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Tuesday, February 22, 2011

Villanelle Poem

At our February meeting, there was discussion of some different poetry forms. One was the villanelle.

The villanelle has 19 lines, 5 stanzas of three lines and 1 stanza of four lines with two rhymes and two refrains. The 1st, then the 3rd lines alternate as the last lines of stanzas 2,3,and 4, and then stanza 5 (the end) as a couplet. The second lines of each stanza rhyme. The structure is:

line 1 - a – 1st refrain
line 2 - b
line 3 - a - 2nd refrain

line 4 - a
line 5 - b
line 6 - a – 1st refrain (same as line 1)

line 7 - a
line 8 - b
line 9 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)

line 10 - a
line 11 - b
line 12 - a - 1st refrain (same as line 1)

line 13 - a
line 14 - b
line 15 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)

line 16 - a
line 17 - b
line 18 - a - 1st refrain (same as line 1)
line 19 - a - 2nd refrain (same as line 2)

Here is an example of the form.

Stay With Me

Hold me close and hold me tight
Run your fingers through my hair
Stay with me all through the night

It feels so good, it feels so right
Say you love me if you dare
Hold me close and hold me tight

Tell me it will be alright
If only we could be a pair
Stay with me all through the night

We can share in great delight
Let me love you, let me care
Hold me close and hold me tight

I pray you will, I pray you might
Be the answer to my prayer
Stay with me all through the night

Be there in the morning light
Please do not go anywhere
Hold me close and hold me tight
Stay with me all through the night

Friday, February 18, 2011

Poem for February 19

Mast Year
Judith Stanton
From The Deer Diaries

After long drought,

the white oak

drops its acorns,

double, triple

a rainy year.

Under its broad limbs,

the three-legged doe

stumps along, her right

front leg sheared off

below her knee,

victim of a car,

stump hole,

black rocks in

the shallow creek

behind my house

she crosses to get here.

Who knows. I see her at

the crack of dawn

or pith of day, flanked

by last year’s twins

and this year’s singleton,

its spots faded by

November, its coat

like hers turned gray.

He butts her udder,

ramming hard. She

accepts that, eyes

trained on the woods.

A hunter in camouflage

sees a damaged doe.

Cull the herd, he thinks,

draws a bead, shoots.

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Poem for February 17

A Conspicuous Visitor
Patricia Cole

He came unannounced,

quite uninvited; a thread

splitting a shiny Sunday suit,

he kissed the ground—moving

like a cobra, half coiled, sliding

sideways over the porch to ring

my bell; he paused for a moment

in the blinding summer sun to bathe,

looked to see who was hosting the

party, then silently moved over and

up the Wax Myrtle; his thirsty

tongue sucked the air.

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

Writers' Morning Out

Pittsboro Writers' Morning Out will meet Saturday, February 19, 11:00 AM at Virlie's Grill, 58 Hillsboro Street.

All writers are invited.

Monday, February 14, 2011

Poem for February 15


Al Manning

A poem about the day the Oklahoma City

bomber was executed.

Hordes of reporters milling around,

Interviewing each other.

Desperately searching for an illusive scoop.

They can't interview the 168.

National media provides blitz coverage,

Hourly, then by the minute.

Everything you don't want to know.

What about the 168?

What did he say, what was he wearing,

What does he think?

As if this was important.

What about the 168?

Constant repetition almost makes him a folk hero,

A man admired for his stoicism.

He's the hot news today.

What about the 168?

National media giving advice to the survivors,

telling them how they are supposed to feel, to act, to think.

As if these national hotshots knew anything.

What about the 168?

Second by second, we hear how he died,

Eye-witness accounts are the holy grail.

Much ado about the demise of a killer.

What about the 168?

True justice might have been better served,

Had no one bothered to attend.

He would have been exterminated, unnoticed.

And that would honor the 168.

Saturday, February 12, 2011

Poem for February 12

Patrica Cole

Times flash, intermittently; wimpling waves,

speed through space – faces forgotten

slip in and out of my consciousness,

living in sepia,

snapshots in albums – an alchemy of lives,

details stirring memories;

some exit from love, others indifference;

still others linger, living between

musings and dreams.

