Tag: Poetry Collective

The Blessings of Ritual and Routine

Published on by diannePLeave a comment
My dearly departed guinea pig, Addie, in her warm fuzzy hidey. Addie was carmel and white and had lovely pink eyes. Really, pink.

Just before the pandemic (the 2020s I feel the need to say for when we all are history), we were in search of a better situation for our daughter, and we moved her to a private school. She went from a class of 30 to a class of 12, and her academics improved immediately, though our finances did not! As a part of her classroom they had an animal student, the lovely Miss Addie pictured above lounging in her hidey with a tasty piece of bamboo. The school asked for a volunteer family to take her home over the Christmas break, and we volunteered. Addie and I bonded immediately (I am the pet-whisperer), and I must admit I delayed sending her back to school in January by almost a full week. When the school was shut down over Covid in March they asked me again if I would take her, and I eagerly said yes. She moved in with us, and by May the lovely school announced it was going out of business. Addie became family. During the stay-home days our daughter took courses on Outschool (highly recommend) where she learned female guinea pigs preferred to be in pairs. We then adopted Baby from a pet store. It turned out that Addie did not prefer to be in pairs, but eventually a tolerance developed.

When we moved back to California, again for a better school experience for our daughter, we drove across with two cats, two guinea pigs, and one dog. About a year after we settled in, I woke up a few days before Christmas to find Addie had left us. Baby, it turned out, was desperate not to be alone, and went on a hunger strike. After a forcing some food into her for two days (guinea pigs must eat constantly or they die), we adopted Punky (who looks a bit like a pumpkin). This past summer Baby followed Addie to Valhalla, and I saw, stretched before me, a long line of guinea pig adoptions for the rest of my life. I waited with bated breath until, lo and behold, it seemed Punky took after Addie, bless her. She seemed very interested in checking out Baby’s viewing and memorial, but then she was fine to have all the snacks and seed balls and pigetti (corn silk) to herself. She moves, in her luxuriously large cage, from hidey to hidey during the day, alternatively napping and yapping. She has a lot to say to me, and we perform a call and response between us where I say, “Woooo, Punkus!” and she chirps away back at me, whooping louder and louder until I bring her some fantastic treat.

The guinea pigs, as much as I don’t want to have a long line of them stretching to the end of my life in front of me, are part of my life’s rituals, and I love the job, and someday I know I will mourn the loss of it, as I mourn both the beautiful, pink-eyed Addie, and Baby, who looked like a tiny Holstein. Every other morning, without fail, I awake before the sun and the rest of my family, chat away with Punky as I remove all her bedding (I use cloth bedding, nice fluffy fleece pads), and all her hay, and all her snacks and poops, and I clean out the cage. All the linens go into the washer for a hot wash and an extra rinse, and the cage is refitted with clean bedding from my ample supply. Then I top off the snack bin (hay rings, seed balls, vitamin C chews), put in fresh hay, and add in some salad (lettuce, peppers, fresh baby corn, that sort of thing) and set Punky up for her new day. It takes me about 40 minutes (not counting the laundry time) and during that time I do not have to think what move to make next, and my conversation (Wooo Punkus!) pretty much doesn’t change, and is not the most thought provoking. That gives me some early-morning time to freshen up my brain as I freshen up Punky’s cage. We both enjoy it. For me it is both calming, and nurturing as I nurture my little Punky, and there is a clear sense of accomplishment in looking at the “beautiful once again” cage. 

Of course, you might think, that’s a lot of work, lady, for a kid’s pet, work that the kid should be doing. My daughter and I traded years ago because, when Addie first moved in, my daughter was too short to clean the cage, and not very quick or proficient at it. I offered to trade emptying the dishwasher (a chore I despise). She agreed. So now she’s stuck with it! And I get the meditative and soothing time with Punky.

