I love these people: Our writing group / 2 poems: The Lucky Seven and Juno

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I was wolfing down my lunch and printing out eight copies of my poem Juno and only two copies of The Lucky Seven cuz I knew we probly wouldn't have time for me to present both poems.

More than anything in the world, I care about my writing. I went thru a prodigious poetry writing period sev'l yrs ago and am terrified my new poems are not as good. Practically nothing can convince me otherwise.

I stopped entering writing contests. Too demoralizing. We've gotta take c/o our fragile egos. I sure do.

When I walked into the writer's group, Bob Strange presented me with a gift.

Congratulations, the group said, when I walked in.

Thank you, I said, puzzled. What are you congratulating me for?

For finishing your novel.

Oh! Thanks. Yes, I finished the first draft. We actually had a newcomer to the group who's working on her first novel. I said truthfully to the whole group, If I could write a novel, anybody can.

Carolyn, our newcomer, and a librarian, had written a 25-chapter outline. If you can write an outline, you can write a book. I can't write an outline, but I wrote a book. There are no hard and fast rules, except Get the damn thing done any way you can.

Bob gave me the gift in a Barnes and Nobel bag. I felt it first before I opened it. The feel of it reminded me, I told Bob, of my father's pigskin-covered Merriam-Webster dictionary I took w/me wherever I moved - Goddard College in VT, to my married life in TX - until the thing actually fell apart. I used to write unusual words in the front. When my dad was a kid, he read the entire dictionary. We are word people, the Greenwolds, plus my writer daughter, Sarah Lynn and my blogger son, Dan the Man.

The gift was a brown soft-skinned diary inscribed by each member of the writers' group. How incredibly thoughtful. I love these people. On the cover of the diary are these immortal words from Hamlet which end in:

whether 'tis nobler in
the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows
of outrageous fortune
OR to take arms against
a sea of troubles, and
by opposing end them?

Judy was our group leader. Per Bob's suggestion, each session is run by a different leader. Great idea!

The writing quality is high. Chris Walsh surprised us with an absolutely first-rate self-portrait of when he worked at a Texaco gas station. As Bob said, "It's your best writing, Chris."

Here's the amazing thing. Chris had no idea how good it was. Some of us just don't know when we write well. I'm certainly like that. I was really surprised they liked my two poems.

Here's a rundown of our Saturday group:

Chris, who drives a garbage truck, wrote something that if he continues at his current pace can be a tiny masterpiece of life at a gas station. His characters stand out and the dialog is real. All he needs is a few well-developed "conflicts." (I learned that word in my novel-writing course.)

Linda, who I quoted in my most recent newspaper piece as: leading "the pack in number of poems written, sometimes three per day when not working at the Giant Supermarket," read two poems.

Our group agreed that the second one needed some work. We are not afraid of telling people the truth in a nice way. My comment to her was, "Sounds like a teacher assigned you to write all your thoughts about LOVE in five minutes." Paddy Marie tactfully picked up the strand by saying Linda's work reminded her of a particular writing book, which Linda said she owns.

Paddy Marie, a retired schoolteacher, is the most emotional of all nine of us. Her laughter rings out like a golden chandelier shedding its light across the room. She wrote a moving poem about herself and her siblings, a total of five, "ducklings" all in a row, except for one of them who walked off into the water. He died. It was very moving. It reminded me of We are Seven by Wordsworth.

As always, Judy read a terrific vignette about when she was a secretary. She has a great eye for detail.

Not everyone read which gave me the opportunity to read The Lucky Seven which is about our bipolar support group. The poem is basically true. Names are changed of course. I read it matter/factly having lived the life for so long I take our illness for granted. But to people who don't know about it, they couldn't believe what we endure.

Nurse Barb was there and teaches her students at Abington Hospital about the illness. The poem didn't surprise her. I was recently invited to speak to a class of Christian social workers and will read this poem to them.

I thought I might offer it to the Psychiatric Times to see if they'd publish it. It's very instructive, I think, of the importance of support groups. We did discuss in our writers' group my "panties" comment, whether to leave it in or not. The consensus was Keep it in. Of course, it makes me sound pretty nutty, but I guess you could verily say that about me.

JUNO

I can barely say her name
she is too meaningful for me
the world is written
with her name

once
I wrote a poem about her
pretending all was well
that I wanted her to cut my hair
instead of crying
- s t o p ! –

the look of her is more than I can bear
head chugging forward when she walks
feet shuffling across the linoleum –
pick them up dammit! –
eighty-seven is no excuse for
pretending to be an old lady
and seeming to like it,
the attention,

that was keen
the other night, mom,
when you fell out of bed,
can’t you be kinder to yourself
pretend you love that part of you
that was battered when you were young
- oh, how they hated you -
push your teeth in, bucky,
stand tall like your brother
how you gave it back to me
your first-born

I can’t stand my sentimentality
that still begs to go back:
sit me in the chair, mother
and say this time
I like your hair long, ruthie,
we’ll let it grow
grow down to your feet like a mermaid’s
so I can sweep you up in my arms, my daughter,
my own perfect little daughter.


THE LUCKY SEVEN

We sat in a circle in folding chairs,
the lucky seven,
I was wearing a party dress that showed my curves
forgot to wear my panties, tho, so kept my legs together.

Paul spoke. For the first time I liked him.
Not because he used to be a radio D-J or
his mother was dying in a nursing home
but because he banged his head against the wall
when his daughter hung up on him.

The newcomer was diagnosed two days ago.
He knew nothing about his illness.
He was 22, led the life of a gallant well-
dressed pimp
but now guilt pressed him flat in his chair
- a run-over worm.

I stared at him. Nice contrast of
ebony skin the color of a Chinese lacquer box
and peach-colored palms he clenched
in his lap.

He began his confession,
looking down and talking staccato.
I touched his shoulder. Keep some
secrets for yourself, I said. We don’t need to
know ev-ery-thing.

The dam began to leak and
Harry, who worked for a drug company,
talked about his rampant sexuality when manic,
laughed when he talked about the women he made love to,
the wife taking off with the
house and the kids.

The newcomer nodded.
You mean it happened to you, too?

It happened to all of us, I say.

Harry told about writing fifty pages of
notes
only two months ago during his last mania.
”Hypergraphia,” I said, mouthing the gorgeous syllables of a
new word I’d just learned.
Mine, I threw away after 20 years hidden in the bottom drawer,
useless horseshit.

The newcomer wanted more symptoms.
I handed him a brochure. Everything has a
name, I said. Whatever you did, they’ve already
named it. They’re pretty smart.

Well, if they’re so smart, he said, why can’t they
fix it?

Well, they’re not that smart, I said.

The newcomer was guilt-ridden over his
sexual escapades. Used the word ‘evil’ to
describe himself.
C’mon, I said. Something big comes over us. We
light up. We glow. Arrive with a halo for godsakes.
We’re like lightning bugs in the dark.
We blink.
Think of the evolutionary possibilities if you’re a
man. Populating your side of the island.

Paul, the guy I finally liked, talked about his old
man shooting his brains out.
Oh no, I thought, now we’ve gotta explain
we kill ourselves to the newcomer.

Derek, I said, turning toward him, there’s
something you need to know.

I know it already, he said. I was 9 when I first got
out the rope.

Hallelujah, brother, I said, slapping his hand.
Well, that’s just fine, Derek. You know everything now.
You can relax and start enjoying yourself.

POSTCRIPT: I think Beth Lindsey, my reincarnated psychiatrist, would've liked these poems. What say you, Beth? I'll look out my window for a sign.

Beth - There are signs all over.