and blooming good days ahead.

Thanks to everyone who entered the Naomi Cherkofsky contest. As it turned out, and despite my worries, we have a good supply of poems. We will notify the winners by e-mail or phone or snail mail. Everyone else should look here for a listing.

Also, we hope everyone will come to the reading at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m., in celebration of National Poetry Month. It’s always a lovely time. I have it down in two different places — once as April 14 and another as April 21. Shall we take votes? (Crumb. I’ll check with the library. I’m thinking it should be the 14th because the Massachusetts Poetry Festival has many good offerings on the 21st.)

In the meantime, don’t forget our March meeting, on Saturday, March 17. Member Chris Coleman has promised us a program on Irish poetry.

Until then, bask in the sunshine!

Enter the Naomi Cherkofsky contest!

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I have just rewritten the following poem, a habit I have, so that I almost never think my poems are finished. But, if you have the same habit, stop it! Send in that poem — or the other, or even the other — to the annual Naomi Cherkofsky Memorial poetry contest! And, tell your friends to do so, too. (Click the poetry contest tab of this blog for the info.)

Many of you have come to the annual reading, held the third Saturday in April, and you know what a great time we have. The winners of the contest read first, followed by an open mic. Please spread the word. It’s a sad truth, but newspapers are no longer spreading the word the way they did in the good old days. Readership is way down, and they are grappling with survival.

We need you, therefore, to tell everyone about the contest.

Here’s the poem I was telling you about, which has actually been published in a Mass State Poets anthology in a slightly different rendition. I’m sure you can do better! Pull out your pens, your computers, your thinking caps, and get going!

Dusk in Winter

By Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

 

The sky – blue, white.

The ground, etched in black macadam.

The houses cramped by

the big mall and the little malls

that grew up nearby.

……..

Still, the twiggy branches of the trees

surge

and the crisp clarity

of the ebbing day

pulsates with a swirl

of black birds billowing

in a pointillist arc,

alighting on a naked

maple, swooshing

up suddenly as though

the winter god shook them

off its solemn simplicity,

tickled them into replays

of their aerial vivacity

……..

While in the west

the sun blushes madly

in a last attempt

to brighten the day

…….

and the birds flock,

and flock again

before hiding somewhere

in the star-struck night.

Snow Day, from inside the library

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My husband Chris and I love Saturday mornings. To be honest, we love sleeping. So, when my kitten Hugo jumped on my chest at 10:30 a.m., causing me to jolt awake worried I’d missed the scheduled NSPF meeting.

“You’d better get going,” my hubby urged.

“Ugh,” I moaned. But got up, brushed my teeth, combed my hair, grabbed my laptop and bag and headed out the door. I decided to walk since it was snowing and (if you’ve had a chance to look at my blog,) I’m a walker.

I was late and walking would make me later and stopping to grab a coffee would make me later still but I justified my lateness to the snow. I figured you would all forgive me.

I got to the library at about 11:15 a.m., not bad timing, I thought. I looked around but only one person sat in our typical meeting space. I backed up, thinking maybe the meeting was being held in that conference room down the hall. But I knew my mistake. That’s what happens when you get up late and rush around and don’t double check things. I knew the meeting had been canceled.

But there was this gentleman there. So I introduced myself and he, himself. His name is/was Tom and I guess you’ve all met him before as he indicated that he came to a meeting in November. Well, we talked for a while and shared how we each got interested in writing and poetry and I again praised my mentor Cathy for bringing me back into the poetry fold so many years ago.

Then Tom shared of the poems he’d brought which were very good.

We also tried to work on a poetry exercise so I thought I’d share that exercise with you all, too.

Okay, so here goes… You have to play along in order for this work, so no reading through it and skipping ahead. You have spend the time and work through it.

Exercise: Mapping to a sense of place

1. Pick a time in your life. It could be now. It could be during your first job. It could be during your college, high school, or early childhood years. Which ever you pick let your mind go to the memories you’ve stored, the experiences you’ve had about that time.

2. Pick a place you lived during the time you’ve chosen. Visualize this place in your mind’s eye. Now take three minutes (it helps if you have a kitchen timer handy) and describe the physical building where you lived in as much detail as possible. What color was it? How many rooms did it have? Was there a fence? A garden? Did it have a basement or an attic?

3. Take a clean sheet of paper and draw the place you lived in the center of that piece of paper to best of your ability. You have 30 seconds.

4. Time’s up. Now draw the building next door.

5. Now continue this exercise for three minutes until you have a relatively good map of the street/surrounding area of the place where you lived.

6. Now for five minutes go back to your drawing and choose a place on your map that you have not thought about in a long time, imagine that place and the people who lived there in your writing.

Well, this isn’t a formula for a poem per se but a way to get the writing muscles exercised. I did this in a workshop with poet Patricia Smith author of “Blood Dazzler” during the 2011 Massachusetts Poetry Festival. I really enjoyed the workshop and I’m sure I’m not capturing it’s essence well enough here. But what the heck, something to keep us writing on a dreary (now not so snowy) day.

Snow Day!

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Well, I had thought I could trudge through the snow and show up for the scheduled meeting last Saturday, but the flakes looked so cold and sharp, and my house was so cozy …. I called the whole thing off, giving you all a Snow Day. Unfortunately, Melissa Varnvas didn’t read her e-mail, nor did new member Tom (last name could be Bennett?). They did some poetry anyway, which is very good!

