Please join us as we celebrate the launch of an anthology of 88 poets who have read at Longfellow Days celebrations over the past 20 years. This will be Saturday, Feb. 3 at 1:00 PM at the Unitarian Universalist church, 1 Middle Street, Brunswick, Maine. This is a big venue. Bring a friend. There will be cake, and an opportunity to buy a copy of the anthology and have it signed by some of your favorite poets.
Moon Pie Press has just released an anthology of poetry by 88 poets who have participated in the
Longfellow Days readings in the past twenty years. Longfellow Days is a month-long series of events
in Brunswick, Maine each February celebrating Longfellow and his legacy. This is a wonderful poem from the anthology by Marita O'Neill of Portland, Maine. The book is 142 pages and is available from our website at www.moonpiepress.com.
The Pardoner's Tale
New Year's Eve and despite this plague, I'm
determined to make something of the evening,
preparing dinner for my dog and me. Though
it feels indulgent, I'm sharing my salmon
with her, telling her about our human ways
how we believe we can set the old ablaze,
begin again, save ourselves from ruin.
I set out our wedding china, still so new,
so translucent like the day we walked through
that crazy basement, the guy who sold bone
china on the cheap, his ceiling hung with cup
after cup after cup: stacks and stacks of supper
plates as if upstairs an army waited to be fed.
Almost married, I believed we could have it all.
I set one plate for my dog, a silver-lined plate
for me, pour us sparkling water. She waits
for more after gobbling it all down, ears
at attention. "Greed is the root of all evil,"
I tell her, remembering Chaucer's Pardoner,
his speech like a dragon's unabashed lure,
"I will sting him with my sharp tongue" as he
loots and steals, pawning rags and sheep
bones as holy relics to people ravaged by plague
and poverty, giving their last pennies to save
a loved one from hell's fires. I used to laugh how
the Pardoner spoke "venom under hue of holiness,"
laugh as his three gluttons bungled their drunken
plan to outwit the reaper. But I know better now.
I know the venom of dead promises. My beloved
drank cup after cup, bottle after bottle, believed
he could outrun his demons and dreamed
the "hundred false tales" of each drink.
Finally, I ask my dog, is it possible to be glutton
and beggar both? To wish for a different dozen
ends to our story and, like a glutton, bring him back
to one more meeting, to tell him what's coming next
is death. And how, like a pauper, I would sell all
for a few magic bones and this one last indulgence.
(Copyright 2023 by Marita O'Neill)
Here is a lovely poem by English poet John Clare (1793-1864), son of a farm laborer, whose poems often closely observe the natural world. This poem, written between 1824 and 1832, has 14 lines and resembles a sonnet, though Clare used unconventional rhyming schemes and punctuation; the poem ends without a period. (Note: a fieldfare is a large thrush native to England, and bumbarrel is another name for the long-tailed tit, seen above. Emmonsail is an area of Northamptonshire.) The verbs in the poem make it lively, like the busy birds.
This post is dedicated to George Van Deventer, Maine editor, teacher and poet, who died November 18. George, a member of the John Clare Society, loved Clare’s poetry.
Emmonsail’s Heath in Winter
I love to see the old heath’s withered brake
Mingle its crimpled leaves with furze and ling,
While the old heron from the lonely lake
Starts slow and flaps its melancholy wing,
An oddling crow in idle motion swing
On the half-rotten ash-tree’s topmost twig,
Beside whose trunk the gypsy makes his bed.
Up flies the bouncing woodcock from the brig
Where a black quagmire quakes beneath the tread;
The fieldfares chatter in the whistling thorn
And for the haw round fields and closen rove,
And coy bumbarrels, twenty in a drove,
Flit down the hedgerows in the frozen plain
And hang on little twigs and start again
November sunset from my yard in Maine
This month’s poem is by Erich Kastner (1899-1974), a writer, poet, screenwriter and satirist. He wrote socially astute poetry often leavened with humor. He was drafted into the German army in 1917 and his experiences in war made him a committed pacifist. His books were burned by the Nazis. Kastner’s beloved children’s book Emil and the Detectives has been in print since its publication in 1928. This is from The Selected Poetry of Erich Kastner (1997), selected and translated by Moon Pie Press poets Ted and Ruth Bookey.
Fantasy for the Day After Tomorrow And when the next war begins the women thunder NO! and leave brothers, sons and husbands locked up and safe at home. They march in every land straight to the warriors' houses. Carrying whips in their hands they drag the bastards out and put them across their knees, these heroes who make our wars --the bankers, captains of industry, generals, the governmental whores. A lot of asses get whipped that day, the patriots shut their dismal jaws. In every land now, yowls of pain --but nowhere was there war! Elated they return to those they love, to brothers, sons and husbands, to tell them war is over! And the men? The men stare out of the windows and won't even look at the women...
Erich Kastner
Here is a beautiful poem by the justly famous Irish poet William Butler Yeats (1865-1939), written in 1916.
The trees are in their autumn beauty, The woodland paths are dry, Under the October twilight the water Mirrors a still sky; Upon the brimming water among the stones Are nine-and-fifty swans. The nineteenth autumn has come upon me Since I first made my count; I saw, before I had well finished, All suddenly mount And scatter wheeling in great broken rings Upon their clamorous wings. I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, And now my heart is sore. All's changed since I, hearing at twilight, The first time on this shore, The bell-beat of their wings above my head, Trod with a lighter tread. Unwearied still, lover by lover, They paddle in the cold Companionable streams or climb the air; Their hearts have not grown old; Passion or conquest, wander where they will, Attend upon them still. But now they drift on the still water, Mysterious, beautiful; Among what rushes will they build, By what lake's edge or pool Delight men's eyes when I awake some day To find they have flown away?
