Chances are a lot of us are watching the Olympics whenever we can. There are so many great events and stupendous athletes. How about the Women’s Hockey Team, right? (Young people today seem to end all sentences with the word “right.”) There’s a Danvers young woman on that one, which I care about because I’m the editor of the Danvers Herald. I have to care.

But, really, they withstand such physical tests and such emotional tests. God. I’d rather not go through the pounding heart, sweat, tears, thank you, even if I had the talent.

Now that I think about it, when I was a child, during some very cold, wintry winters, when all of us in the younger set in my neighborhood seemed to go down to the local lake for ice skating, some of us with shovels (or did they just magically appear out of the snow-encrusted pine trees, which may have been dressed-up Ents harboring goodwill toward children?) so that we could skate every day. And, back then, while practicing figure 8 s and speeding along the straight-away portions, I used to dream that I would be in the Olympics someday.

Of course, I was comparing myself to one of my big sisters — actually, both of them — who were pitiful on the ice, one of the few places where I was the star to their distant moons.

And, I’ve also been thinking about the teachers in my children’s school, and some of the do-gooder parents, who used to talk about “dream killers” — that all children should keep hold of that feeling they can do whatever they want to do in the future.

Which brought to mind a poem by Shel Silverstein. Well, I’m elaborating and extrapolating a bit from the real thought process, which was — what poem might go with thoughts about the Olympics? Silverstein supplies more my style of Olympic thinking — that is, gone!

The Little Blue Engine

by Shel Silverstein

The little blue engine looked up at the hill.

His light was weak, his whistle was shrill.

He was tired and small, and the hill was tall,

And his face blushed red as he softly said,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

….

So he started up with a chug and a strain,

And he puffed and pulled with might and main.

And slowly he climbed, a foot at a time,

And his engine coughed as he whispered soft,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can.”

….

With a squeak and a creak and a toot and a sigh,

With an extra hope and an extra try,

He would not stop — now he neared the top —

And strong and proud he cried out loud,

“I think I can, I think I can, I think I can!”

….

He was almost there, when — CRASH! SMASH! BASH!

He slid down and mashed into engine hash

On the rocks below… which goes to show

If the track is tough and the hill is rough,

THINKING you can just ain’t enough!

For poets in the Beverly area, please join the North Shore Poets’ Forum at the Beverly Public Library on Saturday at 11 a.m. to share poems and gentle critique.

Happy February (it’s almost….well… spring!)

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.