And it inspired a poem. From my night stand, I retrieved a tiny notepad and pen and jotted down the idea to write for my Writers' Group today. Another poem idea was in there as well.
The group begins at 1:30. I began the poem at noon, after revising a short story called The Door of Justice, which I'll send out to an online publication. The Coffeeshoppers will review it for me.
Here's the answer. Sort of. I say, sort of, b/c one of my son's three cats is a calico - and a male.
Beatriz brought one of her great nature essays, this time about Bumble Bees. Her online nature posts get a thousand hits!
Titled Bumble Bees: Panda Bears of the Insect World, we learn amazing facts of these pollinators of tomatoes. They only sting when they are direly threatened, but unlike honey bees, they do not die. Any time you like, you may pet the bumble bee, which is also called, upon occasion, the humble bee in the UK.
So, when our tomatoes are planted in May, you will find me out petting their soft fur. And, sez Beatriz, they hum in the key of C-minor, to shake off the pollen from their bodies and onto the plants.
C-minor, accdg to Wiki, is used for powerful and turbulent pieces. Beethoven wrote some powerful works in this key, as did Mozart, tho before Mozart it was hardly used.
The bees are too busy with their work to notice you petting their soft hairs.
Martha in purple, looking unusually nice, presented a beautiful poem, "Time," which everyone loved."May I use it in the Compass?" I asked. "Yes," she said.
See, one of our poets contributed three dark poems and I wanna replace it with something more upbeat and, indeed, philosophical.
Editor's choice.
Do you?
Arlene emailed us three vignettes that were classroom writing assignments when we took our dreadful writing class at Abington Adult Evening School. Believe it or not, the same teacher, K, is teaching it again. All she does is talk about herself and how she had the good fortune to marry a doctor who was caring for her in the hospital. Maybe he likes blabbermouths. Maybe it helps him fall asleep.
Raise your hand if you have trouble falling asleep. Hey, I see you-all out there. Why, every single one of my readers, except B, has trouble falling asleep.
Arlene's well-titled vignettes were so good we suggested she submit to some online publications.
We also discussed the importance of doing two things:
Refining old pieces we've done, but working on new ones as well. We all have these same concerns. That's why it's great getting together with fellow writers.
Donna Krause wrote a passionate poem called "Sam's Renewal." She will polish it a bit. Had a great ending.
Did we leave anyone out?
Hmmm.
Oh! The Belle! The Belle of Cowbell Road.
The following are two poems in progress:
I ROWED LAST NIGHT
They picked me
They chose me
I was someone
They liked me
I followed them
through the lowlands
trotting behind
they balanced a canoe
high over their heads
like pallbearers with coffin
They were regular-sized
big people
adults
my shortness
makes me feel like a child
still does
Stars sparkled above
like a navy quilt back home
in Cleveland
but I was away
for the very first time
away and
alone
A hush came over us
we saw it in the distance
a glistening river
called the Winooski
heard the lapping of the waters
black waters meeting black sky
Seven big people
inched the canoe into the shallows
I heard the pebbles crunching
my ankles getting wet
I had never been in a canoe
and liked the rocking motion
the lapping of the waves
against the metal boat
I dipped my oar in the water
felt strong and powerful as
my little muscles worked hard
I trailed my hand in the water
so cold it burnt my hand
and in that moment, Ecstasy!
We stopped beyond the waterfall
Barbara pulled out a jug
passed it around
and the wine flowed down my chin
the first wine I drank that was not
for Rosh Hashanah
This was the beginning of my life
life away from Mom and Dad
and four little sisters and a
brother, autistic, who died
of an overdose.
But I am still alive
fifty years later
my freckles faded
hair gone gray
children of my own
rowing boats
of their own
Lying in bed under my ceiling fan
I am still eighteen
yet to know a man
or slip into a pair of sandals
swooning with joy on the Winooski
under the stars in Plainfield, Vermont,
Goddard College,
with the new taste of freedom
strong as the wine
Why is it
everyone has a
house of his own?
Now that the children
have grown and I live
in a wooden house
with a yellow vinyl overcoat
should I not move back home?
Mother is there
living with my sister Ellen
each wanting to be master
of the home Mother built
I imagine them coming
to blows over the
proper way to boil an egg
Should not decency
require me to move back
and sell this three-bedroom
shack
closets filled
with more coats than I need
and a broken Selectric
that forgot how to type?
We know the answer, says I,
sweeping guilt aside like hair
from my eyes
This house was made for me
I roam the halls at midnight
my bare feet massaged by my new carpet
every corner the way I like it
The perfect home
in which to say goodbye
to close my eyes
one final time
How I shall miss
the maple in the back yard
the dwarf lilac on the side
the peaches that burst forth the very first year
and the sound of the chickadee
trilling me home with its joyous lullaby.
Winooski River
The famous clock tower at Goddard College in Plainfield, VT.
Love these great chronicles of your life and travels and acquisition of strength and power over the years, in spite of and because of all that has happened to you. Very nice work, both! Of course, they are all the more vivid and real to me since I know so much about the people, places and events but that doesn't matter. Still really good poems for anyone just tuning in with no history. Thanks for these--not that they are for me, but you know what I mean.
ReplyDeletethanks for checking in, iris! good word - chronicles - don't think i've ever used it before. and yes we did go canoeing at goddard in the middle of the nite! later in life i resumed canoeing with my then-boyfriend simon and other folks. still love it!
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