I want to address this next paragraph to my fellow non-believers out there, or, perhaps, non-conventional believers is a better term. I was raised really immersed in a traditional Christian church, but, as long as I can remember, though I didn’t really balk against going until late into my HS years, it had no effect on me. I didn’t click into the whole thing. I often read the Bible in church from boredom during the long services, but it came across as fairy tale to me, and the emotions I saw people experience in church were not there for me. Even during my beloved grandmom’s funeral, who loved her church dearly, what I remember feeling, aside from loss, was that I would have preferred to be somewhere else, somewhere emotionally warm, to hold her in my thoughts. I have no doubt that my delight of a grandma is somewhere, in some form, still being a delight, but hooking it into her own religious beliefs is beyond me. So, there are two points I want to make here about that based on my experiences in life: ritual, which is done so well by churches/temples/mosques, and their like, is not owned by them. And life needs ritual for space to process and to get in touch with emotions. We are all different, and some of us need more ritual in life than others, and that ritual can be as simple as how we decorate for holidays, certain meals we make at certain times, celebrating our own birthdays (of course! I’m glad I was born!). Ritual is, really, meditation, and for me it is more profound when it is a natural thing in my life rather than what I would view as a forced, arbitrary movement. The guinea pigs are a delight too. Their personalities remind me of my chubby grandma in many ways. She often whooped, and loved eating too. There’s no reason they should not be connected in my heart and in my thoughts. I love the ritual that they are.

And during the “mundane chore” of cleaning the guinea pig cage I get a lot of writing done (in my mind, not on my computer!). It’s a reset for me as well. There’s no pressure for perfection, and the thoughts roll in and out like a calm tide. 

Of course Princess Punky will not outlast me (I am optimistic enough to assume). And I want to just mention my second very early morning ritual that will ride with me to the bitter end. OHHHHHHH…….

All I want is a proper cup of coffee
Made in a proper copper coffee pot
I may be off my dot but I want a proper coffee
In a proper copper pot
Iron coffee pots and tin coffee pots
They are no use to me
If I can't have a proper cup of coffee
In a proper copper coffee pot, I'll have a cup of tea!

Gaze upon my magnificent second morning ritual… coffee made in a proper copper coffee percolator! A percolator has several ritual benefits: there are a few parts to take apart and clean; there is a prescribed way to put it back together, and when it is back together it moans suggestively and bubbles, and scents the air with perfume Chanel should be envious of. It is another opportunity for me to do labor that requires no brain power, that pleases me and affects me directly while also giving benefit to someone else (my spouse), and doing the “chore” brings about visible results that please me. It also offers me a hot cup to sip and enjoy as I slowly move from meditation to sitting down and writing out this post, or some other writing project.

Websters says that a blessing, as a noun, is grace (the thing said before meals), approval or encouragement, or a thing conducive to happiness or welfare (by which I take it Websters means well-being). Rituals are a blessing. And, for me, a lot of my blessings are my routines. I exhort you not to deny yourself of the blessing of your routines, even if they are “chores” (such a dirty word!). Slow them down a bit; use them to slow your thoughts, and plum the richness of repetition, a moment with no planning and no management needed, a moment on autopilot. There are so many writing gems to be found there, as well as quite a lot of balm for the nervous system. Enjoy that walk with your dog, scritches for kitty, a hot cup of coffee, or, if you can’t have a proper cup of coffee, a hot cup of tea. 😉 Whoop whoop!

The Runaway Christmas Train

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When I was a little boy, my father would assemble a huge train table in our living room next to the Christmas tree. The table was easily ten feet wide by ten feet long, and three feet high. In addition to the tiny figures of the villagers, quaint tiny homes and buildings, working street lights, fake trees and assorted trains that adorned the table, crepe paper in a red brick pattern was attached to all sides of the table. The paper ran from the sides of the table all the way down to the carpet, creating the illusion that the table was supported by brick walls all around.

Or from my point of view, the perfect fort wherein I could hide.

The strategy was to sneak underneath the table after my parents had gone to sleep and wait for Santa to place the presents under the tree. I actually made it to my secret hiding place each year, carefully separating the folds of the brick crepe paper back in place behind me so that nothing looked out of place.

And like clock work, every year I would promptly fall asleep before sighting Santa.

So that is the memory, suspended in time for more than forty years, like an image trapped within an icicle that never melts.

The reality is starkly different.

The old house was sold many years ago, the train table dismantled and perhaps rotting in some unknown wood pile, and the assorted engines, passenger cars, and cabooses stored away in bubble wrap for another generation.

Things are different with my wonderful parents as well. Mom passed away in 2022, and Dad is struggling every day in a memory care unit.

Despite all of these life changes, I still hold on to this memory, this specific icicle of time has not yet eluded my grasp.

My attempt to preserve this memory in poetry appears below. The poem is called “Christmas Eve from Under the Train Table” and first appeared in The Hot-Buttered Holidays Issue of Instant Noodles in 2021.