Here is a pantoum I wrote some years ago. Labor Day is one of my favorite days in Maine - when many thousands leave our state. (Copyright 2010 by Alice N. Persons)
Labor Day Weekend, Maine (a pantoum)
a river of traffic, tourists migrating south
returning to places “the way life shouldn’t be”
Winnebagos hung with lawn chairs, bikes, canoes
lemmings streaming away from the sea
returning to places “the way life shouldn’t be”
wallets lighter, clothes tighter, cameras full
lemmings streaming away from the sea
we love their money but it’s September now
wallets lighter, clothes tighter, cameras full
did Maine live up to their fantasies?
we love their money but it’s September now
time to take back our roads, beaches, parks
did Maine live up to their memories?
those who stay turn our thoughts to winter
time to take back our roads, beaches, parks
and for a while, revel in the quiet, shorter days
those who stay turn our thoughts to winter
the visitors say goodbye and pack their cars full
Winnebagos hung with lawn chairs, bikes, canoes --
a river of traffic, thundering south
Here is a simple, powerful poem about the persistence of memory. It is by Dana Robbins, from her collection AFTER THE PARADE, published by Moon Pie Press in 2020. Copyright 2020 by Dana Robbins. Used with permission. Like A Freight Train Passenger trains, with names like The Phoebe Snow, The Owl, The New York Mail, made their last ride through New Jersey in 1961, leaving only freight trains. The brick station house was abandoned. This is a secret way, my sister said, as we scrambled down the hill through the long grass, darted across the railroad tracks, then came up the other side, no faster than walking across the bridge but more exciting. 1969, my sister left home for forbidden paths as the seventies reverberated like a freight train through my teenage soul. I searched for her in the light of joints shared with friends in the empty depot, our secret hideaway, which vibrated as the Erie-Lackawanna thundered by in the dark.
Here is a short poem by Ogden Nash (1901-1971), an American poet who is known for his light verse. Humorous verse that is not cringey is much harder to write than you might think. I DIDN'T GO TO CHURCH TODAY I didn't go to church today. I trust the Lord to understand. The surf was swirling blue and white. The children swirling on the sand. He knows, He knows how brief my stay. How brief this spell of summer weather. He knows when I am said and done We'll have plenty of time together.
Here is a poem from Massachusetts poet David R. Surette's new collection called TONIC, just out from Moon Pie Press. This is David's third book with us; the first two were STABLE and MALDEN.
5th Grade Yearbook
The 1968 "Our Community!" published by the
fifth grade (Class B) of Immaculate Conception School,
Malden, Massachusetts.
In memory of Robert F. Kennedy
I will grow up to be an historian.
Further down it notes that I am Most Popular.
(So, I have that going for me.)
But truth to tell, I tied Tommy Cronin
who swept the rest of the superlatives.
But what about the two Carberry boys
ordained to be loan shark and garbage collector
or Joanne Breen's go-go dancer,
Robbie Lereau's works for the circus?
How did life work out for them?
I wonder if class poet Mary Terrio
is somewhere sitting, clutching a thin volume
of poetry, waiting to hear her name called
so she can go to the podium
and read to the dozen folks,
each holding their own.
That crowd might include me.
I didn't grow to be an historian,
unless you count my endless
desire to spill my own.
These are in my yard and smell heavenly. I don't often post poems of my own, but this one is timely. It was read by Garrison Keillor on The Writer's Almanac in May 2007, and featured in the Take Heart series in the Portland, Maine Sunday Telegram in May 2013. I'd like to mention that Moon Pie Press has reached the 20 year mark. We have published 123 books of poetry, quite a few award winning, by poets from Maine and all over the country. These books include ten anthologies. I have no plans to stop publishing, and I don't think I will run out of wonderful books to publish. STEALING LILACS A guaranteed miracle, it happens for two weeks each May, this bounty of riches where McMansion, trailer, the humblest driveway burst with color--pale lavender, purple, darker plum-- and glorious scent. This morning a battered station wagon drew up on my street and a very fat woman got out and starting tearing branches from my neighbor's tall old lilac-- grabbing, snapping stems, heaving armloads of purple sprays into her beater. A tangle of kids' arms and legs writhed in the car. I almost opened the screen door to say something, but couldn't begrudge her theft, or the impulse to steal such beauty. Just this once, there is enough for everyone. copyright 2011 by Alice N. Persons, from THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS, Moon Pie Press.
Here is a poignant poem from Pennsylvania poet Jack Troy’s Moon Pie Press collection GIVING IT UP
TO THE WIND, published in 2021. It seems particularly relevant in these times with so much hateful rhetoric.
/
LEARNING TO CURSE, TOWANDA, PA 1948
"Sonofabitchenbastard!" Raymond Kuykendall called me in the alley behind Nana's, as if he'd said a sucker-punch in seven syllables 20 letters long. "Kikey," we called him, but he wasn't Jewish. Jerry Spitulnik was, though, and when we called him that, Sol, his dad, phoned mine and we met at their house on 4th Street and talked about hurtful words. Even at 10, I was old enough to walk home silently beside my father, scared for the ache that word had made in Jerry's ear, like a roll of caps hit with a hammer. I didn't want my voice to be a weapon and him the target. I didn't want the tears that knowing made me cry. Copyright 2021 by Jack Troy. Reprinted with permission of the author,
Today is the third official day of spring, and this poem seems appropriate. After our long Maine winter, the appearance of the humble crocus always seems miraculous. Christina Rossetti (1830-1894) was a marvelous poet. Two of her poems are well known as Christmas carols: "In the Bleak Midwinter" and "Love Came Down at Christmas."
The First Spring Day
I wonder if the sap is stirring yet,
If wintry birds are dreaming of a mate,
If frozen snowdrops feel as yet the sun
And crocus fires are kindling one by one:
Sing, robin, sing;
I still am sore in doubt concerning Spring.
I wonder if the springtide of this year
Will bring another Spring both lost and dear;
If heart and spirit will find out their Spring,
Or if the world alone will bud and sing:
Sing, hope, to me;
Sweet notes, my hope, soft notes for memory.
The sap will surely quicken soon or late,
The tardiest bird will twitter to a mate;
So Spring must dawn again with warmth and
bloom,
Or in this world, or in the world to come:
Sing, voice of Spring,
Till I too blossom and rejoice and sing.
This timely piece is by the accomplished John-Michael Albert, former Portsmouth, NH poet laureate, from his book Music (Marble Kite Press, copyright 2021 by the poet). Moon Pie Press has published three of his many poetry collections; the most recent is Questions You Were Too Polite to Ask (2018).
