Am gonna put the text in here and then run downstairs to put in the new photos.
Hold on! Found this short video by writer Ian McEwan on love in writing fiction.
Linda and I are always late as we complete our selection for the week.
Linda wrote a terrific poem for her nephew Graham called MY REASON FOR RUNNING. Good lines include "freshly washed sunlight... unrelenting grey rain... blinding light shock of rain."
He'll love it, we assured her. His mom does not appreciate Linda's poetry prowess. She also wrote two autumn poems, one about a Bonfire.
We're a little coterie of writers. We stay in our own world. My family is not interested in my work, with the exception of my sister Lynn, who is one of my "readers."
Beatriz wrote one of her essays on a pollinator we'd never heard of.
The crab spider. She showed us many pix of this crafty fellow who camouflages himself like any good soldier would and then springs for his prey. His appetite is rapacious - what mean dat? - and he likes worms, which he divides up in segments, saving them for his little ones.
Donna's new poem BLACK MOON was brutally honest about her family members. Bc she has bipolar disorder, she will not be allowed to hold the new baby.
Cruel and misinformed.
She was just published in Twisted Sister. Look, you can read all her poems here, including Black Moon.
BRUSH WITH HEAVEN was Martha's piece about a close call with death. Dyou believe she had heart failure? Based on a kidney infection that affected her heart.
The Abington hospital docs and nurses were wonderful. And of course her late parents made an appearance. Dad told her Don't give these good people a hard time, while Mom said, It's not your time.
She also brought in a poem.
All booted up, I was the first to arrive. Brought Triscuits and Gouda cheese as a snack. B provided banana chips. The word chip referring to the possibility of it chipping your tooth OR continuing with a chip on your shoulder.
The idea for my new short story came while I was in the kitchen preparing my omelet and listening to TIS by the late Frank McCourt.
I would write about life in a nursing home, do it in several parts, before our hero Sean McNally goes to an assisted living home.
The words poured out of me nonstop. So far, it's only two pages. Part One and Part Two. People liked it, tho I haven't reviewed their comments which is important to do.
I'm reading the columns of one Colson Whitehead, author of the new book Underground Railroad. The writing in his columns is divine, but basically a waste of time. You don't learn anything, but he'll give you a good laff and upon occasion you'll learning, such as Get to the point, don't use five words, when one word will do.
Read him here.
Colson, I'm listening to Call the Midwife in the car. When I'm finished, your book is next. It's resting comfortably in a little pouch.
The night before our meeting, I was watching the Japanese News called NHK. Some news item showed a man bounding down the stairs. How gracefully he danced down.
Gotta write a poem about dat, I thinks. So for the writers group I wrote six movement poems, but then on the radio last night I heard something about swimming naked in the a lake in Breton. Wow, what a good topic I thought, so this morning I wrote my seventh movement poem.
Lemme know what you think. Now, I'll run downstairs, boot on but feeling better bc I put long pants over it, so it feels more normalized.
SEVEN POEMS ON MOVEMENT
Adam, oh, we all like Adam
sits a’chair staring at computer screen
waiting to be interrupted
straightbacked and stiff,
as if there’s back trouble,
it’s only from being in the orchestra pit
of the librarian’s chair.
“Whazzup?” he asks, a quick
smile lighting up his cheeks
like an apple best eaten slowly.
MAN IN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA
A far-off lens portrays a man
running down the stairs, outdoor
stairs in southern California, arms
swinging at his sides, as if he has
practiced for years, each leg bending
at the knee and thigh and ankle,
going faster, faster, faster, and
I shout Instant Replay but the
screen has turned black.***
THE CREPE MYRTLE IS LATE FOR THE BALL
A southern belle, forced by her owner
to bloom up here, she caught a cold,
and stood lifeless in the front yard.
She twisted her infected branches and
looked up at the sky. Are ya done with
me? she asked. I've lived here five years
dancing in place to the Nutcracker Suite.
Cold showers from the hose bathed her
withered limbs, like Whitman did
the dying. More cold showers up
and down her once famously beautiful
body, the ballerina.
She was tough, she was resilient, she
refused to die. Her beauty's returned
the Belle of Cowbell Road.
THE MAN AT THE STARBUCKS
How can anyone stand so straight?
How can anyone have hair like that?
White, all white, with a tiny ponytail
peacock-proud to ornament
the man in line.
Tall, he bent toward the aproned
barista. I’ll have Decaf, he
said. Here was a man who would
sleep well at night.
I’ll make a fresh cup, said she.
And I heard all, my head turning
as I waited for my pumpkin spice
latte, which I could barely pronounce.
Later, at table, I sat at a distance
my curiosity aroused like a calico
cat sniffing round the cake plate
Whatever was he reading, as his
white head dipped deep into the
paperback book. A man who
would rouse the stars to dream about.
WAITING IN LINE
The line wasn’t long.
I forgot that I don’t have
to be busy every minute
so I stopped reading
the book I would buy.
Real life is more important
than any history book you’ll
buy for your son’s fortieth.
A woman with gleaming white
hair, the color of the noonday
sun, was leaning over, laughing.
Good thing I have insomnia,
she said. There’s a million
cable channels and nothing is….
Yeah yeah. As I read in bed
last night, All the Light You Cannot
See, the Gloaming White was
somewhere in the area, reading
herself to sleep, as Dr Amen, Patrick
Stoner, and Patti Paige sang me
Spider skittered around the
slippery porcelain sink with
its bits of spinach and peanuts
the journey of his life, trying
to get free before more cold
water came pouring down
A shroud covered his head,
with quivering posterior
he injected his venom to
no avail, and was thrown
down a high place, tumbling
tumbling, eight legs
a-tremble, no web to
carry him down.
She and he were seen from
the window swimming. The still
moon lit up each naked body.
Look at that slim white arm
curling from the water, up,
then splash, slender as a
ribbon. He was nearby, the
hair on his arms flattened down
like fleece, bubbles spitting
from his mouth. The watcher
goes back to bed, listening
to their splashes – they sound
like celebratory ducks – as
He and She embrace like
majesties, then head for the
locker room on shore.