Tag Archives: poetry

Meeting news

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Our Sept. 17 meeting was terrific — well attended, with a number of new people and old friends; a terrific African poet whose charm and talent impressed us all; his very kind son, who lives on the South Shore and hopes to fan the fame of his 92-year-old father; and terrific poems by fellow members.

Our guest was Gabriel Okara, 92, a vibrant poet with great imagery that speaks to all people. I didn’t take extensive notes, but one line I happened to write down from his poem “Snow Flakes Sail Gently Down,” is “like white-robed Muslims,” about the trees, and another, perhaps less exactly, “limbs weighed down by the weightless flakes.” (See prior entry for some full-length poems by this very wonderful Nigerian poet.)

Hi son, Ebbie, remembers waking in the night to find his father writing his poems, because, of course, his father had to make a living during the day.  Ebbie lives on the South Shore. He, too, writes poetry, but he’s more interested in introducing his father’s poetry to as many people as possible — surely, a good son and a good man.

Among our friends who have been unable to come to the meetings lately is Diane Giardi, a fine artist and a terrific poet. Her teaching schedule has kept her away in recent months.

Chris Coleman, too, isn’t always able to make it, so it was a pleasure, as usual, to have him with us.

New faces include Jane Montecacuo, Maryanne Anderson and Tony Toledo.  All in all, it was a wonderful welcoming and reunion, with great poetry and happy feelings all around.

During the meeting we also refined our schedule for the upcoming year. Please see under the MEETINGS tab.

I will leave you with a little poem, by Wordsworth, which is about the sudeness of joy and then the guilt of it because of the death of someone he loved –his daughter.

William Wordsworth : Surprised by Joy

 
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, deep buried in the silent tomb1,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee? Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.
 
William Wordsworth (1770-1850)	1812

Two visitors for our Sept. 17 meeting

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Surprise! We will have a wonderful, award-winning and much acclaimed, 90-odd-year-old poet from Nigeria to read for about 20 minutes at our Sept. 17 meeting. Mary Ellen Letarte, an MSPS member, met him at a reading in north central Massachusetts, loved him, and arranged this great treat for us.

Also on Sept. 17 we will be joined by a poet from England, Bill Grimke-Drayton, who has interesting roots that spread to either side of the Atlantic and across the Mason-Dixon line. He happened to see this blog and started to comment and write. See more about him at grimke.wordpress.com. He is staying in Andover and wants to know if there are any open mic readings in the area. Does anyone know of any? Please send them along.

Here is info sent by Mary Ellen about Gabriel Imomotimi Gbaingbain Okara, who is staying in the U.S. for a little while with his son on the South Shore. The bio is followed by three of his poems.
Okara (b.1921) has made a mark on the African literary scene as one of the major pioneer African writers. In his tenth decade of life, he is still writing. Born in Bomoundi, Bayelsa State, Nigeria, Okara is the first renowned English-language black African poet and the first African modernist writer. The Nigerian Negritudist, as he is fondly called, began his writing career in 1940 at Government College, Umuahia. By 1960 he had made a name as the first Nigerian writer to publish in the influential literary journal, Black Orpheus and to join its editorial staff. Subsequently his The Call of the River Nun won the best award for literature in the Nigeria Festival of Arts in 1953. In 1979 his Fisherman’s Invocation won the Commonwealth Poetry Prize. And in 2005 he bagged the highest literary prize in Nigeria, NLNG Prize, instituted by the Nigeria Liquefied Natural Gas.

ONCE UPON A TIME

by Gabriel Okara, a Nigerian Poet

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and with their eyes:

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

….

There was a time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts:

but that’s gone son.

Now they shake hands without hearts:

while their left hands search

my empty pockets

….

‘Feel at home’! ‘Come again’:

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice ­–

for then I find doors shut on me.

….

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses — homeface,

officeface, streetface,  hostface,

cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say ‘Goodbye’,

when I mean ‘Good – riddance’;

to say ’Glad to meet you’,

without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been

nice talking to you’, after being bored.