Monday, February 7, 2011

Poem for February 7


Al Manning

(My apologies to Edgar Allan Poe)

Once upon a midnight dreary as I struggled, weak and weary,

over a changed Form 1040 I had never seen before.

Back and forth I did the sums, looking for deduction crumbs,

hoping, ever hoping that I’d find a way to score.

But, alas, twas not my lot to escape an awful blot

upon my worldly fortune, Uncle Sam keeps wanting more.

My mind grows dim with sorrow; the due date is tomorrow,

and I must find the answer else I’ll end up very poor.

Can I claim those gambling debts resulting from my stupid bets?

Should I try to itemize my bar bill from the club?

What about my one contribution, will that not bring absolution?

Surely I can claim deduction for the new pants that I tore.

Alas tis midnight past, and the time is flying fast, and I must find an answer

to the question: How much more?

You may think my answer funny: I’ll just send them all my money,

and request that they return to me all that not spent before.

It is now six months gone by, and as yet there’s no reply,

Could it be that Uncle Sam will give me no succor?

Then the Raven came rapping, rapping

the Raven came rapping, tapping at my window door.

Oh to be so doubly blessed, a messenger from the IRS!

Surely he has come to tell me that my problems are no more.

And I said “Oh bird austere, do you bring me news of cheer?

If you brought to me a refund, then together we will soar.

I am down to bread and beans, for I do not have the means

To buy a decent meal. Tell me, Raven

am I affluent, as I was in days of yore?

Quoth the Raven, “Nevermore!”

Saturday, February 5, 2011

Back Home

Mike Sepelak

Never, ever, Ever
return South
and smugly suggest
that you're tired of snow

The Cosmos listens

Friday, February 4, 2011

Poem for February 5

Back Home Finally
Mike Sepelak

Back Home
Been North too long
Love seeing the Family, but

Tired of driving. Tired of snow
Tired of driving in snow
Tired of asking "What day is it?"
Tired of having it matter

Sleep in
My bed
Shower in My shower
Walk the dog in My woods

Put the damn suitcases away
Fill and light the woodstove
Feed the birds. Read
Be normal. My normal

My couch
Warm down quilt
Hot chocolate with a shot of shine
Quiet time with My Mary

New tying vice
Comfy bench chair
Fly rods in the closet
Within reach. Ready

Back Home
Been North too long

Thursday, February 3, 2011

Poem for Februry 4

For B.

Elizabeth Molin

Yes, I know

anguish (yours?), despair (yours?)

as reflected in the funhouse mirror

of my mind, the rollercoaster

of emotions, the (oh god)

the freak show—

the fat and bearded lady the dog-faced girl

the Siamese twins (sick fascination)

the geek

the brownian motion of the

crowds crowds crowds

the ballyhoopla carny of the

midway of my mind.

Step right up, folks. See the

anguish and despair.

Oh please oh please

Hold on.

Hang on. No need to cross

my palm with silver.

This I tell you. I promise

yes, this will end / is ending.

the time will come / is coming

of the mad (ssh!) carnival’s

reluctant departure.

Look into my crystal ball.

Look deep into my eyes.

(You are growing very sleepy.)

The level dusty area

now a little worn,

a little frayed and tattered.

Not the same.

Yes, you can see where it stood (held sway).

But now







I know.

I went and looked there.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

Poem for February 3

My grandson Alex

Al Manning

How do I describe my grandson Alex?

He is jumping and leaping

Crawling and creeping

Bounding and wriggling

Bouncing and jiggling

Skipping and hopping

Jumping and bopping.

Smiling and winking and dancing around

Grinning and twisting, both feet off the ground.

Laughing and giggling and yelling and more

Climbing and falling kerbang to the floor.

Rolling and turning and punching and kicking

Throwing and catching and dropping and picking.

Stepping and stomping and running and racing

All of the neighborhood pets he is chasing.

Pushing, pinching, bending, bucking, always on the go

Calling, singing, shouting, cheering, joy from head to toe.

My Grandson Alex is living proof for all the world to see

Perpetual motion does exist, especially when you are three.

Tuesday, February 1, 2011

Poem for February 2


Elizabeth Molin

Dusk walks up the cloudy stair

Drawing Dark behind

And she has magic in her hair

With dreams and stars entwined