THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 6, No. 1       An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society    January  2007

 

KEEPING THE LIGHT

At the end of the old year and the beginning of a new year, it is a common practice for businessmen to inventory their stock, for teachers to evaluate their students, and for all of us to see where we are intellectually, financially, physically, and spiritually.  Usually we resolve to do better in every area of our lives.  As poets we find ourselves resolving to write more poems, to learn new forms, to enter more contests, to read more poetry, to give readings, to attend workshops, and to submit poems for publication.  Perhaps we describe our good intentions in metaphors.  We say we will keep the faith, we will spread the light, we will lay up lasting treasure.  In her little lighthouse-shaped poem "Lighthouse Keeping," Kay Ryan, who is our poet for the month, says lighthouse keepers obviously keep the light "for those left out."  They guide "those afloat" to the safety of the harbor by protecting them from the submerged reefs and shoreline rocks that would sink their ship.  The light is "intimate and remote" to both the keeper and the endangered sailor.  As poets we, too, possess intimate light that is valuable to ourselves but also to others.  We are part of a process that keeps language as light functioning to clarify our meanings, to communicate our feelings, and of course to preserve [to freeze] our time.  Think of yourself as a lighthouse keeper with a personal language duty to perform this coming year.
                                                                                                                  --  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

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 087
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006
The first poem we ran in this column was by David Allan Evans of South Dakota, about a couple washing windows together. You can find that poem and all the others on our website, www.americanlifeinpoetry.org. Here Tania Rochelle of Georgia presents us with another couple, this time raking leaves. I especially like the image of the pair "bent like parentheses/ around their brittle little lawn."

RAKING
Tania Rochelle

Anna Bell and Lane, eighty,
make small leaf piles in the heat,
each pile a great joint effort,
like fifty years of marriage,
sharing chores a rusty dance.
In my own yard, the stacks
are big as children, who scatter them,
dodge and limbo the poke
of my rake. We're lucky,
young and straight-boned.
And I feel sorry for the couple,
bent like parentheses
around their brittle little lawn.
I like feeling sorry for them,
the tenderness of it, but only
for a moment: John glides in
like a paper airplane, takes
the children for the weekend,
and I remember,
they're the lucky ones--
shriveled Anna Bell, loving
her crooked Lane.

American Life in Poetry: Column 089
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

Loss can defeat us or serve as the impetus for positive change. Here, Sue Ellen Thompson of Connecticut shows us how to mourn inevitable changes, tuck the memories away, then go on to see the possibility of a new and promising chapter in one's life.

NO CHILDREN, NO PETS
Sue Ellen Thompson

I bring the cat's body home from the vet's
in a running-shoe box held shut
with elastic bands. Then I clean
the corners where she has eaten and
slept, scrubbing the hard bits of food
from the baseboard, dumping the litter
and blasting the pan with a hose. The plastic
dishes I hide in the basement, the pee-
soaked towel I put in the trash. I put
the catnip mouse in the box and I put
the box away, too, in a deep
dirt drawer in the earth.

When the death-energy leaves me,
I go to the room where my daughter slept
in nursery school, grammar school, high school,
I lie on her milky bedspread and think
of the day I left her at college, how nothing
could keep me from gouging the melted candle-wax
out from between her floorboards,
or taking a razor blade to the decal
that said to the firemen, "Break
this window first." I close my eyes now
and enter a place that's clearly
expecting me, swaddled in loss
and then losing that, too, as I move
from room to bone-white room
in the house of the rest of my life.

 

 American Life in Poetry: Column 088
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

This wistful poem shows how the familiar and the odd, the real and imaginary, exist side by side. A Midwestern father transforms himself from a staid businessman into a rock-n-roll star, reclaiming a piece of his imaginary youth. In the end, it shows how fragile moments might be recovered to offer a glimpse into our inner lives.

MY FATHER HOLDS THE DOOR FOR YOKO ONO
Christopher Chambers

In New York City for a conference
on weed control, leaving the hotel
in a cluster of horticulturalists,
he alone stops, midwestern, crewcut,
narrow blue tie, cufflinks, wingtips,
holds the door for the Asian woman
in a miniskirt and thigh high
white leather boots. She nods
slightly, a sad and beautiful gesture.
Neither smile, as if performing
a timeless ritual, as if anticipating
the loss of a son or a lover.

Years later, Christmas, inexplicably
he dons my mother's auburn wig,
my brother's wire-rimmed glasses,
and strikes a pose clowning
with my second hand acoustic guitar.
He is transformed, a working class hero
and a door whispers shut,
like cherry blossoms falling.



American Life in Poetry: Column 090
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
2004-2006

 Anyone can write a poem that nobody can understand, but poetry is a means of communication, and this column specializes in poems that communicate. What comes more naturally to us than to instruct someone in how to do something? Here the Minnesota poet and essayist Bill Holm, who is of Icelandic parentage, shows us how to make something delicious to eat.

