"...and a merry Christmas to all and to all a good night!"
Clement Clarke Moore
A good meeting. I urge you to check out the link to Billy Collins and read the article and listen to the clips of him speaking and reading. I’m still looking for the Neruda film. The impetus for the assignment for January 5 comes from my readings about writers’ block. Someone suggested that when you are having difficulty getting started that you write as if speaking to someone to whom you feel close or who you admire. Talk about anything so long as you are writing. I added the part about explaining why you write. I know that I tell different people different things about what I write and why I write. I cannot tell the mailman what I tell my mentors nor can I tell my mentors what I tell my dog but I talk to all of them. And good luck with the pangrams!
Poets’ Roundtable
Welcome
News and Jabber
I begin with something dear to my heart-- the false start, the failed beginnings and even writers’ block:
“What I try to do is write. I may write for two weeks ‘the cat sat on the mat, that is that, not a rat.’ And it might be just the most boring and awful stuff. But I try. When I’m writing, I write. And then it’s as if the muse is convinced that I’m serious and says, ‘Okay. Okay. I’ll come.’” — Maya Angelou
Billy Collins on poems he rejected:
http://www.npr.org/2016/12/14/504716937/billy-collins-on-how-to-become-a-poet-and-why-poetry-can-be-a-game This link includes several clips of Billy Collins reading and speaking about poetry.
"Usually I know enough not to finish those," he said. "They announce themselves as failures early on, four or five or six lines in. They're just not cooperating with me – they're not showing any signs of wanting to go anywhere, or it was just a bad idea to start with, you know, like you just invited the wrong person to the party but it's too late. But in the case of writing a poem the waste basket ... the writer's best friend ... is full of false starts.
"When I was a younger poet I would do what Frost said you can't do, which is fret a poem into being ... and I gave up on that a long time ago. If a poem isn't working, if it doesn't feel right, I just let it go and get on with the next thing, which could be writing another poem or making more toast."
But time spent on poems destined for the trash heap isn't always time wasted.
Billy Collins: When Does Creativity Start And End?
When Does Creativity Start And End?
"If I'm writing for a while and I'm writing maybe a failure and another failure ... a poem will come, often a little poem," he said. "It has nothing to do with what I've written but it would not have occurred had I not been failing."
COSMOLOGY
By Billy Collins
AUDIO: Read by the author.
I never put much stock in that image of the earth
resting on the backs of four elephants
who are standing on the back of a sea turtle,
who is in turn supported by an infinite regression
of turtles disappearing into a bottomless forever.
I mean how could you get them all to stay still?
Now that we are on the subject,
my substitute picture would have the earth
with its entire population of people and things
resting on the head of Keith Richards,
who is holding a Marlboro in one hand
and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s in the other.
As long as Keith keeps talking about
the influence of the blues on the Rolling Stones,
the earth will continue to spin merrily
and revolve in a timely manner around the sun.
But if he changes the subject or even pauses
too long, it’s pretty much curtains for us all.
Unless, of course, one person somehow survives
being hurtled into the frigidity of outer space;
then we would have a movie on our hands—
but wait, there wouldn’t be any hands
to write the script or make the movie,
and no theatres, either, no buttered popcorn, no giant Pepsi.
Putting that aside, let’s imagine Keith
standing on the other Rolling Stones,
who are standing on the shoulders of Muddy Waters,
and, were it not for that endless stack of turtles,
one on top of the other all the way down,
Muddy Waters would be standing on nothing at all.
Billy Collins, a former U.S. Poet Laureate, will publish “The Rain in Portugal,” his twelfth book of poems, in October.
If you have a regular schedule your subconcious will prepare itself to be ready to be productive at that time. You will find that you can write more and write more efficiently.
