Tag Archives: poetry

Introducing a new member, Diane Giardi

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Diane Giardi  joined the North Shore Poets’ Forum and the Massachusetts State Poetry Society in 2008, after moving with  her husband last year from Southold, NY, to Annisquam in Gloucester.  She had come to the Poets’ Forum’s annual reading held in April for National Poetry Month, and she read some terrific poems during the Open Mic period. We were very happy she joined.

Diane is an artist, with an MFA in clay. She currently teaches art at Buckingham, Browne & Nichols and Endicott College, and she has  taught in the past at The DeCordova Museum School, Syracuse University and The School of The Museum of Fine Arts. To visit her visual arts/education website link to: http://campus.digication.com/dianegiardi

She has enjoyed writing poems since she was very young.  Diane was surprised this month to find out she received four awards in the Mass State Poetry Society’s National Contest, which includes about 25 categories and attracts many entrants.

Here is one of the four … Look for the others over the next few days.

Hanging on Your Every Line

What you underlined

will keep me sane.

I revisit you.

I know you, why that sentence says it all.

How you connect,

what it means and

I’m back in time.

I love the waviness of your line

from deep red marker, to light charcoal pencil, to faded blue pen.

My eyes rest on the stars you created,

highlighting the paragraphs

that describe what mattered in our lives.

I dive into the pages where you wrapped circles around their numbers,

so many years ago.

You speak to me again as I reread

what fed us.

Reinforcing why I love you,

why life, lonelier now is still worth living.

Halloween is coming

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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

A rowing poem

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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.

More Melissa

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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.

Introducing … Melissa Varnavas

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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.

My son is home

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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 9th 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.

An autumn poem I love

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This poem is by Peter Everwine, and I read it in the New Yorker way back in the Oct. 15, 2007 issue. I’ve kept that issue tucked away in one of my bags of poetry stuff, and I reach in every so often to read it. I think I’ll make a point this year — so many good intentions I have had in my life — to learn more about Peter Everwine. I’ve googled him now. Keep tuned for more about him from me, which thoughts will probably not give him the credit he deserves.

Aubade in Autumn

by Peter Everwine

This morning, from under the floorboards

of the room in which I write,

Lawrence the handyman is singing the blues

in a soft falsetto as he works, the words

unclear, though surely one of them is love,

lugging its shadow of sadness into song.

I don’t want to think about sadness;

there’s never a lack of it.

I want to sit quietly for a while

and listen to my father making

a joyful sound unto his mirror

as he shaves—slap of razor

against the strop, the familiar rasp of his voice

singing his favorite hymn, but faint now,

coming from so far back in time:

Oh, come to the church in the wildwood . . .

my father, who had no faith, but loved

how the long, ascending syllable of wild

echoed from the walls in celebration

as the morning opened around him . . .

as now it opens around me, the light shifting

in the leaf-fall of the pear tree and across

the bedraggled back-yard roses

that I have been careless of

but brighten the air, nevertheless.

Who am I, if not one who listens

for words to stir from the silences they keep?

Love is the ground note; we cannot do

without it or the sorrow of its changes.

Come to the wildwood, love,

Oh, to the wiiildwood as the morning deepens,

and from a branch in the cedar tree a small bird

quickens his song into the blue reaches of heaven—

hey sweetie sweetie hey.

Meeting info, plus a poem by Amy Dengler

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Hi,

First of all, please check out Meetings and Events for more information about the upcoming NSPF meetings. We actually came up with a program for the new year. First of all, on Oct. 24, join us at the Beverly Public Library, 11 a.m., Sohier Room, for a celebration of Halloween. Bring a copy of an original poem about that ever-popular date, so that we can have a little  contest among those who show up. The copy should be unsigned. Each of us will give points to the poems. The one with the most points will win a little prize. It should be fun. And, please, don’t get in a dither!

Also, I thought I had posted three poems by Amy Dengler, and it seems I haven’t. Of course, I really should post every single one, because she is so good. But, still, this additional one might inspire you to come here Amy at the Massachusetts Poetry Festival in Salem on Oct. 15, which is National Poetry Day. She and other poets will be reading at the Salem Atheneum on Essex Street. See the link on this site for more information.

Again, this is taken from her collection, Between Leap and Landing.

Driving To Rochester

by Amy Dengler

There are no eagles along the Thruway

so I measure miles in red-tailed hawks:

four hundred miles, eleven hawks.

White-bibbed, they perch in dead trees

scanning for slow mice and sleek rabbits.

They see everything. …

The sun is low when I arrive.

