THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 8  No. 2    An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society    February 2009

                                                                                                                                                                                                                              @ Free Foto.com

BLOW, BLOW, THOU WINTER WIND!

We have had winter poems in English for hundreds of years.  For example, we have songs that Shakespeare wrote for his characters to turn his London stage into a snowy forest or a cold castle, a withered garden or a kitchen warmed by a roaring fire in a hearth.  In American literature, Snowbound, one of the most famous winter poems was written by John Greenleaf Whittier to recall his boyhood days in New England when a heavy snow interrupted a rural family's daily chores and changed their lives as if by magic.  Poets have frequently taken the liberty of treating Old Man Winter metaphorically.  Wallace Stevens made a simple little poem, "The Snow Man," quite complex by introducing a deeper level that he dubbed "the mind of winter."   Instead of curling up by the fire to wait out the winter weather, these poets made capital from it.  Perhaps you can also. -- 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: The National Book Critics Circle has just announced the nominees for the best book of poetry published in 2008.  They are August Kleinzahler's Sleeping It Off in Rapid City, Juan Felipe Herrera's Half the World in Light, Devin Johnston's Sources, Pierre Martory's The Landscapist, and Brenda Shaughnessy's Human Dark with Sugar.  The winner will be announced March 12.
 

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 by clicking the underlined titles.

HAVE YOU ENTERED A MSPS CONTEST RECENTLY?
Our state president 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.


POET OF THE MONTH: WILLIAM LOGAN
For an encyclopedia article on Logan, go to http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/William_Logan_(poet)

For Logan's faculty page, visit http://www.english.ufl.edu/faculty/wlogan/index.html

His poem "Geckos in Obscure Light" is available to you at http://www.newyorker.com/fiction/poetry/2007/04/23/070423po_poem_logan

For a discussion of Logan's criticism and his poetry, too, see http://www.slate.com/id/2061228/

A lengthy essay evaluating Logan's work may be found at http://personal.georgiasouthern.edu/~rflynn/logan.html

 
 

AMERICAN LIFE IN POETRY

Ted Kooser, former 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 online 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 197
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

I suspect that one thing some people have against reading poems is that they are so often so serious, so devoid of joy, as if we poets spend all our time brooding about mutability and death and never having any fun. Here Cornelius Eady, who lives and teaches in Indiana, offers us a poem of pure pleasure.

A Small Moment

I walk into the bakery next door
To my apartment. They are about
To pull some sort of toast with cheese
From the oven. When I ask:
What's that smell? I am being
A poet, I am asking

What everyone else in the shop
Wanted to ask, but somehow couldn't;
I am speaking on behalf of two other
Customers who wanted to buy the
Name of it. I ask the woman
Behind the counter for a percentage
Of her sale. Am I flirting?
Am I happy because the days
Are longer? Here's what

She does: She takes her time
Choosing the slices. "I am picking
Out the good ones," she tells me. It's
April 14th. Spring, with five to ten
Degrees to go. Some days, I feel my duty;
Some days, I love my work.


American Life in Poetry: Column 199
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006
I'd guess that most of us carry in our memories landscapes that, far behind us, hold significant meanings for us. For me, it's a Mississippi River scenic overlook south of Guttenberg, Iowa. And for you? Here's just such a memoryscape, in this brief poem by New Yorker Anne Pierson Wiese.

Inscrutable Twist

The twist of the stream was inscrutable.
It was a seemingly run-of-the-mill
stream that flowed for several miles by the side
of Route 302 in northern Vermont--
and presumably does still--but I've not
been back there for what seems like a long time.

I have it in my mind's eye, the way
one crested a rise and rounded a corner
on the narrow blacktop, going west, and saw
off to the left in the flat green meadow
the stream turning briefly back on itself
to form a perfect loop--a useless light-filled
water noose or fragment of moon's cursive,
a sign or message of some kind--but left behind.		 American Life in Poetry: Column 198
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

This column has had the privilege of publishing a number of poems by young people, but this is the first we've published by a young person who is also a political refugee. The poet, Zozan Hawez, is from Iraq, and goes to Foster High School in Tukwila, Washington. Seattle Arts & Lectures sponsors a Writers in the Schools program, and Zozan's poem was encouraged by that initiative.