Pablo Neruda
“Neruda” is a new movie that traces the year 1948 in his life. It is reaping terrific reviews and is directed by the same director, Pablo Larrain, as “Jackie”, an astoundingly good film about Jackie Kennedy. If you can find “Neruda” (or “Jackie”) anywhere, let me know. Here’s a link to a review: http://www.thewrap.com/neruda-review-gael-garcia-bernal/ and another:http://www.thewrap.com/neruda-cannes-review-pablo-larrains-anti-biopic-stumbles-then-soars/
The Current Assignment
Kind of a non-directional thing that somewhat reflected my own writing the time. I then went through several days of false starts (which is why I began with what I began with above). I genuinely thought I would not write anything decent this season. I was wrong, delightfully wrong.
The Next Assignment
Write a poem to someone who is important to you telling why you write.
The Next Meeting
Other Jabber
Try writing sentences using all the letters of the alphabet.
Post-truth politics and the poet. How necessary is truth? Is this Orwellian reality? Consider the Yahoo hacking.
Why I Write Poetry--2016
ReplyDeleteAt University, the Chairman of the English Department
Invited English majors to his office for a one-on-one
Conversation about one’s choice of majors in the college of Arts.
Dr. John Hankins was an authority on Shakespeare’s derived imagery,
And, as I had picked a class of his, I had to meet in his apartment
For the inquisition that was, in my case, highly pertinent,
As I was not properly in the right department at all! He spun
A tale for me to illustrate that I might be a knight tangent,
Having spent my secondary school years as a knight errant
Studying for the Church as both priest and soldier in a sacristy
Of some recruiting order for the Wars suggestive of Arles**
During the times when the Canadians of Maine disapproved
Of the Pope of Rome for his opposition to Canadian culture,
Dependent, though we were, on an Irish Hierarchy in the State.
For the sin of dissidence, our French fathers were put in their place.
“You might have made a mistake,” the chairman pronounced.
“I think you would do much better majoring in French.
Obviously, French is your native language. You are more kin
To Chaucer than to Shakespeare. Think about it, my boy. It’s not heritage.
Please do not dissent. Reflect upon our discourse. Let me know.”
After removing a pince-nez, Professor Hankins, dabbed at the tears.
***
*Shakespeare’s Derived Imagery by John Erskin Hankins, 1953, still in print.
**I’m not sure of Arles.
Friends, I have just signed on to lead the Writers Read Tuesday, once-a-month
ReplyDeleteprogram at the Fairfield Public Library. I hope to get your support. Programs start at 7:00 p.m. G
That's wonderful, Gerard!! I wondered who was stepping up to do this!! I will try to make the next one!
DeleteDate of the next one?
DeleteThis comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteWhy not? A take on Billy Collins:
ReplyDeleteGerard Coulombe
1816 Jennings Road
Fairfield, CT 06824
Set To Go On When an Alarm Sounds Off
Unlike Billy Collins, I put my money
In the collection basket when I attend a service
And never make looking at the stars
My evening’s event, except when I’m on a dock.
I know people who love carnival elephants.
I remember, people died at a Boston nightclub,
Years ago, for their inability to climb over bodies
Blocking the backstage exit, piled up, snuffed to death
I don’t like to know that I can choke on a stuck breath
Or that there are nights when phlegm slides down, slimy
Mucus, like an earthy worm that won’t move, a lightbulb
Set to go off when a simple switch closes, as on smart cars,
To start a motor that without a foot on the metal moves Audis
Off used car lots because one wants to do something worthless,
As if coaxed to put one foot ahead of another for measurements
It’s too late, in years or age, for baby’s sake, to grow into a stock.
- 30 -
Thanks for the memories:
ReplyDelete“Driving North in Winter” [Before and After Wesley McNair]
It never ceases to amaze me how my own university has persecuted me
By simply forgetting that I ever earned a degree while working on the farm.
Although, in truth, I worked on the farm and earned two degrees at Maine.
Neither was in farming probably because I wrecked more machinery working
Than any other student hired by the farm manager to tend to a working farm.
No. McNair never attended the University of Maine, and he is not “Mainiac”
Born. He WAS born in that other part of New England called New Hampshire.