I like the leisurely, meditative tone of the poem, as it takes its time going from a quiet domestic scene to that moment when you can feel (and hear) one season turn to another.
MOURNING DOVE IN MID-MARCH It is always a struggle, a stupid personal struggle, to decide on what day I no longer need the lights on in the bathroom when I get ready for work. I know I'm much too rational about it. Surely I can brush my teeth in the dimness of dawn. The toothpaste and toothbrush are always in the same place. My teeth, I assume, are where I left them last night. Shaving is a little trickier, but once I smear the ping- pong ball dollop of shaving cream on my face, making a fluorescent Santa beard, I can easily complete the job by using the disposable razor to remove the soft cotton glow and rinse it down the sink. I've been showering for sixty-six years so I'm sure of that geography in the dark. Afterwards, I'm also sure I'll find the towel in its assigned place, as are the Kleenex for drying out my ears. It strikes me, I could probably do this blind, although I don't want to give the devil any ideas. But just before I dry off, I open the bathroom window, wide open, no matter how cold or windy it is, to defrost the mirror, to drive the steam out of the room, to dry the blue rag rugs from India on the floor. And what did I hear in mid-March, in the accustomed stillness outside, in those moments before any of my neighbors is awake, before the occasional car passes on its way to work, sometimes even before the paperboy throws the news onto my neighbors' stoop? (I run out and steal it, do the crossword puzzle, and return it before they miss it.) What did I hear after five months of eosine silence? A lone mourning dove calls--to himself at this point but that will change--pauses and calls, pauses and calls. Like the sound of a temple bell, he calls me back to this moment. It is spring. That dawn-colored handful of feathers tells me, personally, there is no turning back. Winter may hurl another couple of heavy, wet blusters at me, but is efforts are doomed. The mourning doves are back. Now I will greet each morning in the dark. Eversource will have to find another source for profits. I no longer need to turn the lights on to kindle my days. An open window and that mourning dove will suffice.
Here is a thoughtful poem by Maine poet Jenny Doughty, whose Moon Pie Press book is
SENDING BETTE DAVIS TO THE PLUMBER (2017). This poem was “Highly Commended” in
the Bridport Prize international writing competition in the UK.
WATCHING THE LITTLE SISTERS
The teenage boys have gone to a back yard
somewhere in the neighborhood to hang out
behind a garage, pass around a joint,
and now I see their little sisters
take a turn at the basketball hoop
on the sidewalk: fifth graders in shorts
or old leggings starting to climb above
their thin ankles, T shirts still printed
with unicorns, still flat across their chests.
To watch them is to travel back in time
before the uniform of gender
fell across my shoulders, before the weight
of breasts and male gaze boxed out freedom
even more than the shot clock of childhood,
before bleeding and the inescapable
decades to come of decisions wrapped up
in owning a grown woman’s body.
There are so many ways of being fouled.
I never see them alone; they huddle
in pairs or groups of three or four. I hear
their high voices chattering, their laughter,
before the basketball bops on asphalt.
They practice defense, as women must,
dodging side to side to block a shot.
They jump high in front of the girl with the ball,
flinging their arms into the air, T-shirts
riding up over their bare bellies.
Copyright 2022 by Jenny Doughty. Reprinted with permission.
Here is a poem by the late Maine poet and novelist, teacher and mentor Herb Coursen. Herb taught at Bowdoin College and was a prolific novelist and poet. Moon Pie Press published his last poetry collection, called BLUES IN THE NIGHT, in 2010. Herb was very good at "form" poems and made rhyme schemes like those in this poem seem organic and easy.
NEW YEAR POEM
What is it about the ice today, on this
December noon? From it comes the wind,
as if this trail up and down, aligned
on either side with woods and snow was wise
in the ways of winter, required no earth
to rotate against the friction of the stars
frozen in dark above the scimitars
of storm to bring this chilling current to birth.
The wind rides up from down below and cannot
predict a seed beneath the glitter that folds
the ground in spider-webs of frost, or quote
a line or two to counter the cold that holds
the surface close, and says that it forgot
a season of violets and marigolds.
Here is a lovely poem by Dana Robbins of the Bronx, New York. It is from her new Moon Pie Press poetry collection called FRIDA'S BOOTS. This is Dana's third volume from our press; the previous ones are THE LEFT SIDE OF MY LIFE and AFTER THE PARADE. This poem was nominated for a Pushcart Prize. IN THE WINTER KITCHEN In the dim light of a winter afternoon, my father radiates warmth and peace as he putters in the kitchen. His square strong hands deftly stuff and truss a capon, sauté livers and hearts for fricassee, tenderize meat for a stew. As he cooks, he watches golf on a small black and white TV, his cooking celebrated by the hushed applause coming from the tiny screen. He winks a greeting as quietly I settle at the kitchen table to bask in the aromas. Through all the winters of my life, I would carry the warmth of that kitchen inside me.
Here is a rather haunting poem by Portland's Mike Bove. It won a prize from the Maine Poets Society this week. Mike teaches at Southern Maine Community College. His first poetry collection was BIG LITTLE CITY (Moon Pie Press, 2018) and his second was HOUSE MUSEUM (Moon Pie Press, 2021). A NOTE TO MARGARET FULLER AS HER SHIP GOES DOWN You’re off the coast of Fire Island and your ship hit a shoal or reef and your young son is in your arms and your husband is there, or he’s your partner and you’re not married, the biographers aren’t sure, but you’ve been in Italy for years loving him and writing and raising a child, which isn’t something you thought you wanted when you left Concord where you walked with Emerson and rowed with Thoreau— now hold on to that deck-rail though it’s soaked with rain, and hold on to your child though the crewmen are yelling to put him in a lifeboat, and search the sky in all directions for light though you can’t tell which way is east, and cry, Margaret, you have to cry, because you don’t know how this ends but we do— we know your ship goes down, we know your little boy drowns, we know you and your husband die and most of the crew, and we know they’ll never find your body though pieces of the ship will wash ashore and someone will recover some of your letters but not the book you were finishing, and people in town will catch wind of the wreck and the items washed up and some of them will come to the water to scavenge for things to sell and Emerson will get an urgent message and send Thoreau to look for you and when he arrives on the beach the ship will be gone and he’ll see a scattering of people going through the wreckage and one of them will be wearing your coat and he’ll manage to tear away a single brass button he’ll hold in his palm when the sky clears and the sun strikes it creating a glint we’ll remember forever because we can see it all the way from here.
