THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 6, No. 2       An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society      February  2007

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PRETTY FENCE, PRETTY SNOW

If February 2007 is anything like January 2007 was here at headquarters (Bolivar, Missouri), it will be difficult to conceive of the snow aesthetically (as pictured above).  Adverbs other than aesthetically will apply: chaotically, catastrophically, calamitously, disastrously, misfortunately, and even cataclysmically come to mind.  Well, honestly that string of words may characterize how I will conceive of another such month of winter, but the adverbs did not "come to mind" without a little dictionary help.  Well, honestly it was not a 'little" dictionary; I tried the little dictionary first and cast it aside as inadequate in favor of a large one.  Well, honestly I did not "cast it aside."  Rather I replaced it where it goes, on a precariously stacked column of reference books.  Well, "precariously" may be a bit too strong a word for a description of that stack. It seems harder and harder to say exactly what I mean, so I will give up trying this month by saying: if the weather turns bad again, watch your temperament and write a poem.  Cabin fever is an awful thing to happen to poets,  There, that ought to say it--aesthetically or not!                                              .  -- Tom Padgett                                                                                                                

 

CONTENTS:

Past Issue Next
       
Poems by Members
         
Workshop

Missouri State Poetry Society

Winter Contest

Spare Mule Online

National Federation of State Poetry Societies
 
Strophes Online


POETRY IN THE NEWS

Thomas Hardy is the subject of a very well-received biography just published by Claire Tomalin (formerly praised for her excellent book on Samuel Pepys).  Read highlights of this new work here.

John Barr, president of the foundation administering the largest gift of money ever given to support poetry, gives a progress report in this letter to subscribers of Poetry.  See how the money is being spent by clicking here.

David Kirby reviews Galway Kinnell's new collection with words of high praise and teaches us a bit about long-lined poets and short-lined poets here.

Have you visited the website of  the Rogue Poetry Review?  Its handsome first issue contains work by five members of MSPS.  Congratulations are due to Michael Wells, the editor.  See it here.

Charles Wright calls himself a "God-fearing agnostic," according to Joel Brouwer in a review of Wright's new collection Scar Tissue.  Read a summary of the review
here.

How important is poetry in your life?  Would you like to know how several Americans responded to this question in a recent poll?  Click here to see.

Click Back on your toolbar to return here after finishing the column.
 

HAVE YOU VISITED THE WORKSHOP LATELY?

Click Workshop and do some of the lessons there.
If you have an idea for a new lesson, send it along. 

HAVE YOU READ YOUR ONLINE NEWSLETTERS?

Read Spare Mule Online and Strophes Online available to you by clicking the underlined titles.

HAVE YOU ENTERED A MSPS CONTEST RECENTLY?
Our new state president, Dale Ernst, is encouraging us to enter the MSPS
Winter Contest

HAVE YOU SEEN THE BULLETIN BOARD LATELY? 

Visit our MSPS Bulletin Board for news of events and contests in our area.

AMERICAN LIFE IN POETRY

Ted Kooser, current U. S. Poet Laureate, in response to an interviewer for National Public Radio, stated that his "project" as laureate was to establish a weekly column featuring contemporary American poems supported by The Poetry Foundation, The Library of Congress, and the Department of English at the University of Nebraska.  This column appears in on-line publications (such as Thirty-Seven Cents) as well as hard-copy newspapers.  Poets are asked to contact their local newspapers to inform them that such a column is available free to them and to relieve the editor by explaining that all of the poems that will appear week by week are accessible, not obscure poems. 

American Life in Poetry: Column 091
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

How many of us, when passing through some small town, have felt that it seemed familiar though we've never been there before. And of course it seems familiar because much of the course of life is pretty much the same wherever we go, right down to the up-and-down fortunes of the football team and the unanswered love letters. Here's a poem by Mark Vinz.

DRIVING THROUGH
Mark Vinz


This could be the town you're from,
marked only by what it's near.
The gas station man speaks of weather
and the high school football team
just as you knew he would--
kind to strangers, happy to live here.

Tell yourself it doesn't matter now,
you're only driving through.
Past the sagging, empty porches
locked up tight to travelers' stares,
toward the great dark of the fields,
your headlights startle a flock of
old love letters--still undelivered,
enroute for years.