I hope you can find something special in my memory as well.

Happy Holidays,

-R. David Fulcher

CHRISTMAS EVE FROM UNDER THE TRAIN TABLE

There I was,
and there I would remain,
Expectant and curled-up beneath the great trains
which had whistles and steam and a radio tower that lit up.
The trains were sleeping, but my breath replaced their din,
Escaping my lips like an anxious child.

It is not the darkness I fear.
I fear that my mischievous breath will plume forth and collect Itself into a crystal ball,
and then roll out from under the brick-red crepe paper,
a great red marble full of my embarrassment.

The clock clangs midnight.
I can hear my parents through the walls,
their secret laughter like soft explosions
accompanied by the faint swish and whisper of wrapping paper.

Now I can their slippered arrival.
My heart pummels in my chest with incessant fluttering,
sick of this distant observation,
insane with the knowledge that all this espionage is for me.

Making Moments Count

Published on by gilliampoetLeave a comment

One of the things I like best about poetry is its ability to capture the beauty of a single moment, even if it’s not something that would normally be seen as beautiful. At its heart, poetry is emotional storytelling. A moment becomes significant when it is infused with feeling—joy, sorrow, nostalgia, or wonder

Last year, I edited an issue of Instant Noodles with the theme of ‘instant.’ I was looking for poems that captured that exact essence of poetry that appeals so much to me. I wanted the beauty of the grief or the joy of a single moment captured in a poem. It’s probably my favorite issue of Instant Noodles that I’ve edited to date. I think the poems we published in that issue were the kind that will resonate long after reading them because every reader shares that moment with the poet.

That issue of Instant Noodles can be read for free here . I highly recommend giving it a look.

Life is filled with fleeting moments—those golden, mundane, or bittersweet slices of time that often pass unnoticed. But poetry has the unique ability to crystallize these moments, transforming them into something timeless and profound. Capturing moments in poetry is about taking the ephemeral and making it eternal.

Here’s a poem of mine that captures the moment when I held my son for the first time. It appeared in the Instant issue of Instant Noodles.

Contraction

After hours of flesh seizing 
muscles finally relaxed 
and I cradled a fresh universe 
in my arms, puckered face 
already rooting for food. 

My world imploded, contracting 
until nothing existed but this 
one tiny fist raised at the audacity 

of the air to be so dry 
the lights so bright 
the scream that replaced the rhythm 
of my familiar heartbeat 

and I traced constellations 
across freckled skin as I eased
into a new center of gravity.

The Power of Specificity

Great poetry thrives on specificity. Think of a single red leaf falling on a crisp autumn afternoon or the smell of fresh bread wafting through an open window. These details evoke emotions and anchor the reader in the poet’s world. Poetry doesn’t need grand metaphors to capture the essence of a moment. Sometimes, a simple, honest line is more powerful than elaborate language.

Share Your Moments

Because life is poetry, everyone is a poet. You can write about your own moments and shape your memories into poems. Then, you’re sharing that moment with others. Your words let them feel what you felt and maybe even remind them of their own special memories.

Poetry helps us slow down and notice what’s around us. It takes the little things that we might normally ignore and makes them important. So grab a notebook, start noticing the world, and turn your moments into poems that last forever.

The Sounds of Home: A Writer’s Connection to the Beach

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Nadja Maril, a Founding member of Old Scratch Writing Collective

The dog is digging a hole in the sand. After chasing and fetching her ball numerous times, she has decided to bury it. It’s a game of make it disappear and find it again, a game she can play all by herself while I sit and listen to the waves slapping against the shore. I love this sound. It doesn’t matter where I am, if I’m near water coastline I’ll find a beach. The sounds of water soothe me. And I’m not alone in craving water sounds. A babbling brook, the torrent of a waterfall, the crash of ocean waves: are sounds that both inspire and invigorate.

Of the five senses—sight, smell, touch, sound, taste— one of the five will often be more prominently experienced than the other four. And this can change, depending on the situation. I find, when I tap into my memory bank, that sound is most frequently my touchstone. I think of a scene and I hear it. The rise and fall of the voices, crickets chirping, the sputter of an outboard motor, heavy breathing.