….

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!

….

So show me, son

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

You Laughed And Laughed And Laughed

by Gabriel Okara

In your ears my song

is motor car misfiring

stopping with a choking cough;

and you laughed and laughed and laughed.

…

In your eyes my ante-

natal walk was inhuman, passing

your ‘omnivorous understanding’

and you laughed and laughed and laughed

….

You laughed at my song,

you laughed at my walk.

Then I danced my magic dance

to the rhythm of talking drums pleading, but

you shut your eyes and laughed and

laughed and laughed.

….

And then I opened my mystic

inside wide like the sky,

instead you entered your

car and laughed and laughed and laughed.

….

You laughed at my dance,

you laughed at my inside,

You laughed and laughed and laughed

….

But your laughter was ice-block

laughter and it froze your inside froze

your voice froze your ears

froze your eyes and froze your tongue.

….

And now it’s my turn to laugh;

but my laughter is not

ice-block laughter. For I

know not cars, know not ice-block.

My laughter is the fire

of the eye of the sky, the fire

of the earth, the fire of the air,

the fire of the seas and the

rivers fishes animals trees

and it thawed your inside,

thawed your voice, thawed your

ears, thawed your eyes and

thawed your tongue.

…

So a meek wonder held

your shadow and you whispered;

‘Why so?’

And I answered:

‘Because my father and I

are owned by the living

warmth of the earth

through our naked feet.’

PIANO AND DRUMS

by Gabriel Okara

When at break of day at a riverside

I hear the jungle drums telegraphing

the mystic rhythm, urgent, raw

like bleeding flesh, speaking of

primal youth and the beginning

I see the panther ready to pounce

the leopard snarling about to leap

and the hunters crouch with spears poised;

….

And my blood ripples, turns torrent,

topples the years and at once I’m

in my mother’s lap a sucking;

at once I’m walking simple

paths with no innovations,

rugged, fashioned with the naked

warmth of hurrying feet and groping hearts

in green leaves and wild flowers pulsing.

….

Then I hear a wailing piano

solo speaking of complex ways in

tear-furrowed concerto;

of far away lands

and new horizons with

coaxing diminuendo, counterpoint,

crescendo. But lost in the labyrinth

of its complexities, it ends in the middle

of a phrase at a daggerpoint.

…

And I lost in the morning mist

of an age at a riverside keep

wandering in the mystic rhythm

of jungle drums and the concerto

Thank you, Jeanette

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Jeanette Maes has offered to do a program on Philip Levine, new Poet Laureate, for our Sept. 17 meeting. Thanks so much, Jeanette!

I will send out a reminder before the meeting. Come with your own poem(s) for gentle critique, a little food to share, and the willingness to offer your services, as Jeanette did, so that we can all learn a little more about the craft and art of poetry.

Apologies and updates

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Apparently, some of you relied upon the information in this blog’s Contests page to send poems to the Mass State Poetry Society’s most recent contest. I am sorry. I have been blatantly absent for some time from the blog, but I just updated the information. Gertrude Callis, former contest chair for the MSPS, died this year. She is missed for her enthusiasm for poetry, for her quiet determination, for her sense of humor, for her generosity, and for her hard work on our behalf. In her place as contest chair for the MSPS is Roberta Hung, another wonderfully kind, gracious and hard-working poet. Those of us who are also members of MSPS are lucky to have her.

I have also updated the meetings schedule for the Forum….with almost no information! We neglected to set a program for this coming year. So, please join us on Saturday, Sept. 17, at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. ish, with some poems from a favorite or new or interesting poet we may not be familiar with so that we, too, can learn and enjoy. Please also bring a poem or two of your own, with copies, for gentle critique. And, be prepared to volunteer to give a program over the course of our next year at the Forum.

Some of you know that my husband died in April. This is one of the first times I’ve actually said that, and I don’t think I will ever get used to it….the saying it…the absence it only declares. In any case, although I may have shared this poem by Jane Kenyon before, it is the one I chose for my husband’s service.

