THIRTY-SEVEN CENTS
Vol. 5, No. 4       An Online Chapter of Missouri State Poetry Society     March  2006
 


ROCKS OR STONES?

A few months ago one of the members of Second Tuesday assigned Rocks to us as the subject that we were to write a poem about for the next month.  It was quite interesting to see what our poets made of that subject.  One poet recalled the hymn "Rock of Ages."  Another remembered skipping rocks on the surface of a lake.  The other poems fell into one of these two camps, treating the subject metaphorically or realistically.  Usually when we poets treat rocks metaphorically, we opt for calling them stones. True, we have Scriptural references to Moses hiding in "the cleft of the rock," to Isaiah's "shadow of a great rock in a weary land," to the New Testament parable of the house built upon rock, and to Christ's words to Peter: "Upon this rock I will build my church."  We have hymns and gospel songs like Fanny Crosby's "He Hideth My Soul in the Cleft of the Rock" (1890) and the aforementioned "Rock of Ages" written by Augustus Toplady in 1776. But from childhood we have been repeating the jingle: "Sticks and stones will break my bones, but what you say won't hurt me."  And later we picked up Richard Lovelace's "Stone walls do not a prison make / Nor iron bars a cage . . . " from "To Althea from Prison" (1649).   Somehow stones seems a fancier word than rock.  The rocks in the picture above look polished, and we more than likely see them as stones, not rocks.  I had an experience when I first saw Lake Michigan that catches up some of these feelings about rocks and stones.  See my poem below.  Writing about the experience has made it one I will never forget.  Even though the stones in the poem become rocks, they remain stones in my mind because of the poem that captured them.  Are there rocks in your life that need to be made stones?  Write a poem about them.
                                                                                                                                     --  Tom Padgett


CONTENTS:

Past Issue Next
       
Poems by Members
         
Workshop

Missouri State Poetry Society

Summer Contest

Spare Mule Online

National Federation of State Poetry Societies
 
Strophes Online

 

NEW FEATURE: POETRY NEWS

Click News to see if this new column appeals to you.  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 Summer 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 043
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Lola Haskins, who lives in Florida, has written a number of poems about musical terms, entitled "Adagio," "Allegrissimo," "Staccato," and so on. Here is just one of those, presenting the gentleness of pianissimo playing through a series of comparisons.

TO PLAY PIANISSIMO

Does not mean silence.
The absence of moon in the day sky
for example.

Does not mean barely to speak,
the way a child's whisper
makes only warm air
on his mother's right ear.

To play pianissimo
is to carry sweet words
to the old woman in the last dark row
who cannot hear anything else,
and to lay them across her lap like a shawl.
 

American Life in Poetry: Column 045
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE
Poets are experts at holding mirrors to the world. Here Anne Caston, from Alaska, shows us a commonplace scene. Haven't we all been in this restaurant for the Sunday buffet? Caston overlays the picture with language that, too, is ordinary, even sloganistic, and overworn. But by zooming in on the joint of meat and the belly-up fishes floating in butter, she compels us to look more deeply into what is before us, and a room that at first seemed humdrum becomes rich with inference.

SUNDAY BRUNCH AT THE OLD COUNTRY BUFFET
MADISON WISCONSIN, 1996
    
Here is a genial congregation,
well fed and rosy with health and appetite,
robust children in tow. They have come
and all the generations of them, to be fed,
their old ones too who are eligible now
for a small discount, having lived to a ripe age.
Over the heaped and steaming plates, one by one,
heads bow, eyes close; the blessings are said.

Here there is good will; here peace
on earth, among the leafy greens, among the fruits
of the gardens of America's heartland. Here is abundance,
here is the promised
land of milk and honey, out of which
a flank of the fatted calf, thick still
on its socket and bone, rises like a benediction
over the loaves of bread and the little fishes, belly-up in butter.

 

 American Life in Poetry: Column 044
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

Unlike the calculated expressions of feeling common to its human masters, there is nothing disingenuous about the way a dog praises, celebrates, frets or mourns. In this poem David Baker gives us just such an endearing mutt.

MONGREL HEART

Up the dog bounds to the window, baying
      like a basset his doleful, tearing sounds
            from the belly, as if mourning a dead king,

and now he's howling like a beagle -- yips, brays,
      gagging growls -- and scratching the sill paintless,
            that's how much he's missed you, the two of you,

both of you, mother and daughter, my wife
      and child. All week he's curled at my feet,
            warming himself and me watching more TV,

or wandered the lonely rooms, my dog shadow,
      who like a poodle now hops, amped-up windup
            maniac yo-yo with matted curls and snot nose

smearing the panes, having heard another car
      like yours taking its grinding turn down
            our block, or a school bus, or bird-squawk,

that's how much he's missed you, good dog,
      companion dog, dog-of-all-types, most excellent dog
            I told you once and for all we should never get.