WRITING PROMPT

A classic writing exercise is to describe the place you call home.  If you are truly honest with yourself, the exercise will force you to select the place you long for, if you’re not already living there.  In order to describe it, you’ll be choosing the details that pop out in your mind.  The exercise provides a short cut, so to speak, to grasp what you value most.

Flash Fiction writers, you can use this prompt to channel you directly into the characters you create. Where do they feel most secure? It can tell you a lot about a person.

For me, home is the beach. It’s a happy place where I can walk for miles, build sand castles, swim in the waves and float on my back with the sun in my face. During childhood it was the Provincetown beach at the end of Kendall Lane. Today it is Cornhill beach in Truro a few miles away. The first glimpse of water and sand, the sound of the waves pushing into the shore, the smells of salt and seaweed, the wind against my face; I am home. From both beaches, if I look eastward I see the very tip of the Cape Cod peninsula curving around, creating a sheltered harbor. Out across the bay is Long Point Light Station.

When following a writing prompt or exercise, allow your thoughts to freely flow. Do not self-censor while writing. Once, you’re finished you can cut words, sentences or entire paragraphs. But if you analyze every word you select, you won’t get very far.

The subsequent step after spending twenty to thirty minutes writing a description of “home” is to read what you’ve written and look for patterns. Does one sense, such as smell, dominate the prose. Are there duplications of the same idea that cloud the focus? Challenge yourself to deepen the scene by adding action or dialogue.

Whenever I’m “stuck” and looking for a fresh something to write about. I challenge myself by creating a prompt or borrowing a prompt idea from another writer. The ideas are out there, you just need to make the time and have fun with what you create.

THANK YOU for reading. Have fun. And please, if you like my writing, you can support my efforts by buying a copy of my chapbook RECIPES FROM MY GARDEN– Poetry, Flash CNF and Short Essays (Old Scratch Press Sept. 2024) a great gift to yourself and for friends at $8.95. My chapbook is just one of the many fine books published by the imprint Old Scratch Press.

Secrets to Publishing Your First Creative Work

Published on by wyn001100Leave a comment

Founding member Robert Fleming share his insights on How to be successful at publishing your first creative writing work

You’ve put it on your bucket list to be a published author. Well done. Who are you doing this for: yourself, others, or both?

Yours truly, without even knowing, wanted to be published. In 1973, at age ten, I published text on the bathroom brick wall of Roslyn Elementary School in Westmount, Montreal, Quebec. My work looked like the work following but also had curse words and genitalia graffiti.

Bathroom Wall Poem

This talented toilet author made choices: what topic to write about (poo poo), what language to use (English), where to publish (on the bathroom on brick), who the publisher is (self), what genre (poetry), what poetry devices to use (rhyme, humor, 5-lines), and to not disclose the author name (anonymous).

Where you target your publication is guided by your confidence (courageous or timidity) about having other human see and judge your work. If you are feeling timid like the Cowardly Lion, publish your writing in your personal diary. Be sure to select a diary with a lock and attach the key to your necklace that you wear even when you shower.

Cowardly Lion from movie Wizard of Oz

If you get a little courage, self-publish your work on social media (Facebook), like I did in the following work.
On Facebook, other humans will see your work, but you will not experience the review/selection of a judge who accepts or rejects your work.

https://fourfeatherspress.blogspot.com/2024/09/40-poets-being-published-in-doors-of.html

If you find the courage of Joan of Arc, send your work to a publication where work is selected by an editor.

Joan of Arc

Tips for setting yourself up for your best chance of publication acceptance
• For your first publication, select a publication that has a fifty-percent or greater acceptance rate like vanity press where you will have to buy a book that could cost $50, an organization newsletter like a religious one you are a member of or a school you are an alumni of.
• Read the target publication and only submit to them if they publish work similar to yours (genre: poetry, theme: love)
• Read the submission directions and follow them: sometimes there is a theme like love. When there is a theme only submit work that is the theme requested.

Ready? Take a bid breath in, hold three seconds, exhale. What is your publication confidence: timid or courageous. Go forth.

 
Yours Truly is:

Robert Fleming, a contributing editor of Old Scratch Press.

Who published an Amazon best seller visual poetry book: White Noir.

an editor of the digital magazine Instant Noodles

and the creator of an upcoming magazine cover for Tell-Tale Inklings #7, to be released Autumn, 2024. Visit Tell-Tale Chapbooks on Facebook.

