Today is Aug. 15, the Feast of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary, according to Catholic belief, a day my mother used to say we should go to the seashore for the cure. A Jewish friend of mine also says this, but I think it’s because she has known so many Catholics over the years. I have no idea where or when the tradition started . But, certainly it wouldn’t have been too hard for my mother’s Irish ancestors in Clonmany, County Donegal, to fulfill, since the ocean washed all around them, gorgeously.

I know this, because I have been there. The first time was many years ago, in 1972, with my sister, Camilla. I remember we were both saving Ireland for last, as in the best for last. We went first to England, which we loved. We were so excited on the ferry over the channel. But, it rained, and rained, and rained, and we were at first quite low down about it all. We hadn’t planned our visit very well, just expecting wonderment all around. But, that didn’t happen until we went to Clonmany, which was unforgettable. We met relatives — so hospitable. Mary Gill, an old relative, lived on a hill in a thatched roof cottage with a goat tied up outside. All the other relatives made sure she was all right up there all by herself. And, she pulled out her little china cups to offer us tea and bread that she’d made at the peat fireplace.

I went with my daughter, Sarah, in 2005. We never connected with the relatives, but everything in Ireland looked so much more prosperous.  The bed and breakfast in Donegal where we stayed was all new — big and comfortable. The owners — friendly goes without saying — planned a vacation at their home in Spain. I was happy to see the old country so well off. And, Clonmany was even prettier than in 1972.

But, there was enough of the old still to fascinate my daughter, who loved the donkeys and goats and, in particular, the wonderful North Atlantic crashing in to shore.

So, I wrote a poem about all that. It’s in the “Introducing ….” section (see bookmark line above). If one of my poet friends decides to join in and offer an “Introducing…” contribution, I’ll put my own stuff onto a separate tag on the side or something. And, I’ll do that with each of the contributors. They can then add to it as they like.  We’ll be constantly updating and renewing our entries. So, all I need is someone to join in. Forum members? MSPS members? Give it a go!

In the meantime, if you want to see the poem that the trip to Clonmany inspired, go to the “Introducing…”

Thanks!

I was on deadline Wednesday, which made for slow pickings in the brain as far as poetry is concerned. See the Danvers Herald, www.wickedlocal.com/danvers, over the next few days, as I post what I wrote, and what my community editor Myrna Fearer wrote, and what a correspondent and others in the community submitted for publication in the newspaper, which is published on Thursday but finished Wednesday night. I am too full of news stuff to find a poem.

Well, maybe one… I am actually thinking of the Beatles’ song, “I heard the new today, Oh my.”

One might argue that it is not a poem. And yet, poetry is supposed to be rooted in the rhythm of the word, spoken or sung. That’s where rhythm started, after all, and rhyme helped people remember, before the widespread ability to read. After all, many of us today use mnemonic tricks to remember such things as names and telephone numbers  (I know I do).

Poetry remains rooted in sound, rhythm, and rhyme. It can be internal rhyme, and the rhythm can be syncopated or interrupted here or there. Still, there must be a flow.

So, here’s the Beatles’ song lyrics. See if you don’t see both rhythm and rhyme.

Actually, I had such a hard time reproducing the lyrics, by looking online, which I do often so I won’t have to retype the whole poem, I give up. Apparently, the Beatles aren’t wealthy enough, so they make it impossible (for me, at any rate, before losing patience) to reproduce the words.

Greed. 60s. All the phony baloney about “Imagine,” which I always thought was easy for them to say… I hated that song.

And, there’s Paul looking oh so cute and vital at Fenway Park last week.

Yeah. In short, I can’t get a copy of the song, “I heard the news today, Oh My.”

And, I can’t think of another poem that mentions the News. Can you? If so, please tell all, right here!

In the garden, which I tend when I have time and, so, not as often as I’d wish, my roses are blooming. They are not stupendous. My pink rose bush, whose forgotten name still hangs around one of the branches,  is actually bereft, but the white roses (again, name hangs round a branch) are blooming away, brightening the back yard and staring back at me as I rush out to work, so that I can’t help but smile.

Which brings to mind another Mary Oliver poem:

Roses, Late Summer

by Mary Oliver

What happens
to the leaves after
they turn red and golden and fall
away? What happens

to the singing birds
when they can't sing
any longer? What happens
to their quick wings?