American Life in Poetry: Column 093
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006


Newborns begin life as natural poets, loving the sound of their own gurgles and coos. And, with the encouragement of parents and teachers, children can continue to write and enjoy poetry into their high school years and beyond. A group of elementary students in Detroit, Michigan, wrote poetry on the subject of what seashells might say if they could speak to us. I was especially charmed by Tatiana Ziglar's short poem, which alludes to the way in which poets learn to be attentive to the world. The inhabitants of the Poetry Palace pay attention, and by that earn the stories they receive.


COMMON JANTHINA
Tatiana Ziglar

My shell said she likes the king and queen
of the Poetry Palace because they listen to her.
She tells them all the secrets of the ocean.





American Life in Poetry: Column 095
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006


Literature, and in this instance, poetry, holds a mirror to life; thus the great themes of life become the great themes of poems. Here the distinguished American poet, John Haines, addresses--and celebrates through the affirmation of poetry--our preoccupation with aging and mortality.

YOUNG MAN
John Haines


I seemed always standing
before a door
to which I had no key,
although I knew it hid behind it
a gift for me.

Until one day I closed
my eyes a moment, stretched
then looked once more.
And not surprised, I did not mind it
when the hinges creaked
and, smiling, Death
held out his hands to me.

 

American Life in Poetry: Column 092
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006


Home is where the heart. . . Well, surely we all know that old saying. But it's the particulars of a home that make it ours. Here the poet Linda Parsons Marion, who lives in Knoxville, Tennessee, celebrates familiarity, in its detail and its richness.

HOME FIRE
Linda Parsons Marion


Whether on the boulevard or gravel backroad,
I do not easily raise my hand to those who toss
up theirs in anonymous hello, merely to say
"I'm passing this way." Once out of shyness, now
reluctance to tip my hand, I admire the shrubbery
instead. I've learned where the lines are drawn
and keep the privet well trimmed. I left one house
with toys on the floor for another with quiet rugs
and a bed where the moon comes in. I've thrown
myself at men in black turtlenecks only to find
that home is best after all. Home where I sit
in the glider, knowing it needs oil, like my own
rusty joints. Where I coax blackberry to dogwood
and winter to harvest, where my table is clothed
in light. Home where I walk out on the thin page
of night, without waving or giving myself away,
and return with my words burning like fire in the grate.


American Life in Poetry: Column 094
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

While many of the poems we feature in this column are written in open forms, that's not to say I don't respect good writing done in traditional meter and rhyme. But a number of contemporary poets, knowing how a rigid attachment to form can take charge of the writing and drag the poet along behind, will choose, say, the traditional villanelle form, then relax its restraints through the use of broken rhythm and inexact rhymes. I'd guess that if I weren't talking about it, you might not notice, reading this poem by Floyd Skloot, that you were reading a sonnet.

SILENT MUSIC
Floyd Skloot


My wife wears headphones as she plays
Chopin etudes in the winter light.
Singing random notes, she sways
in and out of shadow while night
settles. The keys she presses make a soft
clack, the bench creaks when her weight shifts,
golden cotton fabric ripples across
her shoulders, and the sustain pedal clicks.
This is the hidden melody I know
so well, her body finding harmony in
the give and take of motion, her lyric
grace of gesture measured against a slow
fall of darkness. Now stillness descends
to signal the end of her silent music.

American Life in Poetry: Column 096
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006


Grief can endure a long, long time. A deep loss is very reluctant to let us set it aside, to push it into a corner of memory. Here the Arkansas poet, Andrea Hollander Budy, gives us a look at one family's adjustment to a death.

FOR WEEKS AFTER THE FUNERAL
Andrea Hollander Budy


The house felt like the opera,
the audience in their seats, hushed, ready,
but the cast not yet arrived.

And if I said anything
to try to appease the anxious air, my words
would hang alone like the single chandelier

waiting to dim the auditorium, but still
too huge, too prominent, too bright, its light
announcing only itself, bringing more

emptiness into the emptiness.