Exploring the Art of Haiku Poetry

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Virginia Watts

Many people are familiar with the haiku, an unrhymed form of poetry that dates to 17th Century Japan. It consists of three lines and observes a strict five, seven, five syllable count. Traditionally this form of poetry was about nature, often seasonal change captured in a moment of time. Matsu Basho is considered the be the haiku master who brought haiku into its place as a serious poetic form.

Here is one of his well know poems.

An old silent pond . . .

A frog jumps into the pond,

splash! Silence again.

People may be less aware of Western or American haiku which is often not as strict in form but nevertheless mirrors the traditional haiku. The reason for a more relaxed rule on syllable count is that the syllables in Japanese don transfer smoothly to English. Some famous poets known for American haiku are Amy Lowell, Sonia Sanchez and Ezra Pound.

Jack Kerousc

Then there is Jack Kerouac who wrote thousands of haiku and often included them in his correspondence and novels. Kerouac was a serious Buddhist who credited composing haiku with sharpening his mind. He was drawn to the idea of keeping poetry simple without trickery. Here is Jack Kerouac reading some of his Western haiku: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WMwAtOom7CA

The allure of the haiku form rests in showing the beauty in the ordinary, in the belief that simple moments should be captured and preserved. It’s fun to draft haiku. People are often surprised by how much they enjoy it. Some tips: Keep a notebook with you to jot down observations, ideas, those little, unexpected life events that none of us can predict. When you have something you want to write about, do it. Don’t worry if your idea seems silly. Write about what inspires you and don’t look back or question the inspiration. For a first drafting session, try grouping words in a loose 5 -7-5 format. Don’t try to be perfect or overthink this part. Go for flow, rhyme secondary to an honest reflection of what inspired you. The next step is to put your draft on the back burner. This helps with all forms of writing. After drafting, put a temporary distance between you and your draft.  As Jack says:

Nightfall—

too dark to read the page,

Too cold. 

—Jack Kerouac

In a day or two return and rework as necessary. Look for awkward syllables or weak word choices. Most of all, trust your gut. If the haiku represents what you wanted to capture and keep then you’ve done it!  Bravo! Drafting haiku is wonderfully addicting and rewarding. It’s like a bag of chips. You won’t stop at one.

Virginia Watts is a member of the Old Scratch Press Poetry and Short Form Collective and the author of Echoes from the Hocker House.

Exploring the Intersection of Sports and Poetry

Published on by rdfauthorLeave a comment

October is a sports lover’s dream. Most of the major leagues are in full swing, from the NBA, NFL to the NHL. There are college football games every weekend, and even the crisp Fall air makes it feel like football weather.

So what does this have to do with poetry?

There are some cases, perhaps uncommon, where sports and poetry intersect. While in school, I was introduced to the excellent baseball-related poem “Casey at the Bat” by the poet Ernest Lawrence Thayer. From the roar of the crowd to the “Strike!” being called by the umpire, Thayer does a remarkable job of transporting the reader to that fateful match in Mudville. The poem culminates with perhaps its most famous line: “But there is no joy in Mudville—mighty Casey has struck out.”

In college my friends and I would play pickup basketball on the courts on campus. These were disorganized gatherings with teams hastily assembled at the last moment, but these were some of my favorite memories from my college years.

My poem below is an attempt to recapture some of those moments. Unlike “Casey at the Bat”, there was much joy to be found in College Park during those amateur games.

This was written during my college years, and I don’t know if I could write this today, or even should write something like this today, as this poem is full of rough edges and not overflowing with beautiful language.

However, that is what I think I love about it. Much like our simple attempts at basketball all those years ago, the poem is pure and raw, even somewhat unfinished. Ah, the folly of youth!

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

So without further introduction, I hope you enjoy my poem “Hoops”.

Hoops

It wasn’t the easy, fluid style of play you see on TV,
It was the jerky, nervous style of amateurs
played on asphalt several feet away from where I was sitting.
My shorts had ripped horrendously down the back during the last game,
but that really didn’t matter in the big scheme of things,
and besides, the jocky guy Chris would have never
picked me to play after screwing up the last game so badly.
An observer watched the game from the other side of the court, grinning to himself secretly.
Perhaps he was happy to see the different bodies working so well together, Van, the Vietnamese guy; Joy, the Indian; Greg the African American and Danny the Anglo; or perhaps that was just what I wanted to see.

