Sunday, August 9, 2015

Good turnout for Coffeeshop Writers' Group - Poems: Couperin - Wanted

Linda finished up The New Toy, her version of Gulliver's Travels, a marvel of her imagination.

Lemuel goes from tall to small, including his teeny little weeny, which is noticed by the family children. Lemuel wants to have an affair with the children's mother, so how the heck is he gonna grow into his usual size.

To do so, he's gotta phone his female voodoo assistant. But how can he dial the phone when he's only an inch tall?

In fact, someone said, "How the hell is he gonna dial the phone."

He manages, or should I say Linda manages to make it happen.

Filled with humor.


I had to call her up to tell her she got TWO POEMS in Hektoen International, a collection of great medical writings. Hektoen wrote to thank me for introducing Linda to their mag.


Beatriz shared an important letter she wrote - Dear Mary - pointing out some dreadful errors that appear in a nature book, in which some of B's work is featured.

The author of the book shows extraordinary ignorance about a particular species, which must be corrected in the second edition.

We helped her write the letter with compassion and thanking Mary for the copy of the book. 

Oh, hello Floyd! He emailed us the next installation of his 'work memoirs.' He was a boss and was responsible for chastising various jerks who cheated the company out of money or products or left early or slept at the job.

He had a strategy for confronting these dudes and would often arrive late to the meetings, letting the rest of the committee attack the accused before he arrived.


Martha got a new lightweight Fuji camera, - highly rated - a gift from husband David.

Her long, visual poem Train Ride to Reading Terminal was a compelling travelogue that made you want to follow her down. She hadn't been there in decades.

Even her 15-yo granddaughter Brianna, who played it cool, could not hide her enjoyment of this amazing place where cultures of all sorts were represented by their food, signs, and clothing.

Even the homeless had a place there. In a new twist, a social work station has been set up to help feed and house the homeless.


Donna Krause brought in three pages of her memoir. We all agreed it was a good outline which she will fill in.

She's had a remarkable life, an Italian woman growing up in a huge family, where tragedies of monumental proportions took place. She and her late mother, an RN, were sprinkled with bipolar fireworks which endangered their lives.

Here I am wearing my fave summer dress. This morning I worked for three hours writing "Laura's Wish" about a very bright woman with autism who cannot speak but writes fluently. I alternate between quoting Laura's mom, prez of the fictitious Greater Philadelphia Autism Society, and Laura herself.

Exceedingly difficult to write b/c I had no idea what was gonna happen next. Later today I jogged with Cousin Lloyd, an 86-yo Manhattan psychologist, who came up with a fantastic, relevant idea about what Laura will do. The title will have to be changed.

I also wrote two poems. Don't breathe a word, but I think I've lost my touch.

François Couperin (French: [fʁɑ̃swa kupʁɛ̃]; 10 November 1668 – 11 September 1733) was a French Baroque composer, organist and harpsichordist. He was known as Couperin le Grand ("Couperin the Great") to distinguish him from other members of the musically talented Couperin family.

Image result for harpsichord


I have chosen a disk of Couperin
to accompany me while I write, 
the trills and cadences on the
harpsichord like tiny birds
winging past my upstairs window. 
The man whose fingers with
well-clipped nails lay themselves
across the keys was a teacher
of mine at Goddard College.
Ray McIntire.
A serious man with horn-rimmed glasses
now living in southern California. 
Is his young wife Kathy with
the lovely quizzical eyebrows
still with him?

I was once cooped up in a
small windowless practice room
at Goddard, rehearsing my
Bach Preludes and Fugues
for Ray McIntire. And chewing
gum. The sounds of the notes
from black keys and white
flew around like blackbirds
choreographed by Twyla Tharp.

As I write in my upstairs office,
back to the door, with Couperin
spinning on the boom box
I can't help but wonder
Would Ray McIntire remember
my name?

Image result for cane and abe book


I pull up in the left-turn lane
and wait for the light to change. A
driver with a fat watch waits in the
lane next to mine.

Does he know?
Does he recognize me?
I am wanted for the murder
of my wife in Dade County Florida

My audio book chants on and on.
Sometimes one of the characters,
a man called J T, shouts out loud
cursing and yelling out my name.

It's only a book yet I lower my
head as I wait for the light to
change. Our hero we know is
innocent. He's failed a polygraph test,
but still we know he didn't kill
Angelina, his wife with the
beautiful name.

Rules of the game:
I can only listen to
the book while I
drive. Two more
shiny disks to go.

At night in bed
under the ceiling fan and
listening to the call of
the cicadas
I imagine myself
going out to the car
under the bright moon
and silver stars and
sliding into the front seat.

I will drive however long it
takes, heading south toward
Miami, to find out if
the kidnapped wife is found
alive and the poor bastard
accused of the crime

Truthfully, I never
liked the wife. We’re
not supposed to. My guess is
she’s still alive and they’ll

The hero, though free, will
suffer in the hands of his
wife for the rest of his days
unless he comes to his senses.

Which is why I'll take a bowl of
peanuts out to the car, turn on
the ignition, and slowly drive
around the block, following
my jogging path.

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