BREAD SOUP: AN OLD ICELANDIC RECIPE
Bill Holm

Start with the square heavy loaf
steamed a whole day in a hot spring
until the coarse rye, sugar, yeast
grow dense as a black hole of bread.
Let it age and dry a little,
then soak the old loaf for a day
in warm water flavored
with raisins and lemon slices.
Boil it until it is thick as molasses.
Pour it in a flat white bowl.
Ladle a good dollop of whipped cream
to melt in its brown belly.
This soup is alive as any animal,
and the yeast and cream and rye
will sing inside you after eating
for a long time.




POET OF THE MONTH: KAY RYAN

A brief biography of Ryan and her poem "Nothing Ventured" are at http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/352

A brief commentary on "Nothing Ventured" is at http://www.salon.com/weekly/ryan.html.

Her poem "Death by Fruit" is at http://www.bu.edu/partisanreview/archive/2000/3/ryan.html.

"Blandeur" and "Waste" are at http://www.nea.gov/features/writers/Ryan.html.

Dana Gioia's critical essay on Ryan including "Paired Things" is at http://www.danagioia.net/essays/eryan.htm.

A profile including three Ryan poems is at http://www.csmonitor.com/2004/0825/p25s01-bogn.html.

Find poetry collections at Amazon.com for as low as $2.40 plus shipping and handling.

 


POEMS BY MEMBERS

WINTER LOVE
Hallmark Breakup Series
Steven Penticuff

Your love’s frozen cold
like the stories untold
on the lips of a long-lost
explorer at death
 
when passion for thrill
meets the desolate chill
of a fast-coming blizzard
that lingers too long.
 
And your love’s glowing warm
like a New England storm
with its deep snow and ice
rising high in the night
 
when the power lines snap
and each road’s a death-trap
for the brave or the
hopelessly stupid.
 

MEMORIES OF WINTER
Patsy Colter

Blistery winds howl around cozy homes;
Family snuggled close around pungent wood fires;
Play board games, laugh by dim coal oil light;
Cat prowls silently in darkened corners,
while Rover sleeps on with a contented sigh.
Comrades in proximity against cold winter night;
Wood stacked neatly by fireplace side,
Nourishment provided by nurturing Mom
Profuse spices of cinnamon and nutmeg,
Leave Heavenly scents deep in our brains,
To remember winter as favorite time of the year.

 

ODE TO AN OLD OUTHOUSE

Diane Auser Stefan

 

No worn down dirt path,

no frivolous flower-edged walk

beat their way to your door.

 

No evidence of past

importance or popularity.

 

Amid tangled overgrowth

your door stands

open, welcoming, inviting,

yet ignored.

 

It won’t take long,

perhaps a year or two

before the overgrowth

grows over

blending, hiding, burying you,

until you are a forgotten memory

 

a victim done in

by that scatological foe

. . . indoor plumbing. 


DAYBREAK
Gwen Eisenmann

Rain whispers me awake.  A mourning dove
toots its mellow flute as morning sings
of things too tender to endure the love
of sun and heat in high July.  The wings
I hear that sweep the eaves will cover nests
to shelter nestlings new to sun and rain;
and I will tender, too, my love who rests
and dreams the sibilant sound of rain's refrain.
Before I leave this mystic hour of dawn,
before the mists disperses into light,
before I hear the day astir upon
the silence of the house, before the bright
of new-washed sun turns everything to gold,
imprinted in this hour of joy I hold.


PAPYRUS BROWN
Harding Stedler

The dark sounds of geese
are meant to turn the Earth
and roll morning from its sleep.
As my thoughts waft in and out
of caffeine, I listen for the call
that summons shafts of sun
to paint leaves a winter brown.

Geese revel in the birthing
of each new day, their mirror
reflecting passing clouds
and clear blue skies. 

As morning sheds its cloak of black,

the cadence of my heart picks up.

I am carried aloft on bird wings

as the artist's day unfolds.


DAYS INTO YEARS
Velvet Fackeldey
An etheree

A
happy
new year is
not guaranteed
despite the number
of times friends greet you so.
The new year's day is just one
of many days strung together
and it's no different than the rest
unless you choose to start your life anew.


WORTHY OF PRAISE
Jean Even

You are a holy God.
Hallowed is Your name.
It’s a blessing in divine glory
And so worthy of our praise.

Let the angels blow their trumpets
And the saints sing out in song,
“Holy is the Lord Our God
Who is worthy to be praised.”

You are a holy God
Hallowed is Your name.
It’s a blessing in divine glory
And so worthy of our praise.

Let the angels blow their trumpets
And the saints sing out in song,
“Holy is the Lord Our God
Who is worthy to be praised.”
 