A ghost, though invisible, still is like a place
your sight can knock on, echoing; but here
within this thick black pelt, your strongest gaze
will be absorbed and utterly disappear:
just as a raving madman, when nothing else
can ease him, charges into his dark night
howling, pounds on the padded wall, and feels
the rage being taken in and pacified.
She seems to hide all looks that have ever fallen
into her, so that, like an audience,
she can look them over, menacing and sullen,
and curl to sleep with them. But all at once
as if awakened, she turns her face to yours;
and with a shock, you see yourself, tiny,
inside the golden amber of her eyeballs
suspended, like a prehistoric fly.
Here is an elegant poem by Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926) that is perfect for Halloween season. In it the cat is seen as a mystical being, and a beautiful one at that.
This is my favorite month in Maine. Here is a lovely rhyming poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar (1872-1906), who was one of the first Black American writers to attain national prominence. He wrote poems, short stories and four novels before his untimely death from tuberculosis at age 33. The photo of him is from circa 1890. OCTOBER October is the treasurer of the year, And all the months pay bounty to her store; The fields and orchards still their tribute bear, And fill her brimming coffers more and more. But she, with youthful lavishness, Spends all her wealth in gaudy dress, And decks herself in garments bold Of scarlet, purple, red, and gold. She heedeth not how swift the hours fly, But smiles and sings her happy life along; She only sees above a shining sky; She only hears the breezes' voice in song. Her garments trail the woodlands through, And gather pearls of early dew That sparkle, till the roguish Sun Creeps up and steals them every one. But what cares she that jewels should be lost, When all of Nature's bounteous wealth is hers? Though princely fortunes may have been their cost, Not one regret her calm demeanor stirs. Whole-hearted, happy, careless, free, She lives her life out joyously, Nor cares when Frost stalks o'er her way And turns her auburn locks to gray.
Here is a fresh new poem by Natalya Sukhonos of Brooklyn, NY. Her poetry collection A STRANGER HOME was published by Moon Pie Press in 2020. This poem was read on the Bay Poets program on radio station KALW in California on August 31st. Copyright 2022 by Natalya Sukhonos; used with permission. WHAT IF? Next time you ask: why the indoor picnics with kids? I'll say: butterflies taste with their feet. We'll dance on the picnic blanket once we're done with our crackers and cheese. Our feet will taste of crumbs and Cheddar, tango from San Francisco, magical carpets and exhaustion. Split open, a caterpillar in a chrysalis is faceless goo. Two days later, it's a monster of beauty, with wing veins, a maelstrom of color, the power of flight. What if quarantine ripens us for transformation? After being ensconced in our homes, we shall emerge with a changed face. The streets will smell of asphalt as if rain has fallen on the city, and the light will change to a feathery, pellucid haze. Silence will fall on the city, a certain hush a split second before the folded wings unravel, the body tenses, the little larva angel flings itself into the blue, forgets it used to crawl, spreads its extremities into the wind surrenders to nothingness.
Here are two color-themed short poems by Robert Frost. I like their economy and smooth use of rhyme. They appeared in his 1923 collection NEW HAMPSHIRE, which was awarded the first of his four Pulitzer Prizes.
FRAGMENTARY BLUE
Why make so much of fragmentary blue
In here or there a bird, or butterfly,
Or flower, or wearing-stone, or open eye,
When heaven presents in sheets the solid hue?
Since earth is earth, perhaps, not heaven (as yet) —
Though some savants make earth include the sky;
And blue so far above us comes so high,
It only gives our wish for blue a whet.
NOTHING GOLD CAN STAY
Nature’s first green is gold,
Her hardest hue to hold. Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.
Moon Pie Press’ latest book is a terrific collection of poems by Gretchen Berg of Portland, Maine, called SO FAR. This poem paints an individual, quirky picture of paradise that I like a lot.
HEAVEN: WEEK AT A GLANCE
Monday Black flies are out but not biting yet, shorts work with a sweatshirt, light until seven. Cigarette on the porch. Tuesday Catch a pop up, remember the words to that song. Cary Grant and Katherine Hepburn practice tumbling in the attic. Remove splinter. Find keys. Count blessings. Wednesday Somebody remembers to get milk. The snakes leave the barn. At dusk the dirt road tracks across the rising field. Thursday Rain. Matinee. More rain. Pot roast. Friday Sit out back on boingy motel chairs with dead cousins. Drink iced tea from crayon colored aluminum tumblers. Eat deviled eggs and tomato sandwiches. Open presents. Saturday Wander for six hours through bookstores & Chinatown. Stop thinking it will end. Become the object of good-natured desire. Sunday Give and get no advice. Dark at five. Build a fire. Burrow under the covers. Listen to the lake ice boom. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Another sample poem and more information about the poet and the book are on our website, along with a catalog of 119 other Moon Pie Press books to choose from. www.moonpiepress.com Poem copyright 2022 by Gretchen Berg. Used with permission.
Here is a wonderful, evocative poem by my friend Patrick Shawn Bagley, who lives in Madison, Maine. One of the things I like about it: there are nine verbs ending in “ing” in a pretty short poem (running/singing/praising/shouting/listening/feeling/longing/filling/breathing). These verbs move from active to less active as the action in the poem quiets, so smoothly done that you may not notice this.
Patrick is also the author of an excellent noir novel called Bitter Water Blues. Thanks to him for permission to run the poem.
Night Songs
The coyotes howl in the lower field.
Not running deer, but singing
like some holy-roller choir praising
almighty Spring and shouting
out thanks for their new pups.
We lie in the dark, listening, feeling
a glorious shiver deep inside:
one half instinctive fear,
the other an atavistic longing
for that freedom, that raw joy.
Then it’s over and we can hear
the peepers again, filling the night
with their own somber hymns,
their more respectable psalms
repeated over and over
until the slow rhythm of their ritual
becomes the rhythm of our breathing
and we sleep, all our remembered wildness
pushed back to the recesses of dreams.