Let Evening Come

BY JANE KENYON

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
…
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.

…

Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.

…

Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.

…

To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.

…

Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

 

Amy Dengler tribute and contest

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Here’s an update from member Roberta Hung:

Hi Poets,

I would like to share a moving experience with you, held Thursday night June 2, 2011. The North Shore Writings Group held a lovely tribute to Amy Dengler at the Sawyer Free Library, Gloucester. Several MSPS members attended: Gwen Carr, Diane Giardi, Mary Miceli, Elly Latawiec, Beverley and I. Amy’s husband and a sister were there. (It was announced that his mother was also there.) Claire Keyes, prof. emerita of English, SSU, said that Amy was an exceptional student. A volunteer videoed the event for the local cable tv station; he took my name and address to send a copy. Basically, folks talked about how Amy inspired them not only in writing but also by advocating for their jobs. Folks read Amy’s poems and/or ones they wrote about Amy. The program was led off by the librarian, who told about Amy’s role at the library. Amy was persuaded to serve as VP of the library committee, then Pres. Among other things. she was instrumental in starting a youth writing program, and advocating that a bequeathed fund to the library be spent in purchasing adjacent property for the library expansion. She then shared one of Amy’s poems. She was followed by Suellen Wedmore (poet laureate emerita of Rockport and a new member of MSPS, and member of the North Shore Writing Group) and successively by six other featured participants. Suellen then introduced Beverley Barnes and me as co-sponsors of the Amy Dengler Memorial Contest. I started off by saying how Amy was a beloved member of MSPS and how she encouraged me to keep writing poetry. Beverley talked about how Amy inspired members for many years at Wordcrafters. Beverley and I read poems written for/by Amy. I started off by thanking Suellen for inviting us to the tribute, and how we wanted to keep Amy’s memory alive through the Amy Dengler Memorial Contest. We invited folks to enter poems in the contest and left flyers. (see below) We pointed out the donation jar at the table and also said that Amy’s husband gave us permission to share Amy’s book of 53 poems, which could be procured with a donation of $25. Folks responded positively to the news of the contest. Separately, Beverley and I spoke with Amy’s husband Chris and her sister. They seemed very pleased with the evening’s event. I certainly was.

AMY DENGLER MEMORIAL POETRY CONTEST, sponsored by the Wordcrafters Poetry Group, a chapter of the Massachusetts State Poetry Society: an annual poetry contest to honor the memory of Amy L. Dengler, accomplished poet and active member of the North Shore writing community.

The contest is open to all adults. Prizes will be awarded to poems for first, second and third place winners ($50/$20/$10). Contestants may enter any number of poems at $3 per poem, but only one poem will be eligible for a prize. Entries must be the original work of the poet. Poems are limited to 40 lines total. Subject and poetry form are poet’s choice. Poems entered must be unpublished and not currently entered in any other contest. Only poems that have not won a prize may be entered. All poems must be titled. Poems must be typed on 8-1/2″ x 11″ white paper – No Illustrations. Send one original (with no name) and one copy with poet’s name and address in upper RIGHT-HAND corner (of DUPLICATE ONLY). No poems will be returned and all non-winning poems will be destroyed after the contest. The deadline for the first contest will be May 15, 2012 . Send poem and entry fee to: Roberta Hung, Contest Chair, 8 Dundee Street , Salem , MA 01970 .

A festival invite

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 Claire Keyes, who is well known on the North Shore for her own poetry and for her years as a professor at Salem State, sends along this invitation:

You are cordially invited to a poetry reading and fundraiser for the Massachusetts Poetry Festival on Thursday, April 14th at 7:30 p.m. at the Paul M. Scott Library in the main building of Montserrat College of Art,
23 Essex St. Beverly.  Fred Marchant of Boston and Carla Panciera of Rowley will be the featured readers.   Donation: $20 or $10 for students.
   You can read more about Fred and Carla on the Masspoetry.org website. Here is the link:

http://masspoetry.org/2011/03/13/a-pre-festival-celebratory-reading-and-fund-raiser-on-april-14/

We will also have some scintillating raffle items for the poetry-obsessed, so please bring your wallets!