IN NEED OF AN EPIPHANY
Pat Durmon

You know, you think it’s nothing
at first. A few white hairs in the brows.

You can no longer manage to deliver
the turkey and dressing serving-hot to the table
all at the same time. It is just beyond you.

You want a short deep sleep
almost every afternoon. Without it,
you’re convinced you could go deaf
and blind.

You look around—
how hollow, how strange the world.
And weary you now have become
of idle talk.

You stand on the porch and watch the water
come down from the sky in strings.
You think hard about going in, but outside is
where you’d rather be.

Besides, that’s where you must abide
to catch a rainbow in bloom after the rain
explains some forgotten epiphany.

And today. . .
well, today, you need one.

           


VISIT WORKSHOP FOR AN ASSIGNMENT.

 Top |  Workshop |  Index

 

 

 


WITCH OF WINTER
Faye Adams

Judges our tensile strength
As she furiously reams
Nibbles away at our armor
Undeterred by wishes or dreams
Alternately pushes and pulls
Rends our world with her blast
Yanks us apart at the seams
 

RISKY BUSINESS
Tania Gray

We’re treading on thick ice, my dog and I:
ice sheets the streets and sidewalks, crusts the snow
so we can walk above the leaves that lie
like glassy dark red wafers glimpsed below.
We meet no cars, we see no passersby.
This white world, dazzling in a bright sun’s glow,
is ours alone. We zigzag brazenly
back home. We have defeated gravity.


HAIKU AND SENRYU FOR THE NEW YEAR
Pat Laster

the same routine
this New Year’s morning:
coffee, newspaper

turning all lights on
this first Tuesday of the year
sudden thunderstorm

the new year ~
25-year-old journal
with ancient haiku

the butterfly
sunning…warming
up wing muscles

my robe and slippers
carrying the fireplace warmth
into the starred night

ten degrees~
cleaning dirty surfaces revealed
by morning’s sun

whine
of the chainsaw
on my favorite oak

the boy and his dog
licking icicles
from the snapped-off tree

patio sunning
January’s breeze
cooling my backside
 

CEILING STAIN
Nathan Ross 

An alien World,
strange to us Earthlings,
a land of cottage cheese
texturized by an illuminating idea,
a bulb of light.
The entire surface appears
mostly dull from outer space,
except for the Wonder of that World,
a deep red stain,
possibly built to attract tourists,
probably a structure erected to protect
from attacking armies.
Nonetheless, the mark appears as a work of beauty
to aliens observing the planet from a distance.


WHO DUNNIT?
Henrietta Romman

God spelled His love with grace and ease.
The Bible sings it loud and clear.

Great, glorious acts that never cease:
God spelled His love with grace and ease.

He poured His waters--there were seas.
He first spoke Light both far and near.

God spelled His love with grace and ease.
The Bible sings it loud and clear.


THE ORIGIN OF WOMAN:
AS TOLD BY THE OLD RABBI'S WIFE
M. E. Tappmeyer

Well, Adam's
sitting there
with God looking
over His shoulder
and Adam's saying
Cat Yak Sheep Rat
to the four-footed
parade in front.
Till Adam says
Hippopotamus Tallywagibed
and God grimaces
and thinks Adam's in
over his head.


COOPER'S HAWK
Laurence Thomas

 Our local cats began to disappear 
soon after I first was shocked to hear
that dreadful shriek, which I failed to recognize
as a predatory bird disseminating fear.      

He came, where no hawks had flown before,           
to haunt my garden, like that bird of yore                
whose ominous one-word utterance denies
the promise of immortality evermore. 

I know that everybody has to eat.
The hawk, like me, deserves his daily meat.
I wish there could be some compromise
between such victory and such defeat.


HURRY!
Judy Young

The woods have turned into a festival.
Each branch of every tree,
Each jumbled piece of twisty vine,
Each thorny bramble,
Has thickened
And shines and shimmers.
The field is a silvery display of shining spears,
The wires of fence sparkle in geometric patterns.

Hurry, hurry, grab your coat!
Bundle up and walk through this crystallized spectacle,
Hear the branches clink together in the breeze,
Listen to the glass break under your foot.

Hurry!
For the rising frigid sun
Which lit this fantasy world
Promises to warm the day,
And take from the world
This moment of frozen light,
Frozen color.
 

UNWORTHY
David Van Bebber

I run from my misery
fleeing my shame.
I hide from you
when you call my name.


HAWAIIAN LOVEBIRD
Tom Padgett

  This little dove with feverish bright eyes
 sings silver songs of aching bird love.

    Though just a featherweight in fight size,
    this little dove with feverish bright eyes

a  and chest puffed out with all his might tries
to to boast a passion not yet heard of,

    this little dove with feverish bright eyes
in in silver songs of aching bird love.