We have a late spring in Maine, so daffodils and tulips are blooming now. Gardeners (like me) are longing to plant as the soil warms.
Here is a poem by Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), an English poet and Jesuit priest who wrote
poetry not like anyone else’s. His “sprung rhythm” is very unusual for a Victorian poet. Hopkins uses language in creative ways, too.
SPRING
Nothing is so beautiful as Spring--
When weeds, in wheels, shoot long and lovely and lush;
Thrush's eggs look little low heavens, and thrush
Through the echoing timber does so rinse and wring
The ear, it strikes like lightnings to hear him sing;
The glassy peartree leaves and blooms, they brush
The descending blue; that blue is all in a rush
With richness; the racing lambs too have fair their fling.
What is all this juice and all this joy?
A strain of the earth's sweet being in the beginning
In Eden garden. -- Have, get, before it cloy,
Before it cloud, Christ, lord, and sour with sinning,
Innocent mind and Mayday in girl and boy,
Most, O maid's child, thy choice and worthy the winning.
Poetry month has come around again. Here are some pithy quotations from a wonderful book called
Quote Poet Unquote, edited by Dennis O’Driscoll, c. 2008, from Copper Canyon Press. This book has so many gems that I will use more of them in future blogs.
Trying to write a poem is like running off a cliff to see if you can fly. Most of the time you can’t, but every once in a while something happens. (Marvin Bell)
Poetry will not teach us how to live well, but it will incite in us the wish to. (David Constantine)
Poetry, like traditional music, is a product of, and a repayment to, community. (Bernard O’Donoghue)
Contemporary poets, alas, have prizes instead of readers. The number of poetry prizes in the land is astonishing…Such is their plenitude that one is almost inclined to think contemporary poetry less an art than a charity in need of constant donations. (Joseph Epstein)
Anthologies age as badly as fashion, and the pillbox hats and pearls of one generation must give way to the tattoos and tongue studs of another. (William Logan)
You can have all the language in the world but it will not add up unless you have actually something to say. (Gerald Dawe)
Bread is necessary; poetry isn’t necessary in the way cake isn’t necessary. Cake marks important occasions. Can you imagine living in a city without a bakery? Without cake? (Molly Peacock)
This is my white cat Tallulah looking out my office window this morning at freshly fallen snow. I'm OK with cold and snow in January and February--I do live in Maine, after all-- but once March arrives, I am DONE with it. Here is the first stanza of an Emily Dickinson poem called "Dear March." Dickinson, of course, lived in Amherst, Massachusetts 1830-1886, and her poems were not collected and published until after she died.
This poem has her signature eccentric dashes for punctuation, and the part I like best is personifying windy March as "out of breath."
Dear March Dear March--Come in-- How glad I am-- I hoped for you before-- Put down your Hat-- You must have walked-- How out of Breath you are-- Dear March, how are you, and the Rest-- Did you leave Nature well-- Oh March, Come right upstairs with me-- I have so much to tell--
Here is a short poem by Sir Charles George Douglas Roberts (1860-1943), not a well-known poet these days, but often called the father of Canadian poetry. He was one of the first Canadian writers to be known internationally and wrote both prose and poetry.
This concise poem wonderfully captures that hopeful sense of spring (very faint in February) waiting behind a frozen world. It moves us deftly from snow and cold to a glimpse of warmth and green.
THE BROOK IN FEBRUARY A snowy path for squirrel and fox, It winds between the wintry firs. Snow-muffled are its iron rocks, And o'er its stillness nothing stirs. But low, bend low a listening ear! Beneath the mask of moveless white A babbling whisper you shall hear-- Of birds and blossoms, leaves and light.
Some people find discarded Christmas trees to be sad. Not me. It's time to move into the new year. Much as I love the Christmas season, once it's over, I've had enough of the decorations. It's not as fun to pack it all up as it is to put it out, but I love the way my house feels uncluttered and serene once I've put everything away. (Eco-note: Most Maine towns collect trees and chip them into mulch; apparently goats love to eat them, too.) Here is a timely, bittersweet poem by Maine poet Ellen Taylor. Her Moon Pie Press books are HUMMING TO SNAILS (2005) and COMPASS ROSE (2015). Undecorating Alone I unhook the glass bulbs from needly fingers of pine, wrap them in folds of newsprint. Wooden ornaments require less care. They lie together in shoe boxes where they will spend the year nestled with attic mothballs and mice. Strings of lights fall like strands of pearls, and except for wisps of tinsel the tree is green once again. The crèche is packed away with tissue paper. All through Advent, baby Jesus has been moving from manger to apex of the stable roof because my nephew, almost five, has decided that if Jesus is God, then he should fly. Now the angels lie down with the shepherds, the sheep, the donkey, and the Holy Family are put to rest for another year. No one will help with the undecorating, I remember my mother saying. She is right. Perhaps it is a ceremony of one, one custodian sweeping up after the final performance, still humming the tune of the night’s final song. (copyright 2015 by Ellen Taylor; used with permission)
This beat up photo is of my brother, dad and me on Dad's sailboat La Boheme off Savannah, in 1982. My father learned to sail when he was almost 50 and fell in love with it. When he retired, our family and friends enjoyed many trips on the Intracoastal Waterway on La Boheme ("the gypsy"). This famous poem by John Masefield (1878-1967), British poet laureate from 1930 to 1967, reminds me of my father, who named his boat after his favorite opera. Dad died at 91 in Savannah in 2015.
Sea-Fever John Masefield
I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, And all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by; And the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, And a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking. I must go down to the seas again, for the call of the running tide Is a wild call and a clear call that may not be denied; And all I ask is a windy day with the white clouds flying, And the flung spray and the blown spume, and the sea-gulls crying. I must go down to the seas again, to the vagrant gypsy life, To the gull's way and the whale's way where the wind's like a whetted knife; And all I ask is a merry yarn from a laughing fellow-rover, And quiet sleep and a sweet dream when the long trick's over. (Poem is in the public domain.)
Massachusetts poet David McCann has had three books published by Moon Pie Press: SAME BIRD, LOST AND FOUND, and OUT OF WORDS. His latest book by Every Other Thursday Press is called THE UNDER STORY. This poem, from that book, is a nicely drawn childhood memory. David is a retired teacher of Korean literature at Harvard and has written a lot of poetry in the Korean sijo form. He has received numerous awards for his poetry.
