Poets’ Roundtable
Welcome
MarLou will not be here, but she sent a poem:
Waves Lapping
Body buried
in wet sand near
waves lapping
Hop to water’s edge
Feel cool sand on feet
Trace patterns with toes
Back to sand hole
Brain dripping serotonin
I think she's beginning to get it.
Dru Martin also sent a poem:
i will arise and go now
no need to try and stop it
i have slid down mountains
staggered through deserts
scythed a path through this madness
and am no better off
for each step takes me
further away
i will take nothing as i go
for its as perfect as it can be
and there is no lack of light
that has shone upon me
there are scant few moments
as ready as this
eventhough there are
things to miss
i will arise and go now
and leave a fading shadow
that falls upon the slow burning
pyre of tomorrow
for this door is outside of time
where we all return to dust
i will arise and go now
miss me if you must
News and Jabber
Poet Timothy Murphy died this past week. Largely unknown to us in the East, this native o Minnesota, was a pretty good poet featuring local themes. Here is an example:
Eighty-eight at Midnight
A black calf bleats
at shrivelled teats.
Incessant heat
withers the wheat
and wilts the silking corn.
Too few, too late
the spotty showers
mock my stunted flowers.
Too late I shrink from debt.
Like a spitted calf I turn
over a bed of coals
while the pastures burn.
Timothy Murphy
From The Deed of Gift, Story Line
Press, © 1998. Reprinted by
permission of the author and
Story Line Press, Ashland,
Oregon.
In the last meeting I pointed out that there are lots of good poets and that maybe the audience isn't there. This time I'll point you to an article from The Pacific Standard that notes that, according to a major survey, more people are reading poetry now than just six years ago, putting the number at 28 million. Go to this link to find what the story has to offer: https://psmag.com/education/why-are-more-americans-reading-poetry-right-now.
I was reading Emily Dickinson earlier this week and came across, for the first time #861:
By Emily Dickinson
Split the Lark—and you’ll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantily dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.
Loose the Flood—you shall find it patent—
Gush after Gush, reserved for you—
Scarlet Experiment! Sceptic Thomas!
Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?
Here is a link to a very good analysis of the poem: https://splitthelark.wordpress.com. I want to point out that this spinster really had the capacity for language and expression we often think not associated with our stereotype of the reclusive woman. The poem is laden with violence, injury, rot (sceptic/septic). Read the article.
The Current Assignment
The Next Assignment
Write a list poem. Here is a link to an article about list poems:
Here is one 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 flue.
I cough and sneeze and gasp and choke,
I’m sure that my left leg is broken—
My hips hurt 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 silver 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 hart is—what?
What’s that? What’s that you say?
You say today is… Saturday?
G’bye, I’m going out to play!”
The Next Meeting
The next meeting will be on Thursday, July 19, 2018
Other Jabber
