The North Shore Poets’ Forum met on Saturday, and our task was to write a poem, in rhyme, about Halloween. I managed a stanza, but others in our group did wonderfully, especially Roberta Hung, who came up with a villanelle. She won the grand prize, which was nothing more than bragging rights. Still, that’s good.

Anthony Majahad wasn’t able to join us, as he had hoped. But, he sent along a poem to share. It, too, is a villanelle. So, to get you in the spooky spirit, here’s his poem, called “On All Hallows Eve.”

(Again, I’ll indicate stanza breaks with three dots.)

On All Hallows Eve

Souls of the dead return to haunt the living.

Witches ride broomsticks, with their black cats.

October winds mimic souls whimpering.

The full moon shines bright, Hell releases its bats.

…

Evil is in the air, mortals hide and begin shivering,

Warlocks cast spells with cauldrons and bubbling vats,

Cackling witches don their conical hats.

Souls of the dead return to haunt the living.

…

Prayers cannot stop these dead from lingering,

Hell releases demons and black plague rats,

And ghosts fill the night with their bellowing,

While witches ride broomsticks, with their black cats.

…

No one is spared: peasants or aristocrats.

No priest is able to comfort the quivering,

And all hide from the Devil’s diplomats

October winds mimic souls whimpering.

…

Witches and warlocks chant dark spells and sing.

In graveyards, ghouls gnaw dry bones, marrow and fats.

At midnight, the Devil is strengthening,

The full moon shines bright, Hell releases its bats.

…

In the night’s madness, a hastening,

Children afraid of the Devil’s hellcats,

Adults are afraid of almost everything.

At dawn, all is gone; one of night’s only caveats.

Souls of the dead return; church bells begin ringing.

Anthony M. Majahad

October 2002

Melissa Varnavas shares this wonderful poem about rowing out to an island for a picnic one summer day that suddenly becomes stormy.

The rowing poem

It started to rain. Wind sent the empty

sandwich bags sailing.

…

I do not remember

if they fluttered off like seagulls

…

or if a sudden gust filled the plastic, fat

like some tuna-loving cat

…

that neglected to look before it danced over

the side of the rocking canoe, touched the waves.

…

Disappeared. It started to

rain. The wind picked up. The tide changed.

…

Remember tying up at some mooring to eat lunch?

It had been such a nice day. Remember the worn out life

…

jackets we used as seat cushions? I turned to face

you, dangled my feet over the sides, tipped my toes into the rocking

…

water. We swayed with waves from passing boats, the smell

of suntan lotion, the day, and the wind, and the clouds, baby

…

oil, diesel, and rain, and the islands. I have danced in the rain

with you like a wet cat so many times, I have forgotten.

…

That day we took our positions again, stern and aft, perched

on white fiberglass. You always steered. I did not know how.

…

We put the boat in at Sandy Point. Picked up our paddles,

stashed the cooler, used the life jackets as seat cushions.

…

Was it me, the weak one, struggling against

the current, pining for any opportunity to give up?

…

I’m sure it was me. I have no courage for such things.

It thundered and rained, after the tide changed

…

and after the wind picked up, and we were nearly home.

I so wanted to stop. Stash the canoe on the beach and walk

…

back to the truck. or find a phone and call

for help. I have no courage but you pushed.

Said, come on. It was raining and I heard the thunder,

distant. There was the canoe and you and me, some unexpected

…

weather. A cooler with Coronas, Zimas, some Pepsis, tuna sandwiches. The tide

was with us on the way out. Misery Islands out there,

…

on our right. The shore on our left—Quincy, Dane, Lynch, West—

a short swim away. The sun was good and the sea smelled like the sea,

…

smelled like the wind and the rain and the sun and the beer

and the sandwiches. I think we tied to someone’s mooring. I think I

…

turned to face you, dangled my feet over the sides, tipped

my toes into the water, until the wind picked up and the tide

…

changed. We rowed and rowed and got

a fit of the giggles at the thought

…

of getting nowhere. It started to rain. Nothing

happened. That’s not to be expected. We are good

…

and strong and fine so many years from then, weathered,

smelling like sun and sweat and salt and sea, rowing.

…

Mid-laugh the tide took us back

to where we were. And maybe that’s the crux of it. It grew

…

dark. I remember. The tide

changed.

As promised, here is another poem by Melissa Varnavas. I love the watery images, the “s” sounds and alliteration, and so much more.

Melissa joined in the Massachusetts Poetry Festival on Saturday, as one of the MFA readers. I wasn’t able to go, and I haven’t checked with her about how it went. But, here’s hoping it will help get her used to being a featured reader, since she so deserves to be.

Song for the replacement fish my husband bought

Now the red spikey one disappears itself.

In the next vase, the one with its tail tipped

…

too bright for its white body

turns to peer through lamp-lit layers of water dust.