Once in a Pickle
Shaler Lane, Cambridge, 1953
Down the Lane, around the corner, up a block, shop resting on its knees. Up three steps, open the door to dark space, shelves all around filled with this and that, bags and packages, cans, tons of stuff I never looked at, third grader. I thought Barrel! center of the store. Mrs. Holmes would lift the cover off. Deep below, they lurked, green monsters. "Nickel a pickle. You want?" "I want a hundred but I only have a dime." "Dime gets you three. One, two, three." She fished each one out, wax paper bag, handed it over. I dug out the dime. "Here you are, Mrs. Holmes. Thank you." "You're welcome," she said, big Mrs. Holmes smile. "And tell your mom, got cans, bags, all the specials still. To go." I went, made my way out the door, jumped down the stairs, pulled out a pickle and started my munch, big green pickle all the way back home.
Here is one of May Sarton's wonderful autumn sonnets. This was included in my mother's memorial service booklet. If I can let you go as trees let go Their leaves, so casually, one by one; I I can come to know what they do know, That fall is the release, the consummation, Then fear of time and the uncertain fruit Would not distemper the great lucid skies This strangest autumn, mellow and acute. If I can take the dark with open eyes And call it seasonal, not harsh or strange (For love itself may need a time of sleep), And treelike, stand unmoved before the change, Lose what I lose to keep what I can keep, The strong root still alive under the snow, Love will endure--if I can let you go. May Sarton (1912-1995)
Fall is my favorite time in Maine. We're starting to see a few colorful leaves. I don't usually post my own poetry, but this one is very timely. It is from my book THANK YOUR LUCKY STARS (Moon Pie Press, 2011) and is a pantoum, a poem form with very specific rhymes and repeating lines. I love seeing so many tourists streaming south out of Maine. Thanks for coming and keeping our economy afloat -- now please let us have our state back.
LABOR DAY WEEKEND, MAINE a river of traffic, tourists migrating south returning to places "the way life shouldn't be" Winnebagos hung with lawn chairs, bikes, canoes lemmings streaming away from the sea returning to places "the way life shouldn't be" wallets lighter, clothes tighter, cameras full lemmings streaming away from the sea we love their money but it's September now wallets lighter, clothes tighter, cameras full did Maine live up to their fantasies? we love their money but it's September now time to take back our roads, beaches, parks did Maine live up to their memories? those who stay turn our thoughts to winter time to take back our roads, beaches, parks and for a while, revel in the quiet, shorter days those who stay turn our thoughts to winter the visitors say goodbye and pack their cars full Winnebagos hung with with lawn chairs, bikes, canoes-- a river of traffic thundering south
I think successful light or humorous verse is harder to write than one might think. It has an honored place in poetry, at least for me. Here is a fresh example from Portland, Maine poet John McVeigh. (Used with permission.) John's Moon Pie Press collection of poetry is called BURNING CHAIRS (2013) and is available from our website. And by the way, that's a terrific song.
CHEEK TO CHEEK
"and I seem to find the happiness I seek.." ("Cheek to Cheek", song written by Irving Berlin for the 1935 movie "Top Hat" with Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers.)
After the many indignities of an overnight in the hospital--
and there are many, from the open-backed gown
to the 1 AM and 4 AM forced wake-ups for medication
to peeing in a container so that measurements can be made--
"Ooh! Nice pee! Good color!" the chipper night nurse says--
to the hacking and snoring of my unknown roommate
on the other side of the curtain
to the 99 channels of crappy cable TV,
it comes as a relief in the morning when the bedsore patrol arrives.
Yes, they do have to see my skin, and yes, all of it, so
could I roll to this side, oh, OK, now to the other side, yes, good.
Thank you, sir. No, thank you, ma'm, a delight.
And my heart beats so that I can hardly speak
when we're out together dancing cheek to cheek.
Here's a timely poem/song from the archives of Prairie Home Companion, written by Garrison Keillor. PORCH SONG It’s summer and some people head for the woods, Canoe wild streams to show they’ve got the goods, Hiking and biking and running outdoors, But I think I’ll just go out and lie on my porch. Just give me two pillows and a bottle of Schmidt, And a big plate of snacks I can reach where I sit, And a book about nature, and please will someone Go get my sunglasses, I don’t care for sun. To all outdoor persons I take off my hat, They’re young, tan, and trim; I am old, white, and fat. But I love my porch, I could sit here all day Just drinking toasts to the BWCA. Just give me two pillows and a bottle of beer, And the Twins game on radio next to my ear, Some hark to the voice of the loon or the teal, But I love the voice of Herb Carneal. I think of those joggers out running around. It makes me tired, I have to lie down. Someday a team of researchers will find That jogging is harmful, it joggles your mind. Give me two pillows and a bottle of Guinness. Please don’t come in and say, “How about tennis?” ’cause I don’t like sweating, and I don’t like to lose, And as long as you’re up, would you take off my shoes? Within two weeks’ vacation, I sent for brochures Describing excursions and cruises and tours. They were lovely, full color, and they made quite a stack, And I read them all through lying flat on my back. Just give me two pillows and a bottle of Pabst. I once was a traveler, but my interest lapsed. I went thousands of miles the natives to see, They were sitting on porches and laughing at me. Oh, the storms should be put on and that front door needs planing. The window’s broken, the roof leaks when it’s raining. But life’s too short to just work it away, And besides, it don’t seem to be raining today. Just give me two pillows and a bottle of Löwenbräu. Please don’t come in and say, “We should be goin’ now.” Keep all your schedules, calendars, and your dates. He also serves who just lies here and waits. Well, soon my old porch will be filled up with snow, And one of these days I must get up and go And put on my coat, pull a cap on my head, Put on my warm boots and crawl into bed.
One of the many gifts of June is fresh local strawberries. Here is a sexy poem by Scottish poet Edwin Morgan (1920-2010) on that very subject. For a swoon-worthy rendition, check out Tom Hiddleston reading this poem on YouTube.