Chris the jock made a three-pointer, and murmurs of approval such as, “Good shot, man” or “Nice one, Chris” fill the air, replacing the sound of the tennis shoes against the pavement.
I never questioned Chris’ basketball prowess.
It was his attitude that puzzled me.
I wanted to shake him and say, “Hey, Chris! Listen to what I’m saying, man! You’re just a pebble in the stream, man! Just a lowly grain of salt! This shot won’t change the world, dig?”
But you can’t tell a guy like Chris something that big.
He would just laugh it off and call you a stinkin’ liberal hippie, and go about his business of shooting politically correct jump shots, while I would go about my business of trying to change the things that couldn’t be changed.

-R. David Fulcher, OSP Founding Member

Post-Election Poems & American History

Published on by dianneP1 Comment

The United States has just had an almost 50-50 split on the concept of what our country is, of what our country should be, but, more than that, of who our country should be.

It caused me to take my coffee time this morning to take a read of the Declaration of Independence, because so many Americans like to say that they know the original intent of the Founding Fathers. I do not claim to know their original intent at all, but I did find the Declaration of Independence to be beautifully written, and to me, very clear.

First, I want to share this image of one of my favorite national monuments with you, because, just like when you see it in Washington DC, it is surprising, and takes my breath away:

I want to use part of this post to call on us all to remember what has been given so that we can continue this experiment in democracy, this experiement of liberty and justice for all, this government of the people, by the people, and for the people, and though it is maybe too easy to get behind one man, and too hard, too abstract, to try to get behind 334 million humans, never was this grand experiement to be for only one man.

And so I read the Declaration of Independence today, and of course there is this part that almost all Americans know:

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.–“

But what I found interesting this morning, in this beautifully-written document, were these sections:

The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.

He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.

He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.

He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.

He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.

He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.

For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:

For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:

For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:

For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:

For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:

For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.

He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us

That’s not the entire document, just the parts I found interesting this morning as I think back over the last 100 or so days. Are things so different now than they were then? Have we gone forward to go back?

You can read the whole transcript at the National Archives.

In times like these we can experience anger that can feel overwhelming.

Or we can experience hopelessness that can take all our breath away.
For myself, as my daughter is an immigrant, these times are making me nervous. Many people legally adopted from foreign countries into the United States have been unjustly deported, so you can imagine how a mother would fret when she senses a taste for blood in the crowd.

In times like these we need something unexpected to come along and lift us from our sticky mood, because we have work to do! We have to get back to the business of trying to create a world we’re proud to live in.

So to this I say, “America, I’m with you!”

Because I have my doubts you’ll read the whole thing, here is the third section of the mighty

“Howl” by (the wonderous) Allen Ginsberg:

III

Carl Solomon! I’m with you in Rockland
where you’re madder than I am
I’m with you in Rockland
where you must feel very strange
I’m with you in Rockland
where you imitate the shade of my mother
I’m with you in Rockland
where you’ve murdered your twelve secretaries
I’m with you in Rockland
where you laugh at this invisible humor
I’m with you in Rockland
where we are great writers on the same dreadful typewriter
I’m with you in Rockland
where your condition has become serious and is reported on the radio
I’m with you in Rockland
where the faculties of the skull no longer admit the worms of the senses
I’m with you in Rockland
where you drink the tea of the breasts of the spinsters of Utica
I’m with you in Rockland
where you pun on the bodies of your nurses the harpies of the Bronx
I’m with you in Rockland
where you scream in a straightjacket that you’re losing the game of the actual pingpong of the abyss
I’m with you in Rockland
where you bang on the catatonic piano the soul is innocent and immortal it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse
I’m with you in Rockland
where fifty more shocks will never return your soul to its body again from its pilgrimage to a cross in the void
I’m with you in Rockland
where you accuse your doctors of insanity and plot the Hebrew socialist revolution against the fascist national Golgotha
I’m with you in Rockland
where you will split the heavens of Long Island and resurrect your living human Jesus from the superhuman tomb
I’m with you in Rockland
where there are twentyfive thousand mad comrades all together singing the final stanzas of the Internationale
I’m with you in Rockland
where we hug and kiss the United States under our bedsheets the United States that coughs all night and won’t let us sleep
I’m with you in Rockland
where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free
I’m with you in Rockland
in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night

My fellow Americans (if I can be so bold to type those words) we will, I believe, endure, as we have for so long. And we will be here for each other, as ever we have been.