And he attended College in Vermont along with the likes of Robert Frost, Sr.
It goes to prove that Becoming Maine’s Poet Laureate has nothing to do with
Where one is born. I might interject, here, that McNair is not French.
In a snippet of a poem, the speaker with his wife, I assume, drives in country dark
And meditates along the Route 2 tier, crossing Maine on their way to a town
Named Mercer, a thumb on a backcountry road map, bisected by a web of streets
Like those on my small finger, imagines tableaus of isolate residents in bit roles.
McNair lives in Mercer. He has speculated along his route home from Farmington
Where he teaches at University. Years between the two have been long and cold.
Playing for the Majors
ReplyDeleteMy brother-in-law woke up during the night
To find his wife in her comfortable chair
Beside their bed, and wondered why.
It takes a long to wake up to a fact:
She was not just awake.
She was holding her head.
She was having a stroke!
He responded by calling his daughter, the nurse’s aid.
Then, he called Emergency Medical Services
By the time their daughter arrived,
EMS had declared his wife, “Dead!”
She was younger than he.
Now, he sits by his T.V.
Watches scheduled games,
The Boston clubs in season.
In between games he goes to Mass.
He speaks to all his adult children
Who frequently visit,
And they might watch a game.
Every day, on scheduled time,
He visits the French Catholic Cemetery.
Stops by her grave. They have a chat.
He returns home. Has soup for lunch.
He takes calls from his six married children.
Accepts visits from his grandchildren.
Checks the date on the calendar as days pass.
Waits for a call from the majors.
Gérard Coulombe
ReplyDeleteThe Incident over Folding Sheets
12-29-2016
Folding Sheets and Pillow Cases with My Wife
For over sixty years, my wife and I have been folding sheets.
It is not a regular, weekly chore. But it is a regular thing we
Do when I find myself in the same place with her, wherever
She tasks at the chore of folding the weekly bed sheets and
Pillowcases that have just come out of the drier, bunched as
They have been on the guest bedroom bed over the garage.
Before I join her in the bedroom, innocently, to help her in
The simple task of folding sheets, I already know that what
She wants to do and what I want to do are similar but are
Not the same. While she holds the sheet, we simultaneously
Reach for a corner of the form sheet and then while holding
Our end with the left hand, we extend the right to the other
To fold the two, end to end, before we extend an arm for the
Free end to fold and square before we bring the two ends on
Our side, together. Our final steps would follow with the two
Of us joining the corner held by our left hand with the other
Held by our right. At this point, we ought to stretch our arms
And have between us a square, a simple and full rectangular
Square, folded in half along it’s length and then again into
A square, half its size before it is folded once more lengthwise
And finally folded in half and then in half, again. We are left
With a square in hand, ready to put away in the linen closet.
But that is not what we have. Instead, she holds a folded sheet
Which she starts to square, again, by unfolding and refolding.
And so unfolds the life of a married couple’s sixty work years
Together. We will finish our years together without agreement.
Neither will say: “Our difference are in the folds of our lives.”
I like this.
DeleteEG
This comment has been removed by the author.
ReplyDeleteGérard Coulombe
ReplyDeleteAlarm
When my wife cooks
There is no anticipation of alarm,
But it will come.
Smoke is a noise seeker
When there are sniffing smoke
Detectors to set off.
Invisible though it might be at first
Smoke floats and crawls
Though open spaces
Seeks out the prominent currents
Of plain, zigzagging air
Follows on these throughout the house
From its sources where prevalent streams
Ease their way to squeeze
Through to find tight spaces.
Emerges through chinks in the siding
And through accidental holes
In the paper wrap of the building.
With all manner of channels in the walls,
Writhes its way through impervious
Guarding materials to breech the wrap around
The building to close switches, arming alarms
Throughout the house, setting off,
Eardrum piercing honks of danger.
Until doors are closed, one by one,
From the furthest to the closest,
Behind weakening blasts of warning horns.