STRAWBERRIES There were never strawberries like the ones we had that sultry afternoon sitting on the step of the open french window facing each other your knees held in mine the blue plates in our laps the strawberries glistening in the hot sunlight we dipped them in sugar looking at each other not hurrying the feast for one to come the empty plates laid on the stone together with the two forks crossed and I bent towards you sweet in that air in my arms abandoned like a child from your eager mouth the taste of strawberries in my memory lean back again let me love you let the sun beat on our forgetfulness one hour of all the heat intense and summer lightning on the Kilpatrick hills let the storm wash the plates
from The Second Life, Edinburgh University Press, 1968
This lovely short piece is by English poet A.E. Housman (1859-1936), who wrote just two slim (and beloved) volumes of verse: A Shropshire Lad, published at his own expense in 1896, and Last Poems, 1922. This poem is from A Shropshire Lad.
Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.
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Here in Maine spring comes too slowly, but we are inordinately glad to see any signs. We’re still running our furnaces and wearing fleece, but the sun is stronger and the world is finally greening and showing color. As more of us get vaccinated, we can glimpse some freedom ahead. And National Poetry month is here to remind us of poetry’s enduring pleasures.
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Lawrence Ferlinghetti died on February 22, almost 102 years old. He was a poet, publisher, journalist, bookseller and visual artist, very famous for his City Lights Bookstore, established in 1953 in San Francisco, California and still going strong, and his gutsiness in publishing Beat poetry. Ferlinghetti was an excellent poet himself. His book A CONEY ISLAND OF THE MIND is one of the best-selling poetry books of all time. This poem is from his book A FAR ROCKAWAY OF THE HEART, published in 1997.
A Far Rockaway Of The Heart
Driving a cardboard automobile without a license
at the turn of the century
my father ran into my mother
on a fun-ride at Coney Island
having spied each other eating
in a French boardinghouse nearby
And having decided right there and then
that she was for him entirely
he followed her into
the playland of that evening
where the headlong meeting
of their ephemeral flesh on wheels
hurtled them forever together
And now I in the back seat
of their eternity
reaching out to embrace them
The Things by Donald Hall (from The Back Chamber, 2011)
When I walk in my house I see pictures,
bought long ago, framed and hanging
–de Kooning, Arp, Laurencin, Henry Moore–
that I’ve cherished and stared at for years,
yet my eyes keep returning to the masters
of the trivial–a white stone perfectly round,
tiny lead models of baseball players, a cowbell,
a broken great-grandmother’s rocker,
a dead dog’s toy–valueless, unforgettable
detritus that my children will throw away
as I did my mother’s souvenirs of trips
with my dead father. Kodaks of kittens,
and bundles of cards from her mother Kate.
Painting: “Red Armchair In Pink Interior”, Lara Lee Meintjes
This poem seems relevant since we have all been cooped up at home so much in the past year. We are so familiar with the choices we’ve made of things to fill our houses. This peculiar time may inspire some to downsize and declutter, or at least ponder what is most important emotionally. I’ve had closet cleaning on my to-do list for a long time, but am not very motivated to get to it. I still have a cardboard box of family photos and artifacts that I had shipped to myself after my mother died. I can’t muster up the courage or energy to go through it. No one will want most of it when I die. I know that sifting through it will bring up a lot of memories and feelings, sad but also nostalgic.
I have never been so glad to put a year behind me as 2020. On top of the obvious stuff like the tension around the election, a global pandemic, economic hard times and isolation, on Dec. 28 my beloved Maine coon cat “George Cooney” died at age 17. George was extraordinarily friendly, smart and beautiful. His mother and her kittens were rescued from a street in downtown Portland. Here he is at 6 months old. I miss him a lot. Thank you to my friend Kevin Sweeney, excellent poet and cat lover, for this wonderful poem, which seems appropriate.
Chaplinesque Hart Crane (1899-1931)
We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits
In slithered and too ample pockets. /
For we can still love the world, who find
A famished kitten on the step, and know
Recesses for it from the fury of the street,
Or warm torn elbow converts. /
We will sidestep, and to the final smirk
Dally the doom of that inevitable thumb
That slowly chafes its puckered index toward us,
Facing the dull squint with what innocence
And what surprise!/
And yet these fine collapses are not lies
More than the pirouettes of any pliant cane;
Our obsequies are, in a way, no enterprise.
We can evade you, and all else but the heart:
What blame to us if the heart live on./
The game enforces smirks; but we have seen
The moon in lonely alleys make
A grail of laughter of an empty ash can,
And through all sound of gaiety and quest
Have heard a kitten in the wilderness.
This is my kitten Tallulah watching it snow last year. In southern Maine we are supposed to get 2 to 5 inches tomorrow evening. Here is a thought-provoking poem by Louis MacNeice (1907-1963) from The Collected Poems of Louis MacNeice, copyright 1967.
SNOW
The room was suddenly rich and the great bay-window was
Spawning snow and pink roses against it
Soundlessly collateral and incompatible:
World is suddener than we fancy it.
Read the rest of this entryIn this pandemic year where it is not safe to travel, books and television have become even more important to me. I’m a fan of Scandinavian noir–mysteries set in Sweden, Finland, Iceland, or Norway. Henning Mankell and his Wallander series of books are one of my favorites. I very much enjoyed two Scandinavian TV series: “The Bridge” and “The Restaurant.” Be sure to watch the Swedish version of “The Bridge”, which is the best. It’s dark but absolutely compelling. “The Restaurant” is a three season series set in Stockholm on the Roku Channel and Sundance Now, very popular in Europe, which I think is as good as “Downton Abbey”– terrific production values, acting and costumes. Thank goodness for ebooks from the library, Netflix and Prime. Now if we can just get to the end of this very difficult year. I think better times are ahead and hope that you feel that way, too.
Here is an unusual poem by Gwendolyn Brooks. One of its themes compares the waning of the year to aging. From Selected Poems, copyright 1963. (Please forgive the slashes between stanzas. I haven’t yet figured out the much more complicated new version of WordPress. I will!)
A Sunset of the City
Already I am no longer looked at with lechery or love.
My daughters and sons have put me away with marbles and dolls,
Are gone from the house.
My husband and lovers are pleasant or somewhat polite
And night is night.