Self-Portrait

Born in a safe family
But a dangerous area, Iraq,
I heard guns at a young age, so young
They made a decision to raise us safe
So packed our things
And went far away.

Now, in the city of rain,
I try to forget my past,
But memories never fade.

This is my life,
It happened for a reason,
I happened for a reason.



American Life in Poetry: Column 200
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

Here's a fine poem by Chris Forhan of Indiana, about surviving the loss of a parent, and which celebrates the lives that survive it, that go on. I especially like the parachute floating up and away, just as the lost father has gone up and away.

What My Father Left Behind

Jam jar of cigarette ends and ashes on his workbench,
hammer he nailed our address to a stump with,
balsa wood steamship, half-finished--

is that him, waving from the stern? Well, good luck to him.
Slur of sunlight filling the backyard, August's high wattage,
white blossoming, it's a curve, it comes back. My mother

in a patio chair, leaning forward, squinting, threading
her needle again, her eye lifts to the roof, to my brother,
who stands and jerks his arm upward--he might be

insulting the sky, but he's only letting go
a bit of green, a molded plastic soldier
tied to a parachute, thin as a bread bag, it rises, it arcs

against the blue--good luck to it--my sister and I below,
heads tilted back as we stand in the grass, good
luck to all of us, still here, still in love with it.


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POEMS BY MEMBERS

SCHOOL OF AMERICA
Gwendolyn Eisenmann

It seems like there must have been Christmas close by
because decorations appeared everywhere, and I
had that short day feeling for evenings
with candle light, and music and new beginnings.

And it makes me wonder what Obama thinks
when he feels his axis turn in a world wanting links
with peace and good will. He's cool,
opening the door to January's school of America.


FEBRUARY
Bev Conklin

Fortunately, February
has fewer days
than other months
in the year.

Temperamental, tempestuous,
unpredictable, he enjoys
forcing one to
live in fear.

Sun or ice,
nasty or nice--
what mood is he in
today?

Fortunately, February
is short, and is forced
to welcome in
Spring
 

WHITE-OUT
Faye Adams

Schools close; kids cheer.
Nature dons a turbid cloak.
The sky's roof drops,
reaching for the treetops.

God whispers to the angels,
who open their aprons
toward the earth.
A thick curtain of flakes
cover both life and death.

A swaying screen sweeps
away color, defuses light,
disturbed only by a soft wind
slanting the mantle eastward;
pierced only by stark sentinels
whose branches stand
solid against its breath.

Life stills, cocooned
in winter's satin embrace.
Who but the Creator
could alter our ambience
in one awesome afternoon?

ENOUGH HONOR
Pat Durmon

She has enough honor for quilts
to stop trying to piece fabrics, fat or skinny.
Enough honor for squares and threads
to simply stack them in a corner.
Enough for the sewing machine
to sell it to someone truly gifted.
Even for the needle—
to just park it in a pincushion.

And she honors those of her past
who enjoyed the fruit from quilting bees.
It was their lifeway to teach
pattern, order, beauty, reverent fear.

Though she gives up quilting,
it is her heathen way to love the crazy quilt—
the broken, the wounded, the fragmented,
those gorgeous scraps of chaos
which do not fit any fixed pattern—
whatever the flow,
however it goes,
light or dark in color.


WHAT HE DOES
Diane Austen Stefan 

Tom

gathers

poetry

to share online

with worldwide readers

who come to read and learn

from our THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS—

where workshops, archives and columns

provide aspiring poets with help,

support and wonderful inspiration. 

 
PERPETUAL MOTION
Pat Laster
 

Obituary:
Alice L. M. B. Newman, 83

 

Vampire,

her son called her.

She persuaded donors

to participate in Red Cross

blood drives.

 

Once, on

the way to a

blood drive, a granddaughter

joined her in singing, Do your ears

hang low?

 

Dragging

a tractor-pulled

bush hog over twenty

acres (at seventy-five) was

nothing.