POET OF THE MONTH: THOMAS HARDY

For an overview of Hardy's life and works, visit http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/hardy/hardyov.html

For a discussion of Hardy's poetry, see http://www.victorianweb.org/authors/hardy/banerjee.html

For the official Hardy website, go to http://www.hardysociety.org/

For 249 poems by Hardy, visit http://www.poemhunter.com/thomas-hardy/

For my favorite Hardy poem see  http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/when-i-set-out-for-lyonnesse/
 


POEMS BY MEMBERS

AFTER COURTING PLUTONIUM
Nathan Ross

He pledges his vows with a
“Cough!” and a “Cough!”
She vows with a
“Tick, tick, tick . . .”
He takes her to the sky,
to the desert,
to eternity,
on a plane,
on their
honeymoon.

He saves millions by his love,
his death and their marriage.
The flirtation begins
as quickly as it ends.
All ends with a romantic
explosion.


VALENTINE DAY
Patsy Colter

Oh the love we feel for each other,
we express with a card on this day.
Special love between a man and a woman,
God surely had planned it this way.
The wonderful love of a close friend,
is precious and dear to our heart.
Someone to share all of our troubles,
to listen is somewhat an art.
There’s a friend we don’t send a card to,
and we don’t say thanks enough
But He’s always ready to listen.
It’s our loving Savior above.


SWEET WILLIAM
Steven Penticuff

Yesterday I watched you
devour a Cornish game hen
when you thought no one was
looking: you made the hyenas
I saw on Wild Kingdom
as a child look like kittens.
And it was obvious then
I wanted you to be the
father of my children--I hope
you understand--so I made
inquiries about your name
and place of residence.
Forgive me, but
your movements were so raw,
so tender--it's hard to explain--
and finally your lips caressed
the peaches that you must
have been saving till last
and which were probably
still cool to the touch.
My sweet William,
I will never be the same,
and really this is all
just to say that you will not
find a more willing or devoted
woman anywhere.
 

PERSPECTIVE
Diane
Auser Stefan

I am a lump of coal
a speck of dust, a grain of sand,
and though I seem insignificant,
I was created by God’s hand.

I may not discover helpful cures
or dance or politic or sing –
but when God’s love burns in my heart,
just watch me do my thing!

I cannot sit like a coal lump,
just waiting to catch a spark –
I’ve got to let my heartfire burn
so I can make my mark.

 
ARGUMENT FOR CREMATION
Valerie Esker

No worm’s apple
Will I be,
But purified
By cleansing fire.
On Aprils' breeze
I'll freely soar
By Eagles' side
Past churches' spires,
As mote aloft,
Then sail to sea . . .
Creations' bride
In natures' choir!

Thus, I'll meet
Eternity.
Ah, no worm’s apple
Will I be!

 


TELLING AND FORETELLING
Harding Stedler

I cannot walk with wind
in dark recesses of winter nights.
The geese are squawking,
warning me of meteors
poised to streak to Earth
and swallow whole
the Aztec ruins of New Mexico.

The evil tone in which
this wind ensnares its prey
foretells the return of dinosaurs
and piracy at sea.
Its eerie tone denies me sleep.
The vigilant watch I keep
is in self-defense,
and the matches I strike
preserve the light
that ward off evil demons.


THE STONE
Jean Even

The Stone, the Stone, a rare find,
Despised, rejected, and murdered;
A precious Stone, tried and true,
Fit to be a King for all mankind.

O happy day when He became
The head cornerstone for us all.
How wonderful and marvelous
It is to have a King for our souls.

Come to me, dear Stone of God.
Reject me not within my shame,
Only help me to grow my fruit
Into a precious soul for a King.


NO WONDER
Pat Durmon

Fifty miles north of Little Rock,
the freshly charred fields
smoke and steam in the mid-day sun
like the river mist of dawn.
The scorch of the wheat stubble
dares to drench the highway air.
But unlike the waft of skunk
or paper mill, I lean into the smell.
All evening, I hold the sharp scent
close, knowing it reminds me
of a distant past—a father
firing off the ditch bank
and a mother scratching the earth
with a rake.

No wonder
I look forward to raking and burning
the leavings from the garden.
 

GUIDING LIGHT
Velvet Fackeldey

From my back porch at night
I see the airport light
winging across the sky,
leaping from cloud to cloud
like a crazed UFO.
A modern lighthouse
guiding navigators of the air
through fog or storm,
the bright sweep comforts me.
I am anchored and safe,
no rocks to ambush me,
as I journey in my dreams
on my porch.
 