/
It is a real chill out,
The genuine thing.
I am not deceived, I do not think it is still summer
Because sun stays and birds continue to sing.
/
It is summer-gone that I see, it is summer-gone.
The sweet flowers indrying and dying down,
The grasses forgetting their blaze and consenting to brown.
/
It is a real chill out. The fall crisp comes.
I am aware there is winter to heed.
There is no warm house
That is fitted with my need.
I am cold in this cold house this house
Whose washed echoes are tremulous down lost halls.
I am a woman, and dusty, standing among new affairs.
I am a woman who hurries through her prayers.
/
Tin intimations of a quiet core to be my
Desert and my dear relief
Come: there shall be such islanding from grief,
And small communion with the master shore.
Twang they. And I incline this ear to tin,
Consult a dual dilemma. Whether to dry
In humming pallor or to leap and die.
/
Somebody muffed it? Somebody wanted to joke.
Here is a poem by T.E. Hulme (1883-1917), an influential English critic and poet who has been called the father of imagism. He was killed in action in Flanders at age 34.
AUTUMN
A touch of cold in the Autumn night–
I walked abroad,
And saw the ruddy moon lean over a hedge
Like a red-faced farmer.
I did not stop to speak, but nodded,
And round about were the wistful stars
With white faces like town children.
When I was a child, we had a copy of Robert Louis Stevenson’s A CHILD’s GARDEN OF VERSES in the house, and I was fond of reading it over and over. The book first appeared in 1885 and has been reprinted many times with different illustrators. This is a poem from that book that I think has stood the test of time. It captures the longing a child has to prolong a summer day.
BED IN SUMMER
In winter I get up at night
And dress by yellow candle-light.
In summer, quite the other way,
I have to go to bed by day.
I have to go to bed and see
The birds still hopping on the tree,
Or hear the grown-up people’s feet
Still going past me on the street.
And does it not seem hard to you,
When all the sky is clear and blue,
And I should like so much to play,
To have to go to bed by day?
Here is a summer poem set in the city, by William Matthews (1942-1997).
The details in this poem pile up to evoke an uneasy, rather sad feeling.
MORNINGSIDE HEIGHTS, JULY
Haze. Three student violinists boarding
a bus. A clatter of jackhammers.
Granular light. A film of sweat for primer
and the heat for a coat of paint.
A man and a woman on a bench:
she tells him he must be psychic,
for how else could he sense, even before she knew,
that she’d need to call it off? A bicyclist
fumes by with a coach’s whistle clamped
hard between his teeth, shrilling like a teakettle
on the boil. I never meant, she says.
But I thought, he replies. Two cabs almost
collide; someone yells fuck in Farsi.
I’m sorry, she says. The comforts
of loneliness fall in like a bad platoon.
The sky blurs–there’s a storm coming
up or down. A lank cat slinks liquidly
around a corner. How familiar
it feels to feel strange, hollower
than a bassoon. A rill of chill air
in the leaves. A car alarm. Hail.
The moon, of course, is the subject of thousands of poems. I was thinking about this looking at a sharp moon in a very clear sky in Maine last night. Here is a poem by Carl Sandburg (1878-1967), a somewhat out-of-fashion but marvelous poet. He won three Pulitizers, two for his poetry and one for his biography of Lincoln.
Back Yard
Shine on, o moon of summer.
Shine to the leaves of grass, catalpa and oak,
All silver under your rain to-night.
An Italian boy is sending songs to you to-night from an accordion.
A Polish boy is out with his best girl; they marry next month;
to-night they are throwing you kisses.
An old man next door is dreaming over a sheen that sits in a
cherry tree in his back yard.
The clocks say I must go–I stay here sitting on the back porch drinking
white thoughts you rain down.
Shine on, o moon,
Shake out more and more silver changes.
Today is poet Gary Snyder’s 90th birthday, as Garrison Keillor reminded us on The Writer’s Almanac. I first read and loved his poetry when I was a college student in California in 1969. Here is a poem of Snyder’s from his book AXE HANDLES, copyright 1983 by Gary Snyder.
AXE HANDLES
One afternoon the last week in April
Showing Kai how to throw a hatchet
One-half turn and it sticks in a stump.
He recalls the hatchet-head
Without a handle, in the shop
And go gets it, and wants it for his own.
A broken-off axe handle behind the door
Is long enough for a hatchet,
We cut it to length and take it
With the hatchet head
And working hatchet, to the wood block.
There I begin to shape the old handle
With the hatchet, and the phrase
First learned from Ezra Pound
Rings in my ears!
“When making an axe handle
the pattern is not far off.”
And I say this to Kai
“Look: We’ll shape the handle
By checking the handle
Of the axe we cut with–”
And he sees. And I hear it again:
It’s in Lu Ji’s Wen Fu, fourth century
A.D. “Essay On Literature”–in the
Preface: “In making the handle
Of an axe
By cutting wood with an axe
The model is indeed near at hand.”
My teacher Shih-hsiang Chen
Translated that and taught it years ago
And I see: Pound was an axe,
Chen was an axe, I am an axe
And my son a handle, soon
To be shaping again, model
And tool, craft of culture,
How we go on.
This is the loneliest National Poetry Month in my memory, with no live readings. It’s heartening that creative people are figuring out new ways to share poetry on Zoom, YouTube and other platforms. As clever as these virtual events are, nothing can take the place of a live audience in the same room as a reader. The strange “new normal” we’re living in seems like the right time to post this simple, powerful poem about not taking being healthy, or one’s comforting routines, for granted. It’s a favorite of mine by the late New Hampshire poet Jane Kenyon. (from Collected Poems, copyright 2005 by the Estate of Jane Kenyon.)
OTHERWISE
I got out of bed
on two strong legs.
It might have been
otherwise. I ate
cereal, sweet
milk, flawless
peach. It might
have been otherwise.
I took the dog uphill
to the birch wood.
All morning I did
the work I love.
At noon I lay down
with my mate. It might
have been otherwise.
We ate dinner together
at a table with silver
candlesticks. It might
have been otherwise.
I slept in a bed
in a room with paintings
on the walls, and
planned another day
just like this day,
But one day, I know,
it will be otherwise.
freshmoonpie 