The next meeting is scheduled for Feb. 18, and Mary Miceli is on the hook for a program about allegory. Remember, too, that the Naomi Cherkofsky Memorial Poetry Contest deadline is coming right up …. March 1. Did you send the info to friends and to friends of friends? Please help publicize it (see info under Contests on this blog).

I am sharing a Billy Collins poem called, not very surprisingly given the topic of this post, Snow Day.

Snow Day

          Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows
….
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
…
In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.
…
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news
…
that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with — some will be delighted to hear —
…
the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and — clap your hands — the Peanuts Play School.
…
So this is where the children hide all day.
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.
…
And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

………………………………………………………….

I’m also sharing a Shel Silverstein poem, since much of my rambling e-mail giving you all a Snow Day had to do with the exultant joy of children when they were given a snow day, and even though this poem, Sick, isn’t about snow, it is about the joy of play! By the way, I am also going to link to Melissa Varnavas’s wonderful blog Reflections on Mackerel Cove, which is in Beverly. I leave the rest to you.

Sick
by Shel Silverstein
“I cannot go to school today,”Said little Peggy Ann McKay.

“I have the measles and the mumps,

A gash, a rash and purple bumps.

My mouth is wet, my throat is dry,

I’m going blind in my right eye.

My tonsils are as big as rocks,

I’ve counted sixteen chicken pox

And there’s one more–that’s seventeen,

And don’t you think my face looks green?

My leg is cut–my eyes are blue–

It might be instamatic flu.

I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,

I’m sure that my left leg is broke–

My hip hurts when I move my chin,

My belly button’s caving in,

My back is wrenched, my ankle’s sprained,

My ‘pendix pains each time it rains.

My nose is cold, my toes are numb.

I have a sliver in my thumb.

My neck is stiff, my voice is weak,

I hardly whisper when I speak.

My tongue is filling up my mouth,

I think my hair is falling out.

My elbow’s bent, my spine ain’t straight,

My temperature is one-o-eight.

My brain is shrunk, I cannot hear,

There is a hole inside my ear.

I have a hangnail, and my heart is–what?

What’s that? What’s that you say?

You say today is. . .Saturday?

G’bye, I’m going out to play!”

Finding old photos

Meetings

I’m spending some time going through my computer, cell phone, and old cameras doing some New Year cleaning and whatnot and I found some old photos from previous meetings and events. The pictures of Amy Dengler brought a tear to my eye but also a little bit of joy remember what a lovely early summer day it was.

There's nothing better than reading poetry by the ocean with a great group of friends.
Mass Poetry Society leader Jeanette Maes gives NSPF members an update at a fall 2011 meeting.
Hey, whatca looking at?
Who can fit into these shoes? Chris Coleman gives it a shot while Amy and the crew look on.
Nice group shot from our summer outing... must have been in 2010?

Peter Everwine and the use of imagery

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I am the one responsible for the program for our next Poets’ Forum meeting, which is on the calendar for this Saturday, Nov. 19, 11 a.m., at the Beverly Public Library. So, I have decided to emphasize imagery, and to do so by using a favorite poet of mine, Peter Everwine.

I have shared his “Aubade in Autumn” in a prior post. Few of us are familiar with him, I think. He actually taught with Philip Levine at Fresno State and has won many poetry awards, including a Pushcart Prize, a Lamont Poetry prize, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and more. Jeanette had given a wonderful program on Levine at our last meeting, so it seems appropriate to talk about his contemporary, another under-appreciated but very gifted poet.

I hope you can join us!

In closing, I will leave you with another of Everwine’s poems:

Rain

Toward evening, as the light failed

and the pear tree at my window darkened,

I put down my book and stood at the open door,

the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,

a smell of wet clay in the wind.

Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,

half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain

drummed against our tent, I heard

for the first time a loon’s sudden wail

drifting across that remote lake—

a loneliness like no other,

though what I heard as inconsolable

may have been only the sound of something

untamed and nameless

singing itself to the wilderness around it

and to us until we slept. And thinking of my father

and of good companions gone

into oblivion, I heard the steady sound of rain

and the soft lapping of water, and did not know

whether it was grief or joy or something other

that surged against my heart

and held me listening there so long and late.

The October meeting

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I have to confess I was a bit of a ditz this month: I forgot to reserve the room for our meeting. My only excuse is that is was a date change from the third week to the fourth, and there are five weeks, and I simply got busy.

As a result, we had to wrap up our goodies, hope the coffee would keep, and move on down the hall to a smaller room where no food or drinks were allowed, following the orders of a very stern, rule-ridden librarian. There were almost fisti-cuffs there for a moment, but the poetic ethos prevailed.

The meeting then proceeded with the usual poetic enthusiasms, exhortations,and musings. Jeanette Maes presented a very interesting program on Philip Levine, who had been born in Detroit and devoted a good deal of his creative life to the ambiance, fervor, tenor, triumphs and tribulations of working people. She indicated that he was not a fellow who was very good at publicizing himself, and yet he had won a slew of awards, including a Pulitzer. Basically, she asked, who knew? And yet, it is our loss that we didn’t. He is an extremely talented and accessible poet worth knowing.

A number of Massachusetts State Poetry Society members won awards in the annual contest, including our dear Roberta Hung. See the MSPS site.

Happy Fall. It is past peak, but I think it is even more lovely, as the leaves try to linger, fading as they cling, and then fall. See you all at our next meeting, Saturday, Nov. 19. I am the one who is supposed to present a workshop. Oh my!