Tag Archives: poets

Enter the Naomi Cherkofsky contest!

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I have just rewritten the following poem, a habit I have, so that I almost never think my poems are finished. But, if you have the same habit, stop it! Send in that poem — or the other, or even the other — to the annual Naomi Cherkofsky Memorial poetry contest! And, tell your friends to do so, too. (Click the poetry contest tab of this blog for the info.)

Many of you have come to the annual reading, held the third Saturday in April, and you know what a great time we have. The winners of the contest read first, followed by an open mic. Please spread the word. It’s a sad truth, but newspapers are no longer spreading the word the way they did in the good old days. Readership is way down, and they are grappling with survival.

We need you, therefore, to tell everyone about the contest.

Here’s the poem I was telling you about, which has actually been published in a Mass State Poets anthology in a slightly different rendition. I’m sure you can do better! Pull out your pens, your computers, your thinking caps, and get going!

Dusk in Winter

By Cathryn Keefe O’Hare

 

The sky – blue, white.

The ground, etched in black macadam.

The houses cramped by

the big mall and the little malls

that grew up nearby.

……..

Still, the twiggy branches of the trees

surge

and the crisp clarity

of the ebbing day

pulsates with a swirl

of black birds billowing

in a pointillist arc,

alighting on a naked

maple, swooshing

up suddenly as though

the winter god shook them

off its solemn simplicity,

tickled them into replays

of their aerial vivacity

……..

While in the west

the sun blushes madly

in a last attempt

to brighten the day

…….

and the birds flock,

and flock again

before hiding somewhere

in the star-struck night.

Snow Day!

Meetings, Poetry, , , , , ,

Well, I had thought I could trudge through the snow and show up for the scheduled meeting last Saturday, but the flakes looked so cold and sharp, and my house was so cozy …. I called the whole thing off, giving you all a Snow Day. Unfortunately, Melissa Varnvas didn’t read her e-mail, nor did new member Tom (last name could be Bennett?). They did some poetry anyway, which is very good!

The next meeting is scheduled for Feb. 18, and Mary Miceli is on the hook for a program about allegory. Remember, too, that the Naomi Cherkofsky Memorial Poetry Contest deadline is coming right up …. March 1. Did you send the info to friends and to friends of friends? Please help publicize it (see info under Contests on this blog).

I am sharing a Billy Collins poem called, not very surprisingly given the topic of this post, Snow Day.

Snow Day

          Billy Collins

Today we woke up to a revolution of snow,
its white flag waving over everything,
the landscape vanished,
not a single mouse to punctuate the blankness,
and beyond these windows
….
the government buildings smothered,
schools and libraries buried, the post office lost
under the noiseless drift,
the paths of trains softly blocked,
the world fallen under this falling.
…
In a while I will put on some boots
and step out like someone walking in water,
and the dog will porpoise through the drifts,
and I will shake a laden branch,
sending a cold shower down on us both.
…
But for now I am a willing prisoner in this house,
a sympathizer with the anarchic cause of snow.
I will make a pot of tea
and listen to the plastic radio on the counter,
as glad as anyone to hear the news
…
that the Kiddie Corner School is closed,
the Ding-Dong School, closed,
the All Aboard Children’s School, closed,
the Hi-Ho Nursery School, closed,
along with — some will be delighted to hear —
…
the Toadstool School, the Little School,
Little Sparrows Nursery School,
Little Stars Pre-School, Peas-and-Carrots Day School,
the Tom Thumb Child Center, all closed,
and — clap your hands — the Peanuts Play School.
…
So this is where the children hide all day.
These are the nests where they letter and draw,
where they put on their bright miniature jackets,
all darting and climbing and sliding,
all but the few girls whispering by the fence.
…
And now I am listening hard
in the grandiose silence of the snow,
trying to hear what those three girls are plotting,
what riot is afoot,
which small queen is about to be brought down.

………………………………………………………….

I’m also sharing a Shel Silverstein poem, since much of my rambling e-mail giving you all a Snow Day had to do with the exultant joy of children when they were given a snow day, and even though this poem, Sick, isn’t about snow, it is about the joy of play! By the way, I am also going to link to Melissa Varnavas’s wonderful blog Reflections on Mackerel Cove, which is in Beverly. I leave the rest to you.

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!”

Peter Everwine and the use of imagery

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I am the one responsible for the program for our next Poets’ Forum meeting, which is on the calendar for this Saturday, Nov. 19, 11 a.m., at the Beverly Public Library. So, I have decided to emphasize imagery, and to do so by using a favorite poet of mine, Peter Everwine.

I have shared his “Aubade in Autumn” in a prior post. Few of us are familiar with him, I think. He actually taught with Philip Levine at Fresno State and has won many poetry awards, including a Pushcart Prize, a Lamont Poetry prize, a Guggenheim Fellowship, and more. Jeanette had given a wonderful program on Levine at our last meeting, so it seems appropriate to talk about his contemporary, another under-appreciated but very gifted poet.

I hope you can join us!

In closing, I will leave you with another of Everwine’s poems:

Rain

Toward evening, as the light failed

and the pear tree at my window darkened,

I put down my book and stood at the open door,

the first raindrops gusting in the eaves,

a smell of wet clay in the wind.