My mother’s apartment is half the size

of the house where I grew us. She is smaller, too.

The able hands that bathed those slippery babies

shake, skin thinned to brown spots and blue veins. …

From the flowered sofa I watch her

shuffle grocery slips, clipped together

like something worth saving. The oak table

where we ate oatmeal and talked and read

is steady as ever under stacks of last week’s news

and notebooks stuffed with receipts and cipherings. …

She suffers from doing and redoing

counting and recounting

checking and rechecking.

She is the slow mouse.

And another Strand

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Here’s another great poem by Mark Strand, from his “Dark Harbor” collection. (Remember, breaks between stanzas will be set off as three dots, since for some reason this wordpress program doesn’t recognize extra spaces at the end of lines.)

VIII

If dawn breaks the heart, and the moon is a horror,

And the sun is nothing but the source of torpor,

Then of course I would have been silent all these years …

And would not have chosen to go out tonight

In my new dark blue double-breasted suit

And to sit in a restaurant with a bowl …

Of soup before me to celebrate how good life

Has been and how it has culminated in this instant

The harmonies of wholesomeness have reached their apogee, …

And I am aquiver with satisfaction, and you look

Good, too. I love your gold teeth and your dyed hair —

A little green, a little yellow– and your weight, …

Which is finally up where we never thought

It would be. O my partner, my beautiful death,

My black paradise, my fusty intoxicant, …

My symbolist muse, give me your breast

Or your hand or your tongue that sleeps all day

Behind its wall of reddish gums. …

Lay yourself down on the restaurant floor

And recite all that’s been kept from my happiness

Tell me I have not lived in vain, that the stars …

Will not die, that things will stay as they are,

That what I have seen will last, that I was not born

Into change, that what I have said has not been said for me.

After deadline

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Those of us in the newspaper business know what After Deadline means  …  Release, often exhaustion, certainly freedom from immediate travail.

Depending upon one’s time in the business, it can mean more or less of the above. I have been in good times and bad, but always, after deadline was a good thing, and sometimes it meant absolute heaven, more often of late.

As more work is required and less help provided, deadline itself has become more of  a reach for those of us who continue to care about the quality of the product. We must change with the times, limit our reach, be thrilled with less and be happy, so they say.

I’m not, and I keep trying to give what I think is verging on a good product, both in print and online. It’s tough, though. That video of the fire at Danvers Town Hall, for instance, still waits for my edits and production. Will it get done? Does it really matter?

Which echoes, of course, the great question of all our lives … does it really matter?

Poets love this topic, in one way or another, and here is a poem by Mark Strand, who I think is a terrific poet,  and this poem may or may not speak to the issue. … from his volume, “Dark Harbor.”

(Note: for some reason, this program does not allow extra spaces between stanzas, so I will indicate such a break with a space and then three dots.)

XVI

It is true, as someone has said, that in

A world without heaven all is farewell.

Whether you wave your hand or not, …

It is farewell, and if no tears come to your eyes

It is still farewell, and if you pretend not to notice,

hating what passes, it i s still farewell. …

Farewell no matter what. And the palms as they lean

Over the green, bright lagoon, and the pelicans

Diving, and the glistening bodies of bathers resting, …

Are stages in an ultimte stillness, and the movement

Of sand, and of wind, and the secret moves of the body

Are part of the same, a simplicity that turns being …

Into an occasion for mourning, or into an occasion

Worth celebrating, for what else does one do,

Feeling the weight of the pelicans’ wings, …

The density of the palms’ shadows, the cells that darken

The backs of bathers? These are beyond the distortions

Of chance, beyond the evasions of music. The end …

Is enacted again and again. And we feel it

In the temptations of sleep, in the the moon’s ripening,

In the wine as it waits in the glass.

Here is another by Mark Strand, to make up for my lack of attentiveness to the blog this week (mea culpa).

XL I

Sometimes after dinner when I wander out

And stare into the night sky and realize I have no idea

Of what I see, that the distance of the stars …

Is meaningless and their number far beyond

What I can reckon, I wonder if the physicist

Sees the same sky I do, a lavish ordering of lights, …

Disposed to match our scale, and our power to imagine

In simple terms a space like the space we suffer

Here on earth in this room with you sitting …

In that chair, reading a book of which I understand

Nothing, thinking thoughts I could not guess at,

As moments approach whose cargo is a mystery. …

Ah, who knows? we are already traveling faster than our

Apparent stillness can stand, and if it keeps up

You will be light-years away by the time I speak.