American Life in Poetry: Column 046
BY TED KOOSER, U.S. POET LAUREATE

We constantly compare one thing with another, or attempt to, saying, "Well, you know, love is like...it's like...well, YOU know what it's like." Here Bob King, who lives in Colorado, takes an original approach and compares love to the formation of rocks.

GEOLOGY

I know the origin of rocks, settling
out of water, hatching crystals
from fire, put under pressure
in various designs I gathered
pretty, picnic after picnic.

And I know about love, a little,
igneous lust, the slow affections
of the sedimentary, the pressure
on earth out of sight to rise up
into material, something solid
you can hold, a whole mountain,
for example, or a loose collection
of pebbles you forgot you were keeping.

 
POET OF THE MONTH: FRANK BIDART [pronounced bihDART].

For brief biography of Bidart and five poems visit http://www.poets.org/poet.php/prmPID/162.

For three poems see http://www.diacenter.org/prg/poetry/87_88/bidartbio.html

For articles about Bidart go to http://www.pshares.org/Authors/authorDetails.cfm?prmAuthorID=139.

For Bidart giving a poetry reading (approximately 50 minutes) go to http://wiredforbooks.org/frankbidart/.

For nine poems by Bidart visit http://www.poemhunter.com/frank-bidart/poet-8170/.

Buy a book of Bidart's poetry at

http://www.half.com

http://www.powells.com/

http://www.amazon.com/

 POEMS BY MEMBERS

WINTER OLYMPICS 2006
Velvet Fackeldey

young and strong, graceful
slicing through snow
swirling over ice
fast
elbows tucked to fly or spin
legs outstretched for speed or grace
face tight in concentration
a sudden grin
or a tear
each one a winner
at home


FEET OF JUSTICE
Nathan Ross

The stage slept as I grew hungry.
All the words had been spent,
all the sentences had been shaped,
reshaped, dramatized, and delivered.
First illuminated by an applause,
later hung-over from the praise,
my feet tapped out a improvised tune,
like delicate baby hands splashing the water.
Feet on fire, restlessness fueled by a badly informed
audience, who thought the performance had ended,
when in fact the thump, thud, whack, and smack marked 
     the beginning.


 BE CAREFUL, YOU MIGHT CATCH IT
(A brat)
Nancy Powell

A naughty child named Larry Dale Howe
Would chase and taunt his neighbor’s cow.
By mistake he chased a steer--
Now Larry is no longer here.
 

BARN FLY
Julie Garrett

I’m just a simple barn fly
I buzz from here to there
I like to eat cow poop
It’s fun, it’s everywhere

My life is short I know
I do the best I can
It's time to feed the cows
Oh yeah here comes the man

I buzz around and round
flying in his face
he gets spazed out
I set it at a pace

First around his eyes and ears
and then around his nose
Now he has become upset
and he’s getting out the hose

usually I can beat this trick
but unfortunately not today
he hits me straight with water
and I die here in the hay.


THRICE OVER
Jean Even

A thousand years twice told
Is not long in eternity to behold.
My wandering eyes have not seen
All of God's glory ready to glean.

If I go a thousand years thrice over
With laughter, it will be better in clover
Than to dwell in a house of mourning
With a sad countenance greeting the morning.
 

PLEASE DON'T
Phyllis Moutray

Suicide, a permanent solution
To a temporary problem
For you, the suicidal person;
A forever pain
For us who love you.

Today you're full of rage:
Asking, "Why Me?"
Declaring, "You'll be sorry!"

Regrettably, if you do it,
We'll live on in breathtaking sorrow
For way too many tomorrows.

How's that for a legacy!
 

I DID NOT GO TO CHURCH TODAY
Shawn M Daugherty

I did not go to church today,
I couldn’t bring myself to the torment.
To be alone, isolated, a single person in God’s house,
surrounded by His “Children,”
who speak not a word to me, a lone being.

To hear the man up front
speaking of love, truth, and hope.
His hand, afterwards, never extended to mine
as I walk out,
never to return again

I did not go to church today.
I sat here and worshipped my Creator
from my chair, with my music,
His word in my hand,
praying for an opening, asking for guidance,
wanting a home of warmth
of His true Children.