…

Its soft sway,

stirs the murk. But they

…

make me

their captor,

these shadows that swim

magnified

…

by glass, water. In their artificial ponds they go

around

and vanish

so not so much as a cerulean fin shows.

***

His favorite color is blue. He thinks it’s my favorite color, too.

So, that’s why he bought me that one. It’s why he painted the hallway

…

that deep hue, so dark

I had to dabble over it with sky.

***

The first batch died. Turned over in their vases belly-up,

making the water yellow, their bodies

…

bleeding their brilliant color out.

…

I didn’t really want them, these replacement fish.

I look again and they are all gone, now

…

as they should have been

after the flushing and before the gift.

I happened to be to one who asked Melissa J. Varnavas to join me one day for a North Shore Poets’ Forum meeting, and she’s been off and running with poetry ever since.

She joined the  Forum and the Massachusetts State Poetry Society. She joined the Tin Box Poets and the Ipswich Poetry Group. She is now a student at Solstice MFA at Pine Manor College creative writing program in poetry, graduating in January 2010. And, her poetry has appeared in the literary journals Margie and Oberon.

We first met at the Beverly Citizen newspaper, where I was the City Hall/Cop reporter and she came on staff as the Education reporter. She tackled all the challenges of being new kid on the block, and she ended up as the editor of the paper, which pleased her immensely, since Beverly is her hometown.

Life being what it is, and sometimes not so nice, she left that job. But, not before winning a number of awards from the New England Press Association and the Massachusetts Press Association

Now, when she has time from her very busy work and school schedule, she writes freelance articles that have appeared in the Lawrence Eagle Tribune, Danvers Herald and Boston Now.

She is also the associate director of ACDIS, a professional organization for hospital administrators. And, she’s still winning awards, now with the Specialized Information Publishers Association.

She has agreed to share a few of her terrific poems with us.  Here’s the first one. I’m going to ration these, so you’ll have something to look forward to for the next few days. Then, I’ll put up her Introducing … page so that you can refer back to these terrific poems. Maybe she’ll even add more as the months go by.

(Note: to show stanza breaks I am inserting a line with a few dots, because this program does not like to insert the spaces, for some reason. Also, it flushes left.)

A Blessing: Prayer for My Love

The wind in the trees carries

the cicadas hum, their mating call.

…

He says it’s about love. It’s always

about love with him.

…

He loves me so much it makes him

crazy. He smooths my hair

…

with one, big hand and kisses

my mouth hard. I think of this longing

…

as twilight fields soaked in a purple tinge. His eyes

fill with the dimming light that whispers so soft across the pond.

…

I imagine my passion as a steaming cup

of coffee drunk up in sunshine, memories of chocolate.

…

While his heart, beats in dissonance.

Fear. And loss. And loss. Death.

…

But not now, I say. Not just now.

…

I know this.

I know this.

…

I kiss him back and shudder

as he moves his lips over the blue

…

vein of my left wrist.

I haven’t been very attentive, in part because my son has arrived back home from Portland, Or., where he has lived for the past three years or so. I’m thrilled; he’s betwixt and between. He’s walking around with a bit of a broken heart, but also a very good sense of humor. Although he uses bad language (beware, ye of tender sensibilities), his blog is very good, I think. (I am a proud mom!)

He may move to New York when he’s earned a little money, which he is busy doing now. He’s painting the homes of two friends. If only he could spend a little free time on my own!

This brings to mind a poem written in the 9th century by a father to a son who has decided to return to his home, Ireland.  It’s wonderful, particularly when you think — it’s 9th century, and goodness, those medieval souls weren’t very Goth at all.

Author: Colman (?)—early Irish

Written possibly in the 9^th century

Translated from medieval Latin by Helen Waddell

……………………………………………………………..

To Colman Returning

……………………………………………………………………………

So, since your heart is set on those sweet fields

And you must leave me here,

Swift be your going, heed not any prayers,

Although the voice be dear.

….

Vanquished art thou by love of thine own land,

And who shall hinder love?

Why should I blame thee for thy weariness,

And try thy heart to move?

……

Since if but Christ would give me back the past,

And that first strength of days,

And this white head of mine were dark again,

I too might go your ways.

….

Do but indulge an idle fond old man

Whose years deny his heart.

The years take all away, the blood runs slow

No leaping pluses start.

……

All those far seas and shore that must be crossed,

They terrify me: yet

Go thou, my son, swift be thy cleaving prow,

And do not quite forget.

…..

Hear me, my son; little have I to say

Let the world’s pomp go by.

Swift is it as a wind, an idle dream,

Smoke in an empty sky.

…..

Go to the land whose love gives thee no rest,

And may almighty God,

Hope of our life, Lord of the sounding sea,

Of wind and waters Lord,

…..

Give thee safe passage on the wrinkled sea,

Himself thy pilot stand,

Bring thee through mist and foam to thy desire,

Again to Irish land.

…..

Live, and be famed and happy: all the praise

Of honored life to thee.

Yea, all this world can give thee of delight,

And then eternity.