“Hope” is the thing with feathers

by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me.

Much love to all~ Dianne

The Legacy of Edna St. Vincent Millay

Published on by Nadja MarilLeave a comment

By Nadja Maril

As a writer and a poet, I do a lot of reading. Sometimes I read a poem that resonates with me so strongly, I read it several times. Sometimes I commit a poem or favorite passage to memory to make it easier to revisit. One of those poems is

“Recuerdo”

by Edna St. Vincent Millay 

(February 22, 1892 – October 19, 1950)

It starts out

We were very tired, we were very merry—

We had gone back and forth all night on the ferry.

It was bare and bright, and smelled like a stable—

But we looked into a fire, we leaned across a table,

Composed of three stanzas, each containing three couplets, you can read the rest of the poem courtesy of the Poetry Foundation here.

Maybe it’s the rhythm, that mirrors for me the rocking of a ferry boat, the repetition of the line “We were very tired, we were very merry” that begins each stanza or the way she captures the exuberance of youth and the generous spirit of the poet and her companions, but I’ve always loved that particular poem.

Surprising, is how many people are unfamiliar with the name Edna St. Vincent Millay. The very first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for poetry (1923), she was one of the most famous and successful American writers of the mid 20th century. Millay broke sales records and was a cultural celebrity who traveled across the United States giving captivating poetry readings to sold-out crowds.

A feminist, who openly loved both women and men, she was a prominent member of the literary community writing plays, publishing an opera libretto, as well as magazine articles under a pseudonym as well as publishing more than one dozen poetry collections. Her prize-winning poem “The Ballad of the Harp-Weaver” was dedicated to her mother. The poem tells a story of a penniless, self-sacrificing mother who spends Christmas Eve weaving for her son “wonderful things” on the strings of a harp, “the clothes of a king’s son.”

Raised in Maine by a single mother who elected to leave her husband during an era when divorce was not widely accepted, Millay was the eldest of three girls who largely had to take care of themselves while their mother would be absent from the house working as a homecare nurse. Surrounded by poetry, music and literature, Millay began writing her own poems at a young age.

WHERE TO LEARN MORE ABOUT EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY

To learn more about her complicated life, I highly recommend Nancy Milford’s biography, Savage Beauty; The Life of Edna St. Vincent Millay. Over 500 pages in length, it was comprehensively researched with the cooperation of Millay’s sister Norma, sole heir to the Edna St. Vincent Millay estate. and contains excerpts of Millay’s letters and poetry.

Here are two more poems to whet your appetite for Millay’s poetry.

“What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why”

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why,

I have forgotten, and what arms have lain

Under my head till morning; but the rain

Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh

Upon the glass and listen for reply,

And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

For unremembered lads that not again

Will turn to me at midnight with a cry.

Thus in the winter stands the lonely tree,

Nor knows what birds have vanished one by one,

Yet knows its boughs more silent than before:

I cannot say what loves have come and gone,

I only know that summer sang in me

A little while, that in me sings no more.

Vanity Fair 1920

“I shall go back again to the bleak shore”

By Edna St. Vincent Millay

I shall go back again to the bleak shore

And build a little shanty on the sand,

In such a way that the extremest band

Of brittle seaweed will escape my door

But by a yard or two; and nevermore

Shall I return to take you by the hand;

I shall be gone to what I understand,

And happier than I ever was before.

The love that stood a moment in your eyes,

The words that lay a moment on your tongue,

Are one with all that in a moment dies,

A little under-said and over-sung.

But I shall find the sullen rocks and skies

Unchanged from what they were when I was young.

To learn more about her life and times, information is available from the Edna St. Vincent Millay Society. https://millay.org/

The author of this blogpost, Nadja Maril, has been published in dozens of publications including, Defunkt Magazine), Lunch Ticket, The Compressed Journal of Creative Arts, BarBar and Across the Margin. A former journalist and magazine editor, Nadja has an MFA in Creative Writing from the Stonecoast Program at the University of Southern Maine. She recently published a collection of

poems and short essays: RECIPES FROM MY GARDEN– (Old Scratch Press Sept. 2024) a great gift to yourself and for friends at $8.95. To learn more about Nadja’s writing visit Nadjamaril.com