Do you think there is any
personal heaven
for any of us?
Do you think anyone,

the other side of that darkness,
will call to us, meaning us?
Beyond the trees
the foxes keep teaching their children

to live in the valley.
so they never seem to vanish, they are always there
in the blossom of the light
that stands up every morning

in the dark sky.
And over one more set of hills,
along the sea,
the last roses have opened their factories of sweetness

and are giving it back to the world.
If I had another life
I would want to spend it all on some
unstinting happiness.

I would be a fox, or a tree
full of waving branches.
I wouldn't mind being a rose
in a field full of roses.

Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
Reason they have not yet thought of.
Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
Or any other foolish question.

It is Monday, my first day back to work from a marvelous, week-long vacation. Monday is a day that adults often have trouble embracing. The Mamas and the Papas sang their blues over it, winning heartfelt, dittoed laments across the generations. In fact, many of us feel the way we did when we were small, during the school year. Remember? Which brings to mind one of my children’s favorite poems when they were small. I can still hear them laughing over…

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!"

Members have agreed on the following schedule for the coming year. We’ll fill in the program blanks at our September meeting, during which we will also have gentle critiques of one another’s poetry. The schedule will also be on the separate Meeting & Event page, with the updates.

Please join us!

And, because I want to be sure this blog is interesting, I am sharing one of my favorite Stanley Kunitz poems. It is called ….

Touch Me

Summer is late, my heart.
Words plucked out of the air
some forty years ago
when I was wild with love
and torn almost in two
scatter like leaves this night
of whistling wind and rain.
It is my heart that’s late,
it is my song that’s flown.
Outdoors all afternoon
under a gunmetal sky
staking my garden down,
I kneeled to the crickets trilling
underfoot as if about
to burst from their crusty shells;
and like a child again
marveled to hear so clear
and brave a music pour
from such a small machine.
What makes the engine go?
Desire, desire, desire.
The longing for the dance
stirs in the buried life.
One season only,
and it’s done.
So let the battered old willow
thrash against the windowpanes
and the house timbers creak.
Darling, do you remember
the man you married? Touch me,
remind me who I am.

Meetings are held at the Beverly Public Library unless otherwise noted. Members bring food to share, such as cookies, little sandwiches, etc.

Sept. 19: Members read their own poems for gentle critique and a back in the swing of things gathering

Oct. 24: (A week late, to accommodate the MSPS meeting on the 17^th)

Nov. 21: (Thanksgiving is the following Thursday)

Dec. 5: Holiday party with Mass State Poetry Society; most apt poem contest for Yankee Swap

March 20:

April 17: Poetry reading in celebration of National Poetry Month, featuring winners of the Naomi                                 Cherkofsky annual contest. (March 1 deadline, any form, any subject, 40 lines, over 18)

May 15

July: summer outing, to be announced. Read your poems – or any you like – and bring food to share.

http://www.dodgepoetry.org

I am sharing a link to the Dodge Poetry Festival, because it is such a fantastic event, held every two years since 1986. But, earlier this year its sponsor, the Geraldine R. Dodge Foundation, reported a loss of $90 million of its $306 million base, adding that it would have to cut costs. Among them, the festival in 2010.

Some of you may have seen on PBS or read the Bill Moyer’s book based on the festivals, “The Language of Life.” I have it beside me as I write this. It includes some of my favorite poets, like Stanley Kunitz and Jane Kenyon and Li-Young Lee. And, it inlcudes a whole bunch more I like, including Linda McCarriston, Robert Bly, Robert Haas, Galway Kinnell, Adrienne Rich, and many more. And, it introduced a lot of people to the joy and thrill of poetry.

Anyway, the festival may go on after all, since many people are responding to the notice of cancellation with horror and contributions to keep it going.

On the website, if you click on the You Tube info, you can actually hear some of the poets from past festivals, including Billy Collins (another of my favorite poets, not included in the Moyers book), and Ted Kooser and Maxine Kumin. (Thanks, Marcia Molay, for leading me to this!)

I leave you today with a poem by Mary Oliver (not included in the Moyers book, either. See, there’s just so much out there!).

Wild Geese

———————-by Mary Oliver

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile, the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

the word offers itself to your imagination,

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting—

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.