            

          

 

 

 


JILTED
Faye Adams


My love and I were
fused together as one,
or so I thought.

The wedding was to be
"social event of the year,"
or so I thought.

Our life together would
be heaven on earth,
or so I thought.

He eloped with that
hussy down the street,
the devious cad.

On my wedding day,
I baked a chocolate pie
and ate the whole thing!


TRYING TO WRITE WITH A CAT IN MY LAP
Pat Laster


She stretches,
sticks a paw on the paper,
yawns,
continues
her ubiquitous
purring.
She claws at my pen
as I write to the paper's edge.
(I draw
around her paw.)
I hate
to disturb us
but I must write
tomorrow's column
and decide
what
to submit
to the contest.


THE LONELY TRAVELER
Henrietta Romman

Quiver, quiver
little quill
blown by God's
scented breeze,
dancing through
towers
and trees,
swaying past
the blossoming
bough,
the falling
snow.

Quiver, quiver
little quill,
unmoved by
the owl cry
in the still
night, drawn
to share
the gentle
breath
of dawn,
to resume
your happy flight
as part of His universe.


NO NEWS IS NOT GOOD
Laurence Thomas

I don’t know which is worse--not hearing
about a misstep on the porch, the bad wheezing,
because they don't want me to cut my trip short--
or returning to wish they had told me.

They’ve had my accounts and pictures
of mountain trips: the peaks and valleys
and fellow travelers I've befriended,
arriving according to postal idiosyncrasies.

I know what they know, which makes it worse,
the telephone not ringing, no letters
even with innocent news of picnics and visits.
They didn’t make much fuss when father died.
 


HOUSEWARMING
Gwen Eisenmann

Come in! There is a welcome waiting here
that grew, as did this house, in winter sun
and rain, with wishes for a shelter near
old friends, old longings long ago begun.
A house up high uplifts the traveler's eye
and gives a view o'er which a spirit soars
to see the Earth around.  The eagle's cry
will mingle with intent within these doors.
We build our sanctuaries all enclosed
but space enclosed is room for resonance
where souls can shout, where secrets here disclosed
can harmonize our human dissonance.
     The blessing in the welcome here today
     is what we bring and what we take away.


SORTING OUT EDEN
Mark Tappmeyer
"She also gave some to her husband, who was with her,
and he ate it."  Genesis 3:6

Acording to
the garden art
we view,
 
Adam's face
when new
was beardless

and confused
over God's hundred
converse acts
 
that singularly
seemed true,
like forbidding
 
a toxic plant
but not the brunette
who made him pant.


A PILGRIMAGE FROM BURDENS
David Van Bebber, Jr.


I wrestle in the dark with a friend I cannot find.
Stirring, I rise from this cot to my feet.
My heartbeat fades, and I breathe in deeply
to disperse this fleeting fear.
Surrounded by solitude, I stumble through this fog
to find my shoes and jacket.

I leave my apartment to enter the street, and rest.
In my head plays the most requested radio song ever,
but the world lies silent under its comfortable black sheet.

I find rest in the steady pace I keep.
A new friend meets me on this journey. 
My friend makes his way through the loneliness
to a destination where only he can go.
Bringing a lullaby to this weary wandering,
sweetly singing me to rest.


BELATED VALENTINE
Tom Padgett

This woman who lies sleeping in my bed
remembers every thing I've done and said
and smiles with me at what we call our life,
admitting publicly at times she is my wife.

Our wedding pictures hanging in the hall
have aged till they don't look like us at all.
That handsome lad that used to use my name
has slipped somehow and doesn't fit the frame.

That pretty girl matured and grew with grace
accustomed to my customary face
and babied me. For me she scraped, she toiled
to prove again the victor gets the spoiled.

What if she mumbles now so I can't hear
and must repeat each word to make it clear
that I have done another foolish thing
we'll laugh about when it has lost its sting?

She's stayed with me through bad times and through worse
until I've sunk to this--I'm writing verse.
What's more: she's mothered three, grandmothered nine--
so if she snores, she's still my valentine!


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