Sixty years ago, lying beside my father,

half asleep, on a bed of pine boughs as rain

drummed against our tent, I heard

for the first time a loon’s sudden wail

drifting across that remote lake—

a loneliness like no other,

though what I heard as inconsolable

may have been only the sound of something

untamed and nameless

singing itself to the wilderness around it

and to us until we slept. And thinking of my father

and of good companions gone

into oblivion, I heard the steady sound of rain

and the soft lapping of water, and did not know

whether it was grief or joy or something other

that surged against my heart

and held me listening there so long and late.

The October meeting

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I have to confess I was a bit of a ditz this month: I forgot to reserve the room for our meeting. My only excuse is that is was a date change from the third week to the fourth, and there are five weeks, and I simply got busy.

As a result, we had to wrap up our goodies, hope the coffee would keep, and move on down the hall to a smaller room where no food or drinks were allowed, following the orders of a very stern, rule-ridden librarian. There were almost fisti-cuffs there for a moment, but the poetic ethos prevailed.

The meeting then proceeded with the usual poetic enthusiasms, exhortations,and musings. Jeanette Maes presented a very interesting program on Philip Levine, who had been born in Detroit and devoted a good deal of his creative life to the ambiance, fervor, tenor, triumphs and tribulations of working people. She indicated that he was not a fellow who was very good at publicizing himself, and yet he had won a slew of awards, including a Pulitzer. Basically, she asked, who knew? And yet, it is our loss that we didn’t. He is an extremely talented and accessible poet worth knowing.

A number of Massachusetts State Poetry Society members won awards in the annual contest, including our dear Roberta Hung. See the MSPS site.

Happy Fall. It is past peak, but I think it is even more lovely, as the leaves try to linger, fading as they cling, and then fall. See you all at our next meeting, Saturday, Nov. 19. I am the one who is supposed to present a workshop. Oh my!

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

general, Poetry, , , , ,

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 .

In honor of National Poetry Month

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There are a plethora of activities to celebrate National Poetry Month. Besides the one hosted by the Massachusetts Poetry Festival folk on April 14 (see prior post), the Tin Box Poets are also hosting an event that evening. Here’s the scoop:

Come celebrate National Poetry Month with Tin Box Poets of Swampscott’s 13TH annual open mic. The Tin Box Poets of Swampscott will host their 13th annual open mic reading on Thursday, April 14th, at 6:30pm. This annual event draws spoken word artists of all abilities and disciplines from Swampscott, Marblehead, the entire North Shore and beyond. The Tin Box Poets goal is to promote and encourage the appreciation of poetry in our lives.  
Hope to see you there!
Thursday, April 14, 2011: 6:30 pm – 8:00 pm
Open mic for poetry, and spoken word
(a song if you desire – please provide your own instrument)
Doors open at 6:00 pm for SIGN UP. Reading @ 6:30 pm
Public welcome and All AGES, free admission, refreshments, accessible
Swampscott Public Library, 61 Burrill Street, Swampscott, MA (2nd floor)
More info: swa@noblenet.org, 781-596-8867.
 
*** Due to time restrictions we do ask for a limit of 2 pages or 4 minutes for all open micers. If we have time, we always have a second round. Please be kind, let everyone have their moment in the spotlight. ****
——————————————————————————————————————————————-The next week, we have this information from AGNI Magazine (agni@bu.edu)

CCAE’s Writer’s Life Series

 

Our popular series for writers and readers continues. Join us for three Wednesday evenings of informal discussions with local writers, focusing on a) anthologies and group publishing;  b) writing about one’s own family; and c) narrative journalism.
A) When:    Wednesday, April 13th, 2011 at 8:00pm

Who:     Doug Holder, Dan Mazur, and Barbara Ross

What:    Anthologies and Group Publishing: Learn about what’s behind group publishing from three writers who

        have both edited and contributed to anthologies of poetry, comics, and  crime stories.

Where:   56 Brattle Street, Harvard Square , Cambridge , MA , 02238 -9113

Price:   $6

Phone:  617-547-6789 x1

Web:    http://www.ccae.org

 

B) When:    Wednesday, April 20th, 2011 at 8:00pm

Who:     John Freeman, Katrina Kenison, and Marianne Leone

What:   Writing About Your Family: Respecting Boundaries, Taking Risks – An intimate discussion of the choices, challenges,                              and rewards these authors faced when writing about their loved ones.

Where:  56 Brattle Street , Harvard Square , Cambridge , MA , 02238 -9113

Price: $6

Phone:  617-547-6789 x1

Web:    http://www.ccae.org

C) When:    Wednesday, April 27th, 2011 at 8:00pm

Who:     Ethan Gilsdorf, David Valdes Greenwood, and Paige Williams

What:   Narrative Journalism: Not Just The Facts, Story Too – Whether it be immersion journalism or creative non-fiction, this deeply personal genre transforms everyday reporting into a captivating novel. Discover the worlds inhabited and paths traveled by these writers.

Where:   56 Brattle Street, Cambridge , MA , 02238-9113

Price:   $6

Phone:  617-547-6789 x1

Web:    http://www.ccae.org

—————————————————————————————————————————————————————– And, most importantly, from the standpoint of the North Shore Poets’ Forum, is our own event, on Saturday, April 16, 11 a.m. to 1 or 2 p.m., at the Beverly Public Library. Hope to see you there.