FROM A MIDDLE-EASTERN MOTHER
TO HER DAUGHTER
Henrietta Romman

My daughter, beware.

Stretch not your ear to any word
A friend or foe might may say;
Let not malice or anger
Make all your love decay.
Do not believe all sayings
Unless you are very sure;
Be not easily changed,
For enemies love to allure.
Give not a chance to any
To detain or destroy your plan,
For if you give in once,
They'll ruin you if they can.

Beware then child of this and that
Which false friends will report.
Unless you feel you should beware.
Then know you're not their sort.
 

BEE ALIVE
Gwen Eisenmann

What is a bee?
He is a she
usually.

What is a queen?
Laying machine,
soon a has-been.

What is a drone?
He bee on loan
serving the throne.

What is a hive?
House of bee jive,
honey dive.
 



 

 




ENLIGHTENED
Valerie Esker

Winter shadows shroud my lawn
but spring is just a wish away,
so I will greet each gray-hued dawn
with smiles that light cold, clouded day.
 

THE LEAVES OF THE SHAMROCK
Pat Laster

One leaf is for Britain, the place I was born,
the second for Ireland, as slave so forlorn.
The third leaf for France, somehow I escaped,
and there joined the priesthood; my life took new shape.

One leaf for the Father, and one for the Son;
the third, Holy Spirit--the Trinity done.
I'll take Christianity back to my home
in Ireland, and shamrocks for our fertile loam.

One leaf for the zeal that the Irish displayed--
received Christian doctrine, its tenets obeyed.
One leaf celebrating a lack of constraint,
another for naming me their patron saint.

One leaf for the feast day on March seventeen,
a national holiday blessed by the Queen.
One leaf for the Irish-American line,
and the last leaf for toasting our dear auld lang syne.
THAT GOODBYE HAND
Harding Stedler

The last night she was ours,
still voiceless,
she reached her hand to mine
and let her eyes talk.
It was a short reach
with a clasp that cemented our years.
She appeared to know
it was her final reach.

Now riding on wings of infinity,
she has a longer reach.
In visions and dreams,
I feel her hand draw near
to clutch the hand
to which she said goodbye
one dark November night.


 ON THE OUTSIDE QUIET
Judy Young

Unable to meander
Like a stream through a valley
Forming a familiarity,
An intimacy
Where it touches
This pasture, that forest,
I stand
Always on the outside quiet
Watching the world from afar
And am thankful for the times
You have come to sit beside me.
 

HAIR PRAYER
 "Seeking divine help in this crisis, the city’s women swept temple floors with their hair.”
Mark Tappmeyer

For prayer
women are insularly prepared.
Take that Roman woman’s
hair

black
and stroked in rose
and lank to the bare
dimples of her
classical hips

and silken like the clouds of Aventine
like clouds atop her Palatine.

She unpins the bun and braids
she wears
and loosens hair to fall and gather
into fists like clamping straw,

not for beauty or its sake
but for whisking
grit and tears where they take
refuge under foot,

where gods fall snared
by a woman
endowed with
prayer and hair.


GODDESS
Tania Gray

What do you know of love and beauty, Pallas Athena,
with your lean runway body
and impossibly long legs
your two-toned hair cut seasonably short
your wide unblinking eyes?

What do you know of kindness, Pallas Athena,
you who stalk lesser creatures
and slash out ruthlessly
then come to my breast
your eyes looking guilelessly into mine?

What do you know of tenderness, Pallas Athena,
you who carp and whine
with endless accusations
making demands with hauteur
or turning away in silence?

What do you know of family, Pallas Athena,
you who rush inside
after being out all night
taking what I have to offer
then leaving with your secret plans?

You don't have to know anything, Pallas Athena,
faithful in your habits
constant in your return
vigilant guarding against strays
ever amusing in your feline ways.


THE SHORE
Tom Padgett

Dazzling purples, reds, and blues
among the blacks and grays
proclaimed they were not stones at all.

In the magic morning sunlight
they were the wealth of China
and I was Marco Polo--

they were an island's treasure to my Jim.
The waves that lapped the lake's edge
studded them with sparkle

and left foils of froth
triangling back into the deep.
Enthusiastically, I dipped

a jar full of Lake Michigan
and dropped in my collection
to keep the beauty of that time,

to carry home that place--
but Emerson was right:
the each requires its all.

In Missouri all those rocks were gray.

 


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