Click on this link - it's the website of Patrick Otis Cox, who died last week of a massive heart attack. His wife - Yin Liu - found him dead in the other room. A sight she will never forget.
I apprised my Writers' Group of this last Saturday.
Before the Giant Coffeeshop and Weinrich's Bakery, we met at Le Coffee Salon in Hatboro, owned by Yin.
Everyone made a comment about dying suddenly. Many said they'd prefer dying in their sleep.
Do we have a choice?
I'd saved so many great photos for my next blog post.
Obviously, though, this is a major loss for me.
Who out there can help me?
Today I had a Letter to the Editor published in the Intelligencer. Hope you don't mind if I print the entire thing below. Scott helped me write it.
I read Mike Fitzpatrick’s Aug. 23 column with incredulity. Like a smooth politician, the Republican congressman from the 8th District writes without saying a thing. He mentions “protecting our nation.”
We spend more than the rest of the world on defense, which needs to be totally overhauled. The VA is woefully underfunded and our veterans suffer horribly. Many are depressed or homeless and end up killing themselves. Will you work on this, Mike Fitzpatrick?
What does Fitzpatrick mean by “growing our economy”? He offers no solutions. We’ve done nothing about renewable energy and getting away from fossil fuels. Republicans like Fitzpatrick are owned by the fossil fuel corporations.
As for his “reforming our government,” the national Republicans want “no government.” They’re almost anarchists. What about a fair tax system? Will you work on that, Mike Fitzpatrick? He also talks about bipartisanship. What planet is he living on?
When Congress returns in the fall, perhaps Mike Fitzpatrick can make a strong stand on these important issues. Dare I say he might follow some of the teachings of Pope Francis, particularly on our threatened ecosystem, when he arrives at the end of September.
Ruth Z. DemingWanted to end the Letter on a hopeful note.
Willow Grove
I'm always racing against the clock.
By Thursday I must finish If On a Winter's Night, by Italo Calvino, wrin in 1979. Very difficult to read. Sometimes I luv it, something I hate it.
Look! Photo is straight off the Internet.
TWO POEMS I WROTE FOR OUR SATURDAY WRITERS GROUP
IF ON A WINTER’S
NIGHT
Well,
Calvino, my library club has chosen
your,
shall we say, Bach Theme and
Variations,
in font form, for our August
selection,
fitting, perhaps, as the
leaves
pitter-patter to the ground
not
caring a whit to dazzle us anymore
just
as you, at sixty, lay eyes closed
thinking
perhaps of one more book to
write,
no use, as rivers of blood closed
the
curtains of your mind.
I’m
enjoying my relationship with you
feet
propped up on my red
living
room couch, sipping black
coffee
through a matching straw,
“sensitive
and sensible soul” that
I
am – how kind of you to say that –
jotting
down notes for the writing club
a
week hence
You’ll
appreciate this, Calvino. The
library
director thinks “club” has an
elitist
meaning, and might change
our
name to “group” as in “groups of
Jews
riding the trains to Auschwitz”
Your
Italian compatriot Levi survived
but
then plunged headfirst from his
villa
On
to the lovely things of life
Right
outside my window a
mourning
dove – huge, long-tailed
freight-train
gray – sways back and
forth
on the branch, we know not
why.
My
copy is a paperback. In the
original
Italian, the reader took
a
paper knife and slit open the
pages
“cutting our way through
a
dense forest”
We
meet Ludmilla, a fine name,
denoting,
oh, a tough Russian
blonde,
the definitive Brunhilde
in
golden armor who – and I’m
turning
my head now – has
thrust
herself in Siegfried’s
funeral
pyre.
There
is no end to these tragedies.
We
may have succeeded in saving
the
monarch butterflies, easier
than
the Muslims, Jews, Pro-Choicers,
these
quick-flying demigods have
eaten
from my milkweed puffs
in
the front yard. See them flying
skyward
toward the heavens?
Gone
in a wink
like
life aboard
the
trains or
sitting
on the
red
couch.
I came up with an ending for this poem similar to the "Change your life" ending of a Rilke poem. Our new member Rem Murphy thought of the Rilke poem, which I couldn't remember.
Read Archaic Torso of Apollo here.
And weep, if you're a poet like me.
THE FADING EDGE OF LIGHT
That
time of night when
the
moon plays peak-a-boo
behind
Charlie’s dogwoods
and
I slip on my sandals
stand
watch on the front
stoop,
gaze upward for
the
stars’ glitter
then
take off downstream
on
Cowbell.
Pumping
my arms
I
glide like an ice-
skater
down the slope
my
shorn white hair
catching
the evening
breeze.
What will I
see
tonight?
A
pacifier on the lawn
of
the new people. I
toss
it toward the door
then
step lightly across
newly
mown grass
dying
in the street.
A
huge chalk drawing
in
the street shows
a
female child with
two
large cavities
above
her waist.
Is
this imagination
I’m
seeing on Cowbell
Road?
Or a prophecy.
Shall
I stand outside
the
window on the
lower
slope and watch
the
Phillies’ work their
magic
on the big screen?
Greyhorse
has many changes.
“I
live in the grey house,” Carol
once
told me. Why then the
Dumpster
in front? Wayne
is
moving
her out. Miss Dee Mentia
has
moved inside.
Do
I have the stamina to make
it
up the steep hill of Greyhorse,
this
blink of a thought is quickly
changed
as I peek from afar
in
open windows and then
I
see it
illuminated
by the moon
A
house bathed in light
its
whiteness like
marble
from the tombs
of
Italy,
Michelangelo
hovers
near.
Who
would I be
if
I lived in that house?
A grand dame driving a
A grand dame driving a
Mercedes?
The leader of
a
political party? A novelist
appearing
on the Morning
News?
“In
other life,” my friend
Pam
used to say. I am in
no
hurry. Let me stand, in
my
blue evening gown,
bathed
in moonbeams,
and
ask the gods for
an
easy exit when
my
time comes.
Happy
birthday number five
Grace
Catherine Deming.
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