Claire Keyes
cjkeyes@verizon.net

National Poetry Month

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 April is National Poetry Month, and the North Shore Poets’ Forum is celebrating on Saturday, April 16, with readings by the winners of our Naomi Cherkofsky contest followed by an open mic. We have been doing this for probably six or seven or eight (how many?) years, and it has always been a wonderful time. We hope you will join us at the Beverly Public Library, from 11 a.m. to about 2 p.m. Light refreshments will be served. And, if you write poetry, please bring up to three to share.

In the meantime, you can discover new poets and enjoy a poem a day in celebration of National Poetry Month by clicking on this website, provided by Knopf Poetry, a division of Random House:

http://poem-a-day.knopfdoubleday.com/2011/04/01/welcome-to-poetry-month/?ref=poemaday_email

Enjoy!

Poetry reading coming up!

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April is National Poetry Month, and once again the North Shore Poets’ Forum is celebrating with readings by the winners of its annual Naomi Cherkofsky contest followed by open mic on Saturday, April 16, 11 a.m., at the Beverly Public Library.

Just to keep you posted, we had a fantastic meeting last week. Melissa Varnavas presented a program on inspiration which was, well, inspiring! Many of those present came up with some pretty great raw material for polished poems. As Melissa reminded us, quoting Thomas Edison, I think, genius is 10 percent inspiration and 90 percent work.

And, all of us at the meeting hope you will join us for the annual Poetry Reading next month, which is National Poetry Month. The Forum’s event is always a great time — a time for sharing poetry, food and friendship.  We look forward to greeting you there.

Updates from the Forum

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 Our next meeting is Saturday, March 19, at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m. to 1 or 2 p.m. Melissa Varnavas will  give a workshop about finding your creative inspiration. 

Melissa received her MFA in poetry last summer and is full of fresh ideas and breadth of knowledge. She had given a terrific program this fall on imagery. Here’s hoping you will all come.

We expect to have time to have gentle critiques of one another’s poetry, so bring along a pesky poem or two to share.

This has been a tough winter, both in terms of raging weather and of personal losses. I offer two poems for contemplation — one that shows anger with, the other acceptance of, the end of things.

The following poem speaks specifically about the poet’s father, but it is universal in its plea…

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night

     by Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
…
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
…
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
…
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

….

This next poem is so quiet, with the repetitions reminiscent of prayer.

Let Evening Come

By Jane Kenyon

Let the light of late afternoon
shine through chinks in the barn, moving
up the bales as the sun moves down.
…
Let the cricket take up chafing
as a woman takes up her needles
and her yarn. Let evening come.
…
Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned
in long grass. Let the stars appear
and the moon disclose her silver horn.
…
Let the fox go back to its sandy den.
Let the wind die down. Let the shed
go black inside. Let evening come.
…
To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop
in the oats, to air in the lung
let evening come.
…
Let it come, as it will, and don’t
be afraid. God does not leave us
comfortless, so let evening come.

…

Missing Gertrude

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In addition to our friend Amy Dengler, we recently lost our good friend Gertrude Callis, for whom there will be a memorial service on Saturday, March 12, 2011, at 10 a.m., at the Swampscott Church of Spiritualism, Burrill Street, Swampscott. 

Her family invites you to join them.

The church is next to the Swampscott Public Library and across the street from the Swampscott Fire Station.

Melissa Varnavas is writing a poem to be published soon in this blog in memory of Gertrude, who gave to new poets and new members the encouragement to stand up and be heard. Those of us who knew her feel lucky, even while we miss her.

Gertrude has not been coming to meetings much in the last few years because of failing health. Mostly, she just didn’t want to be a bother to anyone. She hated to talk about her ailments, wanted nothing to do with doctor-talk or health advisories. She was a stubborn, proud, independent, feisty woman with a sweet, soft voice and a huge heart.

When you looked up, there she was — in your corner, smiling and sending good wishes your way.

Thanks, Gertrude.