Only then can family members relax, one by one,
Convinced that it was mother’s cooking
That set off a cataclysm of varying decibels.
“Can the fishes see it’s snowing?”*
ReplyDelete[From “A Child’s Christmas in Wales”
by Dylan Thomas]
“
I woke up this morning to a yard full of snow
And, overhead, an overcast, slumbering vista
Of tin grey tones and layered, brumous sky.
To the East, in the powdery Sound, “Can the fishes see
It’s snowing?” Can terns fly blind through surf
Without crashing down a flume into the surf?
I’ve tried reading like Dylan Thomas, in a pub,
On an ordinary day on High Street in Prestatyn,
Just as I tried using the loo in my host’s backyard
On an early spring day that felt more like winter.
I gave it up and never wished myself back in Wales
For I had come forehead to feeble mad-cow when
I drove my rented car along a country curb
While avoiding a lorry sure to drive us off the road.
Broke two rims dumping air under pressure
Like a catapult ejecting steam as a powerful propellant
We sought help and came face to face with a country
Farmer leading a stumbling mad cow out of the barn.
G. Coulombe
ReplyDeleteEmily
Success tastes like nougats
Children wished came down,
As chocolate feathered snow
Captured on the tongue in season,
Allowed to be chewed, ever so slowly,
On smiling visages of hope.
There is a competition of clouds
As I look through the windshield
At wing-shaped, in-line fields pushing
Ahead, slowly, but ever so organized
Their leading edges, like plows
Pushing through air like powder.
Traffic moves ahead, separating in lanes
At speeds tempting looping collisions.
I think, from seeing an off road stream,
About the water-washed rocks jerking
And tumbling like face cloths in a drier.
And pedestrians as an assemblage of toads
Waiting for the light to change so they might leap
And bound across a road likely to submerge under
Melting snow, while, I, imagine the lyricism
In driving home to shelter in my easy chair
With Emily in one hand, and a tart red wine in the other.
What a productive season!
ReplyDeleteEmerson
Thank you. There are a few more days left. G
ReplyDeleteReaders Read: 1-10-2017 @ 7:00 p.m. Welcome all.
ReplyDeleteGérard Coulombe
ReplyDelete1-3--17
A Quick Exchange
Eighty-five is not very old.
But it is enervating at that age
When you stand next to a scold
Having missed a chance to gage
Her sensibility and oratory in the fold
Of old men who might be far too sage
To discuss the numbing cold.
Only fools discuss the heat that will rage.
Silly me. I watched an old man reading
And saw that, with pen, he underlined
Words and phrases as a poet rhyming
Adjusting to notions as metered
For the purpose of quickly threading
Alternate words, carefully wedded
To write a poem with all the meaning
His years, for pity sake, had gathered.
So I paused to ask him before leaving
What it was that he was copiously doing.
“No,” he said, “I am not rhyming.
At the moment, I am simply liming.
He asked for my story,
I told him my wife was waiting.
“Thank she for the loan of thee to me.”
Said he. “Bye and bye, we’ll both be waiting.”
G. Coulombe
ReplyDeleteEmily
Success tastes like nougats
Children wished came down,
As chocolate feathered snow
Captured on the tongue in season,
Allowed to be chewed, ever so slowly,
On smiling visages of hope.
There is a competition of clouds
As I look through the windshield
At wing-shaped, in-line fields pushing
Ahead, slowly, but ever so organized
Their leading edges, like plows
Pushing through air like powder.
Traffic moves ahead, separating in lanes
At speeds tempting looping collisions.
I think, from seeing an off road stream,
About the water-washed rocks jerking
And tumbling like face cloths in a drier.
And pedestrians as an assemblage of toads
Waiting for the light to change so they might leap
And bound across a road likely to submerge under
Melting snow, while, I, imagine the lyricism
In driving home to shelter in my easy chair
With Emily in one hand, and a tart, red wine in the other.