 

Petite,

she wore high heels

and a suit one day, fried

a fresh rabbit for her breakfast

the next.

 

Keep on

going was her

motto.  No one ever

saw her sitting or heard her say,

I’m tired.
SEND IN THE PRINCE
 Photo in Springfield News-Leader
January 1, 2009
Tania Gray

Oh what a precedent she set
in halter top and matching shorts—
a very public tętę-ŕ-tętę
with one so ugly, pocked with warts.

No doubt she heard it must be done—
she had to place her lips on him
before she’d find her Number One.
How many lovers (fate so grim!)

must she embrace like this foul play
surrendered at the city zoo?
She kissed a concrete frog today
and she was only of age two!


 
 

 

 

 

REFLECTED STARLIGHT
Laurence W. Thomas

  

The sun is always shining,

day and night, bright and warm,

maybe not in this midnight world

of doubt and fear,

this clouded climate of apprehension

but somewhere

moving west as the earth

turns away—

but only for a time—

in its eternal orbit. 

The sun’s assuring radiance

may seem to leave

as daylight turns to dark,

but nighttime has its light

reflected from the moon,

its face awash in sunlight.

Even in the shadow of the earth,

with hope and promise

of a better day, the new moon

still glows with reflected earthshine.   
 

PRUNING ROSE BUSHES
Dewell H. Byrd

You've fed my soul with pinks and reds,
tuned my eye to yellow's smile,
touched me with pure whites and mauves,
and soothed my sorrows all the while.

You've dared me reach beyond the limb
and pluck your young to grace my space.
I stake no claim to your embrace
since roots and thorns dictate your pace.

Now I pay the price, dressing you
for winter's ice so spring may weave
her spell. Deadwood here, angle there,
crooked crossing canes, drying leaves.

I wish this was a way each year
to prune my canes and crooked muse
and spring anew strong of limb
to enjoy the beauty of your hues.
 

LITTLE BOY POET
Jennifer Smith

Little boy poet
Out in the fields
Under the starry sky
Sings
Making melody in his heart to God.

Little boy poet
Kills the lion 
Chases the bear
Praises
His Creator, Redeemer, Protector, Friend.

Little boy poet
Out in the fields
Thinks about God
Wonders
Did he know that we would read his poems
Centuries later?

Now we are the poets
Out in our world
Singing
Praising
Wondering
Always under the watchful eye of our Shepherd.
What will we do that might last for centuries?
LORD, I COME FOR MORE BLESSINGS
Henrietta Romman

Lord, as I quietly lie

     down to sleep,

Bless me I pray from Your

     heart so deep

 

Whenever I truly call
    on Your name,

Lord, enrich my soul as

    You ended my shame.

 

While Your golden stars, Father,

     twinkle and shine,

Train my pure heart to be

     wrapped in Thine.

 

When each new day beams

     into a glorious morn,

Remind me, Lord Jesus, of

     why You were born,

 

As my weary heart moans

     and my faith is torn,

Teach me more lessons--

     sustain me from scorn.
Amen                          

 


 ENZYME SLEEP
Harding Stedler

The roasted turkey
must have known I needed sleep.

So, after I had gnawed
convincingly on his leg,
he unleashed his enzymes,

and I could no longer stay awake.
I nearly sleepwalked,
could barely keep
my eyelids open.
Too tired to resist the sleep,
I crashed sideways on the bed
and in an instant
I was out.

Nearly two hours
of enzyme sleep
returned me to the waking world,
invigorated and alert
and forever grateful for a turkey.
 

ANOMIE, ENEMY, ECONOMY
Tom Padgett

O for something clever,
something dashing, something smart!
O for something passing
as a valued work of art!

Companions have deserted
their respective work or play,
and my future is impending--
little left me to delay.

I feel pleasure’s pressure
to care to show I show no care.
I seize the moment quickly,
yet save nothing from despair.

To pass the time, I turn
to watch events on grave TV
for substance worth the watching,
but it’s all economy. 

O for something clever,
something dashing, something smart!
O for something passing
as a valued work of art!

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